When she faces the crowd and thanks them in her tight, muted voice, I realize with a start who she is: Renée Brigand.
“From the bottom of my iron locket of a heart—yes, that’s a reference to my piece titled Heart Of Iron, as seen in my Security series—I would like to thank you for attending the 34th Annual End Of Year Showcase. This is a special showcase, as it features a minute sampling of the ripe and hungry student body who are enrolled at the Klangburg School of Art. These students are thoughtful. These students have a drive within them to push the boundaries, to think outside the scope of expectation, and to expand their wings. I was once an exhibiter, three years in a row, for my work when I was but a student here. It is my utmost honor to be this year’s sponsor.”
I squint through the haze of lights and the invisible fog of perfume and self-importance that hangs in the air. No wonder Nell can’t stand her, I muse privately to myself. She stands for everything Nell hates.
“We nurture a carefully selected program through which the work of our students—as well as their individual strengths and weaknesses—are cultivated in such a way as to guarantee long-lasting careers in their chosen fields. What more could a school do but secure the futures of its eager students? And I see many futures in here. Many, many futures. No amount of—”
I’m distracted suddenly by a flash I see through the glass windows. Renée keeps talking on and on, but soon another head turns in the crowd. Then several more. Soon, scandalized murmurs and hushes scatter across the room.
“Excuse me,” Renée says into the microphone, giving it a gentle tap as her enormous eyelashes flutter dramatically with her every blink. “I am about to present my newest exhibit. As I am this year’s sponsor, I am … It is my r-responsibility to …”
But no one seems much interested in what she’s saying anymore. People have broken away from the crowd to get a better look at the flashes outside. For a second, I think it’s lightning, until I realize that the light is coming from the ground.
Renée, growing more annoyed by the second, sweeps her hand at the wall nearby. “The exhibit, through this doorway, is called From The Dawn, To The Day, Of The Mighty Moon. I hope you will appreciate the political irony I’ve exercised in showcasing the—”
I glance in the direction of the commotion outside, which has now gathered a mass of people by the windows, desperate to see what the hell’s going on. Amidst the crowd of people, I see Dmitri’s face turn to find mine, and he’s wearing an astonished look.
“Political irony,” Renée repeats, losing her composure. “Excuse me. My exhibit is through this doorway—Excuse me. Over here.”
I reach Dmitri and the others, who are trying their best to see what’s happening outside the windows. “What’s going on?” I ask.
“I have no idea,” mutters Dmitri.
“No clue,” agrees Sam, “though it doesn’t look good.”
“Should I call the police?” asks Riley, worried. “I should call the police.”
The murmurs of apprehension and the chatter overtake the room, drowning out any sad attempts Renée Brigand makes to reclaim the room’s attention. It’s all lost now to the show outside.
Frustrated with my lack of vision, I bend left and right, trying to see through the heads in the crowd. Impatient, I start cutting through the bodies, recklessly pushing my way to the front.
When I finally make it, the sight through the glass windows freezes my heart.
“Wow,” I whisper at the glass.
People are already piling out of the building, curious and drawn by the sights, so I follow, pulled by the excitement and the fascination. I walk the path that runs by the rest of the School of Art. It’s lined with torches and squatty braziers, illuminating the courtyard in dancing golden light.
What the actual hell is going on here?
I spot something peculiar hanging from a tree. My heart jumps because my very first thought is a morbid one: someone’s come out and hanged themselves. But when I draw closer, I realize that it’s a ceramic angel that hangs from the tree by a wire, its wings hanging separately, detached from the main body. When I get closer, I notice a sign affixed to the bark that reads: “REJECT: Satan Claws. CRITIQUE: The work as a whole seems aberrant and deliberately offensive.”
I hear laughter at my side, then realize there’s something else on the other side of the tree. It’s a little vignette made out of toys and what appear to be scrap metal and bottle caps depicting a clothed pig in a metal fortress, and he seems to be looking at a miniature iPhone. A sign above it says: “REJECT: The Fourth Little Pig. CRITIQUE: I just didn’t get what you were trying to say. The metaphor is too nail-on-the-head.”