Someone to Love by Melissa de la Cruz
“How did you know you were an artist?” I stammer.
“If you’re asking that question, then you’re an artist,” LeFeber says. “Don’t deny it. I saw your eyes taking apart my installation, reconfiguring it in your mind, piece by piece. I’d like you to finish your thoughts, Liv. Tell me. What did you see in my work?”
I try to think. My head feels fuzzy from the alcohol.
“The way the angel looks so realistic makes me think of the duality of the human condition,” I say, realizing I never get to talk this way to anyone except for Ms. Day. “It’s divine yet also deeply broken. That’s why he’s crumpled on the floor.”
“The angel-man you see here is sick. Infected with his life. Broken, falling. Just because you’re an angel doesn’t mean you’re not broken. We all must find our way to peace and health. We must find our way back to our divine nature. We must transform ourselves.”
“Why did you choose that theme?” I ask.
“We’re all sick, dear. We’re all sick. All these people you see here,” he says, gesturing to the people milling around the room. “They are numb. They are trying to feel something. I don’t care if they like my work or not. My goal is to help them wake up, to stir them. As I said, I love your passion. I worship it. You are the lone cherub,” he says.
I’m in disbelief that he could see something in me. “I know you get asked this all the time,” I say, “but I really want to know what inspires you.”
He pauses and hums to himself. “I do get asked this so much. How do I not sound like a robot? Usually, I say love inspires me, or beauty, or sadness, or hope. So many things I can pull from the air just floating there. You inspire me. This is true too, or I wouldn’t be here talking with you. The answer you seek, however, goes much deeper. I am often secretly inspired by those early days when I borrowed money to rent a studio in New York. It was a chaotic time. I was full of dreams! In those days, I drew something from myself that often seems lost now. You see, down inside of you is a purity. A gemstone of inspiration. It comes from within, forged from this unexplainable burning desire. You must keep it pure. You do understand this. Purity is everything. Protect it. Mine is housed, guarded within memories. When you do this, you can gaze into the world. What do you see? You see poverty. You see war. You see hate. You see all these terrible things, and they burn in you because you want to help the world. You want your work to speak to the world. You want to save the world. Yet, after all, you are only an artist. You don’t create war machines. You don’t create political agenda. You create the aesthetics of the world that covers over everything, another form of meninges, a membrane of life and beauty pulsating over the sad brain of the world. Yes. That is us. And while the pain of the world is inspiring, it all must eventually pass through the original purity within you in the first place. That gemstone. The one you must keep pure. The one that harbors the seed of all your inspiration.”
LeFeber touches my chin. “With that, I must go,” he says. His gray eyes are deep and soulful. “Tomorrow I will share my fallen angel with more of the world. And you must share what you have to give, my angel of the hills...look at you...so beautiful...good night...”
t w e n t y - s e v e n
“You must have chaos within you to give birth to a dancing star.”
—Friedrich Nietzsche
It’s early Saturday and Dad is knocking on my bedroom door.
My champagne hangover pounds brain against skull.
“Olivia? Are you awake?”
“Yeah,” I say, looking at the time on my phone.
“Olivia...”
“Dad,” I grunt. “I hear you. I need a shower.”
I try to sit up. My head spins. I just want to sleep, but know I won’t be able to even if I have the time. There’s a bottle of water next to the bed. I drink most of it.
The shower is hot and washes away the grime from the night before. As it pours over me, my mind goes wild with a collage of visions. Along with the effects of the champagne, the imagery from the night before blossoms through my head. Lights. Bells. Fiber optics. The fallen angel. Wings. LeFeber, talking to me about his art as if I were his confidant. I’m so mesmerized, thinking of the fallen angel with wings that looked like they were made of thousands of real bird feathers, breathing life into the form.
I pull on sweatpants and a shirt, then walk downstairs to Dad’s study, where Rich is pacing back and forth with his eyes trained on me.
“Please sit,” Dad says.
“Out late last night?” Rich asks.
“I was at an art show,” I say without going into further detail.
“I know,” Rich says. He crosses his hands together. “That’s why we’re here.”
“Dad gave me permission,” I say, looking up at him for support.
His face is like stone.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
Rich walks over to Dad’s computer and pulls up a YouTube video, then presses Play. It’s a clip from Extra. The woman hosting the show sits at a table in front of a screen. Flashing on the screen with her is a picture of Zach and I talking inside his car outside the art gallery.
“Zach Park,” the host says, “actor from the hit series Sisters & Mothers, was spotted getting cozy with political royalty, Olivia Blakely, the daughter of Representative and California gubernatorial candidate Colin Blakely. They were attending a gallery opening for Geoff LeFeber, the New York artist well-known for his large installations.”
The screen flashes a short video of Zach and I walking into the gallery together, holding hands. Then the host reappears on the screen. I let out a deep breath of air. At least they didn’t get a photo of me drinking all that champagne inside the venue.
