6 Royal Blood (10 page)

The following morning we sat through several painfully boring English presentations. Students had revelations of being Web designers, pharmacists, and restaurateurs. I prayed we wouldn't get to Trevor and me, but the clock had ten minutes remaining. My prayers weren't answered. "So what did you learn about yourselves?" Mrs. Naper asked. Trevor, always the star, had no inhibitions about being the center of attention. He sprang up next to Mrs. Naper's desk while I walked past my classmates as if I were headed for the guillotine. "When I was in kindergarten," Trevor began, "like most boys, I wanted to be a superhero." A few girls in the front row giggled. Trevor stopped and shot them a cold stare until the girls glanced away. "Of course, I'm not that kid anymore," he continued, "but I do like action, speed, and competition. What I've learned from this assignment and the interview is that when you are a kid, you don't worry about what others think of your ideas. And your dreams have no boundaries. It might be easy, predictable, and even safe to follow in my parents' professions. But my essay is about how a superhero has courage, and it takes courage to follow your dream. And my goal�," he began, and then turned to me, "is to be a professional soccer player." "Tell us something we don't know," a Pradabee said, flipping through her notebook. I was really surprised at Trevor's speech. I had challenged my nemesis with my earlier assessment of him and he felt he had to prove to me that he wasn't the coward I thought he was. I wondered if I hadn't said anything, if Trevor would have stood here proclaiming he wanted to be a real estate developer like his dad. The class applauded and Mrs. Naper grinned at her student pet. "Very interesting and well spoken, Trevor," she complimented. "Now we have just enough time for Raven's presentation before the bell rings." I gazed out at my fellow students. They glared back like I was the lead act at a freak show. "When I was young," I began, "I wanted to be a vampire." My classmates snickered. I pursed my lips and clutched my fist. "Settle down," Mrs. Naper commanded. I looked to Becky, who gave me the thumbs-up sign. "And since then," I continued, "I've lived my life in a way and style that reflects that. It never mattered to me what other people wore-" "Obviously," I heard someone say. "Or said" I continued. "And because of this I've always been an outcast. Just by being me. So I imagine that I'll find a profession that suits me-perhaps being an editor of my own goth fashion mag," I said enthusiastically. "But as we are looking toward our future, I'm not sure it matters what we want to be but rather who we want to be. Someone honest or deceitful? Someone kind or cruel? Someone Create PDF files without this message by purchasing novaPDF printer (http://www.novapdf.com)loyal or unfaithful? In any profession we can elect to be any of those things. I think this assignment is not only about what we choose to do but about who we choose to be. I choose to always be loyal to myself." I stood in front of my classmates, waiting for their response. No laughter. No snickering. No booing. I turned to Mrs. Naper and Trevor, who both appeared stunned. Just then the bell rang. Relieved the assignment was finally over, I followed Trevor and handed in my essay. As the students filed out of class, I overheard a cheerleader speaking with her friend. "I know I said I want to be a model, but what I meant was a nice model," "Yeah," said one of the Pradabees. "When I have my designer clothing line, I'll give ten percent of the goods to charity." After the two girls left, a member of the band was suddenly standing next to me. "I said I wanted to be a teacher, but I really haven't decided what I want to do," he shared with me. "You made me feel that it was okay to focus on myself for a while. And the rest will follow." "I think it will," I said reassuringly. Mrs. Naper put Trevor's and my essays in her folder. "In all the years I've been giving this assignment, yours and Trevor's presentations were two of the best." She gloated. Trevor put his arm around me before I could bat it away. "Guess that means we'll be working together again very soon," he said triumphantly, and disappeared into the hallway. Becky handed me my backpack. "Seems like your presentation was more powerful than you planned. Maybe you should be a motivational speaker." "Can I wear combat boots?" asked. "You'll be the only one," she said, and dragged me out of class.

