“No. I’m charging an extra handling fee because I have to handle being around you.” As soon as the words leave her lips, she slaps her hands over her mouth. From behind her spread fingers, she tells me, “Sorry, that was rude. I shouldn’t have said it aloud.”
Unperturbed, I laugh at her reaction. “Am I that annoying?”
She shrugs, her eyes dropping to her lap where she’s wringing her fingers.
“Do I make you nervous?”
“No.” Her answer is quick, and a total lie. “Agree to the price and we can get started.”
I stall as long as I can, but she’s got me dead to rights. I want the Cartwright deal, which means I need to learn something useful about art, and Luna’s my only and best option. “Deal.”
A high-pitched squeal erupts from Luna as she kicks her feet wildly, fluttering them in the air. I think it surprises us both, but she composes herself quickly and says, “That’ll help with my publishing costs.”
I have no idea what she’s talking about, but if it makes her willing to help me, it works for me.
Hopping up, she grabs a stack of notecards from the mess of a countertop that seems to serve as a makeshift desk. When she sits back down, I can see that they’re some sort of study guides. That she took the time to make them tells me that while she might not want to do this, she is taking it seriously. It’s a good sign.
“Are those for me?” I ask, pointing at the cards.
She hugs them tightly to her chest as though I’ve suggested taking her kidneys out and leaving her in the bathtub to bleed out alone. “No, these are mine from college. Art 101.”
I hold up both hands to show that I have zero intention of snatching the cards from her grasp.
“Okay, first let’s see where you’re at knowledge-wise. Tell me three painters you know,” she says, sounding like a teacher.
And like a fool, my brain completely blanks. I’m not overly informed about art, but I have the same general education about it that most folks do. “Uhm . . . Michelangelo?”
“And?”
Luna already looks disappointed in me. The frown on her full lips only deepens when I go silent, my eyes rolling back as if I can find additional names in my brain. “I know this. Like, the Mona Lisa. It was made by . . .”
“Painted by, not ‘made’。 Machines are made, cakes are baked, paintings are painted,” she corrects, holding up a finger.
“Right, the Mona Lisa was painted by Da Vinci!” I’m ridiculously excited to remember something so basic.
“That’s two, and good job on knowing both the artist and the art. One more?” she prompts with a smile.
“I’m not a toddler,” I snap. “I don’t need pity praise.” I don’t say it, but it sounds like something my mother would do with us kids when we were little. No matter how good or bad we were at something, in our mother’s eyes, we deserved a head pat of congratulations. I’m sure she meant it to be encouraging, and when I was younger, perhaps it was, but somewhere along the way, I realized that doing my best wasn’t much different from barely squeaking by in her eyes. Fastidiously, I adjust my watch and the cuffs of my shirt until they’re perfect, consciously avoiding explaining my reaction to Luna’s simple words.
She studies me with interest. “I wouldn’t have thought a guy like you ever got nervous.”
With my hackles already up, that hits harder than it normally would, digging in deep. Pressing my lips into a flat line, I question, “A guy like me? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I didn’t mean—” She stops herself. “Well, maybe I did. But you’re just all . . .” She waves her hands in my direction. “Hot shot, big wig, thirst trap. It’s kinda nice to see that you’re not perfect.” Her head drops a bit, her eyes falling back to her lap where the notecards rest.
“Definitely not perfect,” I reply, using my time to correct her. “Obviously, given that I need art tutoring and can’t think of three painters when put on the spot.”
Self-deprecation isn’t my style, but I’m being truthful. I hope Luna can respect that at least.
She looks up, meeting my eyes, and I can see her thoughts whirling behind hers. I’m not sure how we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot, but we have. I resort to my usual charm and say teasingly, “And don’t think I missed you calling me a thirst trap.”
“Of course that’s all he heard,” she whispers to herself. Louder, she asks, “Can we get back to these?” She holds up the flashcards, and I nod, thankful for a truce.
I still feel like there’s some unspoken issue between us, but she’s helping me and that’s all I need. I don’t need Zack’s little sister to like me or for us to become besties. We have nothing in common, she’s ridiculously young, and Zack would kill me anyway.
But an hour later, I’m honestly impressed with Luna. Her knowledge of art is expansive and her passion for it is beyond obvious. She speaks of brushstrokes the way most people talk about their children—fondly, in depth, and emotionally.
On the other hand, I’m struggling. Majorly.
We’ve been through the same set of basic flashcards multiple times, and while I thought I was doing well for a bit, Luna recognized that I’d only memorized the order, not the actual answers. She shuffled them, and suddenly, we were nearly back to square one.
“What’s this one?” she asks, holding up a painting of a group of white-collared men gathered around the deathbed of another man, his arm dissected.
“Renoir,” I say with surety.
Luna pushes her glasses up onto her head, looking at me closely. “Seriously? Renoir and Rembrandt both start with R, but that’s about where the similarities end. A trick I used with the outreach kids is to remember that Rembrandt has a D in his name, so his paintings were darker. Literally, the backgrounds are darker and there’s an ominous nature to them. Renoir sounds a little like air, and his paintings are light as air, showing the activity of a bustling Paris. Does that help?”
I flop back on the couch, a concerning creak sounding out from somewhere under the quilt. I consider that I might end up on my ass in more than one way . . . from Luna’s couch breaking beneath me and with Mrs. Cartwright if I can’t sort this out.
I rub my eyes with the heels of my palms, appreciating the sparkles behind my lids as much, if not more than, all the art flashcards. “This is never going to work. It’s going to be worse than my just admitting I know nothing about art. I wish you could just come with me. You could do the art talk, and I could do the money talk.”
Luna laughs, thinking I’m kidding.
But . . . I sit up suddenly, struck with my brilliance. “That’s it! It’s perfect!”
Still shaking her head at the idea, Luna says, “No way. Nopity, nope, nope. No freakin’ way, count me out. And did I mention . . . no.”
I stand up, the idea taking shape in my mind. “We could say that you’re my assistant and working with me for the portfolio management presentation.”
Luna stands up too, her beloved cards falling to the floor. She’s a good foot shorter than me, but that doesn’t stop her from putting her hands on her hips and squaring up. “Your assistant? Why? Because I’m young? Or because I’m a woman?” She shakes her head, the messy bun on her head flopping around wildly. “I shouldn’t be surprised from you.”