Sara Shepard - Toxic

Aria took a deep breath. When she’d come to work this morning, her mom had announced that the money had been wired into the gallery’s account; in a few days, it would be in her bank account, minus a small gallery fee. “Give you money for a new car so we don’t have to drive that Subaru anymore, for one thing,” she said with a chuckle.

Ella scowled. “I can take care of myself, honey. I say you use it for college.”

It was probably the right thing to do. But the only schools Aria was interested in were art schools—and did Aria need art school if she was already selling paintings? “ Or I could put it toward an apartment in New York,” she suggested, giving her mom that sweet, pleading smile that always seemed to work.

Ella seemed skeptical. She raised a finger, ready to probably make a point about how college was invaluable and if she let too much time lapse after high school, she might never go. But then a tall, young guy in a slightly rumpled plaid shirt and olive-green skinny pants appeared in the doorway. He carried a leather bag on his shoulder and had a pair of Ray-Bans propped on his head, and he was breathing heavily, as if he’d been running.

“Um, hello?” the guy said in a sonorous, not-too-high but not-too-deep voice. “Are you Aria Montgomery?”

“Yes . . . ,” Aria said cautiously, standing up straighter.

The guy stuck out his hand. “I’m, um, Harrison Miller from Fire and Funnel . It’s an art blog that—”

“I know it!” Aria interrupted, her eyes wide. She was a frequent visitor of Fire and Funnel , a Philadelphia-based indie art site, and was impressed by the blogger’s keen eye and intuition—he seemed to know what was going to be hot months before it hit the mainstream. She hadn’t known the blogger was so young.

Harrison smiled. “Well, cool. Anyway, I’d like to do a piece on you and your artwork. Do you have a sec to chat?”

Aria tried not to gasp. Ella thrust out her hand. “I’m her mother, Ella Montgomery— and I’m the assistant director at this gallery.” She used the brand-new title her boss, Jim, had given her yesterday. “I was the one who facilitated the sale of Aria’s painting.”

“Good to meet you.” Harrison looked uncomfortable. “So . . . is it okay if I talk to Aria alone? I’ll try to put the gallery in the story if I can, though.”

“My little girl is growing up!” Ella crooned, pretending to wipe away a tear. Then she waltzed out of the room. “Of course you can talk to Aria. Take all the time you need.”

Then she shut the door so swiftly the Monet calendar hanging on the back rose in the air before settling softly back down. Aria turned back to Harrison. He smiled at her, then perched on a small, cluttered table in the corner and rummaged through his leather bag. “I heard about the purchase of your painting on Art Now yesterday. It’s a huge deal.”

“No, this is a huge deal.” Aria couldn’t control the starstruck tone in her voice. “I’m really flattered you thought of me.”

“Are you kidding?” Harrison’s face brightened. “Selling a piece to John Carruthers at eighteen years old? That’s unheard of.” He tapped his notepad. “I’m an art history major at Penn, and I do a little painting myself. A big buyer like Carruthers taking an interest in you is huge.”

Aria ducked her head. “I hope he didn’t buy it just because I was, like, on the news and whatever.”

Harrison waved the notion away. “Carruthers buys based on talent, not celebrity.” He paused, studying her intensely. “ Sometimes he buys a painting if the artist is pretty, though. Did he come here himself?”

Aria blushed, her mind sticking on the word pretty . “No, it was his buyer—and he was on the phone. I wasn’t even here.”

“Interesting.” Harrison’s blue eyes gleamed. He held Aria’s gaze for a moment, and her stomach flipped over. To be honest, he was cute. Really cute.

Then he looked back down at his pad. “Okay. I want to know everything about you. Not the Alison stuff, but you . What you’re into, who your influences are, where you’ve traveled, what your plans are, if you’ve got a boyfriend . . .” His cheeks flushed.

Aria giggled. She was pretty sure he was flirting. For a split second, Noel’s face flashed through her mind, but then she thought of his awkward expression outside the gallery. I need my space .

“No boyfriend,” she said softly. “Not anymore.”

“Aha,” Harrison said, scribbling on his notepad. “Very good.”

Then Aria told him about her creative process, her parents’ artistic background, and her travels to Iceland—though she left out the last trip, where she’d gotten mixed up with Olaf/Nick. It was easy to talk to Harrison. She loved the way he stared at her as she spoke, like she was the most important person he’d ever talked to. He laughed at all her jokes, and he asked all the right questions, too. She also liked how sexy and artsy he looked as he snapped pictures of her work with his long-lensed SLR camera, checking the screen after every shot to make sure he got what he’d wanted.

“And what are your future plans?” Harrison asked, setting the camera back down.

Aria breathed in. “Well . . .” Suddenly, what she said next seemed so permanent and definitive. Should she move to New York and try to make it as an artist? What if she did and it was a horrible failure?

Her phone rang. Aria’s stomach lurched, wondering if it might be Fuji—they hadn’t heard anything yet about the hoodie’s DNA results. But it was a 212 number. NEW YORK CITY, said the caller ID.

“Do you mind if I grab this?” she asked Harrison. He nodded, and she answered tentatively.

“Aria Montgomery?” said a gruff woman’s voice. “This is Inez Frankel. I own the Frankel-Franzer Gallery in Chelsea. I just heard on Art Now about your painting selling. You’re hot, girl—but you probably already know that. Do you have any other pieces to show?”

“Uh . . .” Aria’s mind spun. “Well, I have other pieces completed .”

“And I’m sure they’re awesome. Listen, send me some JPEGs of them, could you? If we like them—and I’m sure we will—I want to offer you a three-day show starting next Tuesday—we can move some stuff around and squeeze you in. We’ll make it worth your while, honey. Lots of promo. Tons of press. A big party during the opening. Everything will sell—at my gallery, it always does.”

“Ex cuse me?” Aria squeaked, astonished. A gallery show? In New York City?

Her other line beeped. Aria glanced at the caller ID again; this time, a call was coming in from a 718 area code: Brooklyn. “My name is Victor Grieg, from the Space/Think Gallery in Williamsburg—I saw your story on Art Now ,” a fast-talking man with a heavy foreign accent said. He asked the same questions about Aria having other works for sale. Then he said, “We want to give you a show, like, now . Who’s your agent?”

“I—I don’t have an agent,” Aria stammered. “Can I call you back?”

She hung up on both galleries. Harrison looked at her curiously, and Aria grinned. “Two galleries in New York want to give me shows!” she announced gleefully. The statement hardly seemed real.

Harrison gave her a knowing look. “This is your start!” He leaned forward like he wanted to hug her, then seemed to change his mind and hung back. “So when do they want to show you?”

“N-next week. Starting on Tuesday.” The reality struck her. Aria glanced at her other paintings stacked in the corner. Did she have enough? She couldn’t sell the ones of Noel—that would just be too weird. Then her gaze settled on the all-black canvas, Ali’s sixth-grade smirk covered over. She couldn’t use that one, either. She definitely needed to paint more over the next few days.