29

I'd never attended, nor had reason to attend the gala affair known as Dullsville's Annual Art Auction. My parents were more than happy and quite surprised that I was trading in an evening at the cemetery for one spent at the country club. My dad actually gave me the keys to his SUV since Jameson would be driving the Sterlings later. I chauffeured the unknown and mysterious artist, Alexander Sterling, to the event. The country club's parking lot was as huge as a theme park's and seemed miles away from the club. Lexuses, Bentleys, and BMWs lined the front entrance. Anyone who was anyone valeted their car and saved all exercise for their chats at the bar. Create PDF files without this message by purchasing novaPDF printer (http://www.novapdf.com) I pulled into a slot a football field away and joked to Alexander that we should wait for the shuttle bus. "You should actually be arriving in a limo," I said to my very handsome and quite nervous boyfriend. All the members were dressed to the nines. Hats, scarves, and enormously overpriced sequined clutch purses dotted the affair. Art collectors from around the area hobnobbed with the members. All the bigwigs in town were present, including the mayor, Mr. and Mrs, Mitchell, and Mr. Berkley. The snooty members were buzzing around, acting like they owned the multiacre building. Anyone who was anyone was at the auction. It was rumored that paintings, sculptures, and jewelry would be sold. Since not much else goes on in town, and since it attracted out-of-towners, too, this was a major event. Annual Art Auction signs led the way to the banquet room I'd been to previously with Trevor. It was there that a ticket table had been set up. We waited in line behind several women decked out in their Sunday best. When it was our turn to buy tickets, the seller was surprised by her oddly attired customers. But I wasn't bothered. I acted like I didn't even notice, just like Mrs. Sterling did. Alexander was prepared to pay, but I insisted. "You need to save all the money you can,'' I said. There was a buzz of self-importance. Old and young wealth rubbing elbows with other thoroughbred moneymakers. Sotheby's it wasn't, but the auction was a close second. Members gawked at Alexander and me with disapproval. I couldn't wait until Mrs. Sterling arrived with her umbrella and turned heads. The bar was filled with gossip, smoke, and drinkers. I was dying to get a soda, but I wasn't sure what the etiquette was- Would I have to pay for it? Tip? I opted to wait until my parents showed up. Cookies and cakes were spread out on a few banquet tables and I managed to gulp down a few, but Alexander passed, Alexander was as nervous as I was when I attended his parents' first dinner party. My boyfriend was used to being sequestered in a mansion, with Jameson and me as his only companions. Now he was in the midst of Dullsville's finest. Not only were there a lot of people, but his paintings were going to be sold in front of the entire town. Outside the banquet hall, a table was set up for a silent auction fund-raiser, with such goodies as spa treatments, restaurant gift certificates, and discounts at Armstrong Travel. As we approached the auction room, I grew anxious, too. This event could send Alexander packing his bags to Romania and me to my bedroom, grieving for the next ten years. The auction room seemed like the ones I'd seen in movies. Lines of folding chairs were placed like pews in a church, facing a podium and an easel. We tried to slip in unnoticed, but for us that was impossible. Alexander and I grabbed two seats in the back, behind two tall club members, I was ready to kick anyone who scoffed at my boyfriend's artwork. This was a huge night for Alexander. He wasn't used to being around so many people. He fidgeted in his chair and I clasped his hand reassuringly.

"If you are really uncomfortable, we can leave," I offered. "We don't have to stay." "No. I'm not leaving" Alexander said. "And neither are you. We are staying to see this thing through." Dullsville's elite began entering the room in full fanfare. Alexander was the only true royal one, but the club members entered as if they were expecting their names to be announced like kings and queens. Create PDF files without this message by purchasing novaPDF printer (http://www.novapdf.com) Jameson entered on the arm of Ruby White, his girlfriend, along with Janice Armstrong, her business partner and my former employer at Armstrong Travel Agency. Mr. Mitchell, an older version of Trevor complete with moussed blond hair and khakis, arrived in the company of other millionaires and sat in the front row. Mr. Berkley came in a few minutes later and sat a few rows behind him. With every person's entrance, my heart beat faster and my hands grew hotter. My parents finally arrived and spent a fair amount of time greeting everyone they knew. My mom eventually spotted us, and she and my dad came over. "I think it's wonderful that you two came to the auction/' my dad said, shaking Alexander's hand. "Maybe next year you can auction off your paintings, Alexander," my mom said. "Sarah, we'd better get seats before it fills up," my dad suggested. "Good luck," they said, and found two empty chairs in the middle. I felt a sudden commotion as members were focused on something out