“Another attendee was Park’s ex, Cristina Rossi, a model for Calvin Klein. The two have been one of Hollywood’s favorite couples. Until now. Is Olivia Blakely a true-love wrecker? Or will Cristina and Zach get back together? Only time—and Extra!—will tell.”
I’m speechless. This is horrible. I’m the complete opposite of a true-love wrecker. They had already broken up before I started dating Zach. Not that I’m exactly happy with him right now. Even though I found him after LeFeber left, Zach kept acting irritated to be there. I needled him to tell me what was wrong, but he wouldn’t say why.
“This isn’t something we can’t get out ahead of,” Rich says, moving on. He runs his hand over his bald head like he’s trying to remember whether he still has hair. “But I want to talk about what people you should or shouldn’t be seen with and what you should or shouldn’t be doing. No more flashy events from now on.”
I lean in the chair. “You can’t be serious.”
Dad finally looks up from his phone and speaks. “If you’re going to be dating a celebrity, then you have to know how to handle these kinds of situations.”
Rich opens a file that was lying in front of him.
He pulls out a photo of Zach.
“What, are you in the CIA now?” I say.
“I keep files so I can be better organized. This is a highly intense campaign. Order helps you to stay focused on the important things.”
“Rich has a lot of experience,” Dad says. “This is good training for you. If you want to be an artist, you’re going to have to learn how to deal with PR too.”
Rich continues in his monotone voice. “This wasn’t exactly your fault, of course, but you have to be more careful with your boyfriend. With your father’s permission, I’ve drawn up a plan about how you two could best be seen in public, perhaps stage a few photo opportunities, maybe even an interview. Impromptu of course. We don’t want it to look planned. Forget the true-love wrecker stuff. People will forget the Calvin Klein model fast enough. This could work in your father’s favor. Bring in a younger voting base. Update his image a little.”
“This seems a bit overboard,” I say.
Rich looks at me and puts Zach’s photo back in the file. “You were at a show last night for Geoff LeFeber. He’s quite the controversial artist.”
Even though I feel like hell right now, I try to put up a fight. “Controversial? That’s what people who want to control art call it.”
Ignoring me, Rich pushes up his glasses. “I’m a little concerned about you going to art shows. It’s too flashy. The focus should be on your father. Museums are fine. But not gallery openings.”
“But I’m pursuing art,” I say. “How am I supposed to become an artist if I can’t even—”
“Yes. I know you have an interest in that. Perhaps we can delay that announcement. Could you maybe have an interest in being a business major for the next few months? There are conferences we could have you attend. You could be seen with some important corporate presidents. Major American products appeal to many constituents.”
I push back my chair a little too hard, causing the legs to scrape against the floor. “You want me to fake an interest in business because voters like certain products?”
“Yes. Of course,” Rich says. He seems to barely even register that I’m upset. Is this what business as usual is for him? “It’s been proven through research.”
I can’t handle this discussion anymore. My head is pounding. I want to throw up the rest of the champagne sloshing at the bottom of my stomach.
“This is psycho. You know that, right?” I turn my attention to Dad as I walk out the door. “I said I would help the campaign, but I won’t be, like, some puppet.”
I run into Mom in the front room. She’s working on a finance spreadsheet for her literacy organization. “Liv,” she says distractedly. “Morning, sweetie.”
“Mom. Rich is insane.”
“Can we talk about that later?” She looks down at her watch. “I have therapy in fifteen minutes. You’re coming, right?”
“No. But Rich should. He needs a huge dose. Maybe a sedative too.”
She ignores my jab at Dad’s campaign manager. “I thought you said you were going with me. I asked you on Thursday. You can support me by getting some extra counseling. We’re dealing with so much campaign stress already. This is a normal thing. We took Royce and Mason to a children’s therapist the first time Dad ran for Congress. You can talk about these campaign manager concerns too. It’s only an hour.”
“Are you serious, Mom?”
“One hour.”
I hear Rich coming down the hall, looking for me again.
“Okay, let’s go,” I say, ducking out of the room. “Meet you in the car.”
t w e n t y - e i g h t
“A painter should begin every canvas with a wash of black, because all
things in nature are dark except where exposed by the light.”
—Leonardo da Vinci
An assistant takes us into the therapist’s office. There are big abstract paintings on the walls, and the floor lamp is dimmed to make the room seem cozy. Dr. Lisa M. Larson’s name is on the door. Seems harmless enough.
Mom and I each take a chair.
“Dr. Larson will be with you in a moment,” the assistant says.
She closes the door behind us.
“Thanks for coming, Liv,” Mom says. “I feel like none of us have been doing enough for ourselves lately. I think this will be good for both of us.”
A woman enters the room wearing white pants and a black top. A gold necklace hangs loose below her collar. She has auburn hair and seems barely older than Jasmine.
Royce probably needs this counseling more than I do.
“Good to see you, Debra,” the therapist says.
“Hi, Lisa.” Mom nods at me. “My daughter, Olivia.”
