Fourth Comings_ A Jessica Darling Novel - Megan McCafferty [35]
What bothers me most, the regret that keeps me up at night, is knowing that your words can’t be recovered. They’re lost forever.
(FOREVER.)
monday: the fourth
(labor day)
twenty-five
I saw Hope only briefly this morning, on her way out. She was changing into a formerly white T-shirt that had been vibrantly transformed by hundreds of brushstrokes. The colors were dense and indistinguishable in the middle, then thinned out to solitary streaks along her flanks. The paint always looks slick and wet, even when it’s dry.
“You should sell those T-shirts,” I said, rising from my lumpy sheets, rubbing my bleary eyes.
“Really?” she said, looking down. “I use them to wipe off my brushes. I have tons of them. I wear them until they disintegrate.”
“I know,” I said. “But they look cool.”
She stretched the T-shirt away from her body and gave it an artist’s appraisal. Then she inhaled the armpit and grimaced.
“Yikes! No one would buy this!”
“Are you kidding? It’s the authentic stink of an artist!”
“Who can’t remember to buy deodorant.”
“Seriously, certain New Yorkers pay a thousand bucks for so-called ‘hypervintage’ jeans that have been broken in by pre-wear professionals.”
“Pre-wear professionals?”
“People who get paid to wear the same pair of jeans for a month without washing them.”
“That’s nasty.”
“I know. So a little bit of funk will add value, I promise. Just replace the Hanes label with one that says ‘Hope Weaver’ in an old-but-newish font. One word. All lowercase letters. Make a big deal out of the fact that each one is unique and hand-crafted by the artist herself. Sell them alongside the paintings you were working on when you created the shirt. It’s wearable art! The consumer as canvas…”
Hope cocked her head to the side as if she was seriously considering my ridiculousness.
“Go one step further. Donate fifty percent of the proceeds to a hot celebrity cause. Or is it cause celeb? Doesn’t matter…”
“African debt relief is hot right now,” Hope deadpanned.
“Totally hot. Africa is hot hot hot. Each purchase represents the union between humanitarianism and capitalism, and presents the wearer as someone who cares. Market yourself as one of Brooklyn’s underground guerrillas, one of many fashion freedom fighters who have determined that the sociocultural revolution won’t be televised—oh no—but silk-screened on a limited-edition T-shirt costing upwards of a hundred dollars….”
“How do you come up with this stuff?” Hope was laughing now.
“I’m so much better at managing my friends’ careers than my own,” I replied. “I swear you won’t be able to make them fast enough.”
“You know, the sad thing is you’re probably right. No one will buy my paintings, but these stinky T-shirts will make me rich and famous.”
“Just give me ten—no, twenty— percent of the profits after Africa gets its cut, okay? Then maybe I can stop relying on my sister’s charity.”
“You headed there today?” she asked.
I nodded. “You off to the studio now?”
“Yeah,” she replied, looking through her wallet. “Classes start tomorrow, so it’s my last full day to work on this final piece I need to finish before Friday….”
“Oh.”
She stopped looking when she found her MetroCard. Hope always likes to have her MetroCard in her hand, inside her pocket, ready to whip out when she reaches the subway turnstile. She never wants to fumble around for it, because she thinks that might make her a target for muggers. She doesn’t want to admit it, but she hasn’t quite adjusted to city living. (Something you can relate to.)
“You need to talk? I’m sorry I rushed off yesterday morning and—”
“What time did you come home last night?”
“I don’t know. Maybe three-ish?” A curl fell away from her messy ponytail. Hope bzzzzzed a raspberry to blow it out of her eyes. “You were asleep. Did you try waiting up for me?”
“No,” I lied.
I had tried to wait up for her last night. None of the roommates can afford cable, so my late-night TV viewing is limited to shitty infomercials for skin-care lines shilled by unnaturally preserved has-beens