in the hallway. Just then Mr. and Mrs. Sterling entered the room. Her open black and red umbrella was in hand, and she wore a skin-tight camisole dress and monster-size heels. Mr. Sterling walked in with his skull cane, wearing a suit, a flashy green tie, and his cape. A huge smile spread across my face. A few women fanned themselves with their auction signs. No one talked to the Sterlings, but everyone talked about them. Whispers ensued as the gossipmongers were in top form. The members were very curious about the locals-who arrived with who and what they were wearing-and just as curious about the strangers' conservative fashion choices. The Sterlings upstaged everyone in their attire. The only ones who greeted them were my parents and Mr. Berkley. I held up my hand to wave them over, but Alexander quickly clutched it. "I want us to be alone on this." Mr. and Mrs. Sterling eventually sat next to Jameson and crew. Finally, Mrs. Mitchell stepped up to the podium. "Welcome to our annual auction. In a moment, I'll bring out your auctioneer. We'll be presenting art in many of its forms- pottery, paintings, sculptures, and wood designs. Thank you all for coming tonight. Good luck and good bidding." The auctioneer, an elderly gentleman dressed in a suit, came out to the podium. A volunteer placed a glass-blown vase be jeweled with sparkling gems on a table. Its image was enlarged on a video screen behind the podium. I was on the edge of my folding chair. Mrs. Mitchell read a brief description of the vase. "The bidding starts at five hundred dollars " "Five hundred dollars. That's a lot of moola!" I whispered. "Shh." "Whatever you do, don't raise your hand," I said, teasing. "No matter how much you want to buy it for me." Alexander wasn't laughing. "I didn't price my work very high. Maybe I should have." "Your paintings are much more valuable than a dumb vase." Signs began to wave and the bidding price immediately soared. Within minutes the vase sold for over a thousand dollars. "I wish I had something fancy to sell," I said, seeing dollar signs before my eyes. "I could make millions." Even though I wasn't bidding, I got caught up in the frenzy. I could see why Dullsvillians waited all Create PDF files without this message by purchasing novaPDF printer (http://www.novapdf.com)year for this event. It was like high-priced bingo, everyone waiting on the edge of their seats, wanting the glamorous prize, or hoping their item might make them millions-more than they already had, anyway. A covered painting was brought to the easel. They unveiled it to a few gasps and whispers. It was a landscape of the country club itself. By Alexander. I was so proud, his artwork was displayed for all to see. No one even knew Alexander had painted it. "This is a painting from a rising European artist," Mrs. Mitchell said. "There was little information about the artist, but as you can see, the work speaks for itself. A one-of-a-kind original painting. The artist states, 'The inspiration was the beauty that unfolds when I open my eyes in this town/ " The audience whispered and sat up as if they were eyeing a museum piece, "Bidding starts at five hundred/' the auctioneer began. "Five hundred?" I heard someone say in front of us. "I can't believe we're doing this. This whole thing is going to blow up in my face. I can kiss the Mansion and you good-bye," Alexander said in my ear. "Five hundred is a steal," the person in front of me continued. " I bid seven hundred." I turned to Alexander in amazement. "Eight hundred," another said, holding up their sign. "Nine hundred,"' still another shouted. "Do I hear nine-fifty?" the auctioneer asked. "A thousand," the first bidder answered. "Eleven hundred? Do I hear eleven hundred?" The second bidder held up her sign, "Fifteen hundred-" The signs went up until it reached two thousand dollars. "Sold for two thousand," the auctioneer proclaimed, and slammed his gavel. I grabbed my boyfriend and hugged him with all my might. Even though I knew Alexander's art was priceless, I was so proud his pictures commanded so much money. The most money I'd ever made in sales was three dollars from my chocolate milk stand in the middle of summer. And my dad paid for it. The members couldn't contain their comments and began to buzz about the painting. The highest bidder was the president of the country club. "I'd like to hang it here in the club for all to see," he said proudly. I was not only flabbergasted because Alexander's artwork sold for so much money but because my ghostly gothic vampire boyfriend's work was going to hang in Dullsville's conservative country club. A piece of jewelry was shown next. Now I was fidgeting in my chair, anticipating another Sterling painting going on the auction block. After a six-foot-high sculpture of a mother and child was sold, a narrative quilt was auctioned off. Then another covered painting was placed on the easel. When it was uncovered, it was revealed to be Dullsville's Main Street. "Another beautiful piece. It captures the charm that is our town," Mrs. Mitchell said. The painting was of the shops on the square. Shirley's bakery. The fountain. Children eating ice cream. Looking at it made me feel I was standing on the square with the townspeople. "Lovely," the couple in front of us commented. "Starting