“Nice to meet you,” Dr. Larson says. “Your mom has told me about you and your brothers and this campaign. It must be a lot of pressure.”
“Yep,” I say. “Mostly the media attention.”
“Tell me about some of it,” Dr. Larson says. “Does it stress you out too?”
“You could say that.” I don’t want to get personal with this therapist, so I keep things simple. “I’m sure my mom will tell you about it if she hasn’t already.”
“She’s told me a lot, but mostly we talk about her role in the campaign. When she mentioned her concern about how the campaign is affecting you, I suggested that she ask if you would like to come in as well.”
“I’m here to support Mom,” I say. “She has way more responsibilities than me. I don’t think I really need to be here...”
This is starting to make me uncomfortable. Why did I agree to come?
“This is for you too,” Mom says, patting my knee.
“I’m going to ask you to let her speak, Debra.”
Dr. Larson smiles. It’s smug. Friendly. Cold. Warm. I can’t tell. She’s got more masks on than a Bourbon Street parade. Mom pretends to zip her lips shut.
“How’s your personal life?” Dr. Larson asks.
“It’s fine. You know, high school stuff.”
She demurely crosses one leg over the other. “Such as?”
She’s not going to give up with these short answers. I have to give her a little information to get her off my back. At least then I can control the conversation.
“Classes. Studying for midterms. Getting ready for college. Friends,” I say, knowing that I barely have enough friends to mention. “I’m dating someone.”
“How do you feel about that?” Dr. Larson asks.
“I like him. He likes me. But he’s on a TV show and I have the campaign, so sometimes that makes things hard. Nothing major though,” I say.
I don’t want to talk about my love life with a stranger. Especially in front of Mom. There are some things a girl should be able to keep to herself.
“My own relationships usually affect everything I do,” Dr. Larson says. “I sometimes have to remind myself that how I relate to others in my personal life affects how I relate to those in my professional world.”
Why does she want to know so much about my feelings? I thought this was supposed to be about Mom. Or Mom and Dad. Why isn’t he here?
“This is all new for me, so I haven’t really thought about it much.”
“It’s sometimes hard to do that when relationships just begin,” Dr. Larson says. “They’re affected by our pasts, by our family life, by any stresses we previously had. Everything gets placed within that new relationship too. Do you feel any of those pressures already affecting recent changes to your life?”
I’m not really sure how to answer the question. I have no idea what she’s getting at—does she really want me to talk about my relationship with Zach? Is that what Mom wanted me to come here for?
Dr. Larson doesn’t wait for my answer anyway.
“Have you noticed any changes in your habits?” she asks, staring me down. “You may have found your appetite has decreased? Perhaps you don’t enjoy certain foods like you once did before?”
Suddenly, I’m aware.
This is an ambush.
This isn’t about supporting Mom. This isn’t even about the campaign’s ridiculousness or Rich’s awful controlling of me. This is about me, digging into my past, my secrets, my relationships, all the things I keep to myself that my parents desperately want to know about. It’s about what I eat, what I don’t eat, how much I eat or not. Mom’s using Dr. Larson to do her dirty work. She suspects something, but doesn’t want to ask me herself.
I stare down Dr. Larson. She’s not going to get in.
Not in a million years.
I take her down another road. I can talk political crap all day to this woman.
“Thi
“Of course,” Mom says. “Everything we discuss here is private.”
“It’s just a lot to put on someone in high school. I mean, Rich has drawn up a plan for the image my boyfriend and I need to cultivate as a couple. He wants me to lie about my major? I can’t go lying for the family for the sake of some twisted reality.”
“Perhaps your father could tell Rich to ease up,” Dr. Larson says. “As a young adult, Liv needs to be able to make decisions for herself.” She turns her attention to Mom. “And you have to be able to trust her, Debra.”
Mom stares at her lap, not saying anything.
“Do you not trust me?” I ask.
“Should I?” Mom says. “You’re a teenager. God knows I wasn’t a perfect angel when I was your age—and I’ve tried to give you freedom—but I’m concerned about you. When you’re home, you shut yourself in your room. You’re angry and tired all the time. And, frankly, I’m worried about your drinking. I found an empty vodka bottle in your room.”
“But I...”
Mom holds up her hand. “I’m not here to argue with you. I want to have an open conversation with you, Liv.”
I focus on the abstract painting above the desk. It’s a black ink blob on a pink-and-yellow background. This conversation isn’t going anywhere good, but I’d rather talk to Mom about drinking than my eating habits. I would be on lockdown if she knew how bad my bingeing and purging have gotten this year.
“Fine,” I say. “So I drink sometimes. Big deal.”
“What do you think about that, Debra?” Dr. Larson asks.
Turning toward me on the couch, Mom looks seriously concerned. “It’s normal for teenagers to experiment. I know that... Your father and I both went to some parties when we were young. But times are changing. There’s a lot more out there than beer. And the drinking leads to other things too. I guess with Mason’s history...”