price one thousand dollars." Several signs immediately rose, "Fifteen hundred/' the Create PDF files without this message by purchasing novaPDF printer (http://www.novapdf.com)auctioneer called. Several signs kept flying up at the same time. The bidding war increased and finally ended with a winning bid of four thousand dollars. I squeezed Alexander's hand so hard I thought it was going to break off. I made a quick note of how much Alexander had made. When the next item was a mosaic mural, the crowd sighed. They perked up when the following item was a covered painting. When it was unveiled to be a painting of the town from the "European artist/ everyone was on the edge of their seats; the blue bloods were anticipating a sign war. This time it was the front of Hatsy's Diner, I could almost hear the fifties music playing and smell the aroma of french fries cooking. "Starting price one thousand five hundred dollars." "He bid two thousand," Mr. Berkley said. "Two thousand five hundred," another shouted. "Three thousand," still another shouted. "Do I hear three thousand five hundred? " Mr, Berkley held his sign high, "Do I hear four thousand?" Another bidder raised his sign. "Do I hear four thousand five hundred?" Mr. Berkley raised his sign. "Five thousand," Ruby White suddenly burst out. "Going once, twice� Sold for five thousand dollars." I cheered, but when the couple in front of me turned around, I tried to play it cool. When another painting was put on the easel, the members became very excited again. They thirsted to get their hands on an original painting by this hot new artist. When they revealed it, it was a portrait of flowers, obviously painted by an artist other than Alexander. Mrs. Mitchell went on to talk about this artist, but the bidding didn't start high, nor did it skyrocket. The crowd waited impatiently for the next painting to be presented. And when it was again one of the European artist's creations, the hands began waving. It was now becoming clear to me after seeing these paintings one by one-the cemetery under the soft glow of moonlight; the rail yard, with its bright-colored boxcars and sunfire yellow weeds; the front of the high school, its American flag blowing in the wind; the swings underneath a blue sky at Evans Park; the drive-in running an old movie-that even though Alexander only visited these places at night, he was seeing Dullsville in brilliant colors and happy hues rather than the dark and dismal black and white I'd seen it in my whole life. These were the places we'd visited together. My heart melted seeing that I'd had something to do with Alexander's happiness here, and that his vivid impressions were of our experiences together. Finally they revealed the last painting. But this painting was unlike the others. It was a picture of me. The members sighed, "That's not the European artist," many of them said. "No, that's not his work." "Bidding starts at one thousand dollars." No one raised their sign. I quickly calculated my notes and realized we had fallen short of what Alexander needed. My dad looked around. Here was a picture of his daughter and no one was buying it. Create PDF files without this message by purchasing novaPDF printer (http://www.novapdf.com) "Do I hear one thousand?" "I'll bid one thousand," my dad said, waving his sign proudly. Then Jameson got into the game. "One thousand five hundred," he called. "Two thousand," my dad said. "Do I hear two thousand five hundred?" the auctioneer asked. I peered around. No signs were waved. "Going once, going twice." My heart dropped. We'd raised a lot of money, but we hadn't raised enough to buy the mansion. "We're short," I said to Alexander. "Do I hear two thousand five hundred?" I shouted. Alexander grabbed my arm. "We have to get the bidding up," I whispered to him. "Two thousand five hundred." Jameson raised his sign "Two thousand five hundred. Going once, going twice." "Three thousand dollars," a new voice, coming from the back of the room, called. "Do I hear three thousand five hundred?" the auctioneer asked. He banged his gavel. "Then sold for three thousand." Alexander and I stood up and hugged each other. We were so ecstatic we didn't care that anyone saw us. And I was too excited to wonder who the mystery bidder was. "Now we just have to get that money to Mr. Berkley before Mr. Mitchell does." A few volunteers brought out all the auctioned items and displayed them so that everyone could take a last look at what they'd won and what they'd lost. Mr. Sterling put on his reading glasses and examined the tiny inscription about the rising artist whose work had quickly sold out. Then he turned straight back to us. The club members were milling about, talking to one another and discussing the auction. But there was only one member I wanted to speak to: Mr. Berkley. I weaved between the members until I spotted him. After a brief conversation with him, I raced over to Alexander, who was waiting by the kitchen. "Here," I said, showing him Mr. Berkley's card. "You have an appointment tomorrow night at eight." We lingered for a few minutes while the crowd talked excitedly about the evening. "I hear the artist is here," I overheard a patron say. "He is?" another asked. "I'd love to meet him." "The artist has been here the whole time," one woman said.