That Thing Between Eli and Gwen (4 page)

“I might just listen in as well,” the driver said, pulling up to New York University.

He came around to my door as I fixed my jacket, nodding to him before walking up the steps. He was right; the place was filled with hopeful twenty-something’s, all gathered around the large theater.

“Dr. Davenport.” The director of the event, Professor Mills, waved as she tried to work her way through the crowd toward me. She was a short, pale woman with big glasses that nearly took over her whole face. In her hands were all kinds of files, which she shifted to one side in order to shake my hand.

“Welcome, sorry for the chaos. After we announced our last guest, we got an influx of students.” She smiled, showing her braces as more students passed us.

“I was about to say, I didn’t think this many students cared about science so much.” Why not was beyond me. “Who is the next guest, a musician or something?”

“No…wait, she was right behind me.” She turned, standing on her tiptoes, trying to look over the crowd. “Oh, there she is.”

I followed her line of sight. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” There, taking a selfie with two students—one with dreadlocks that almost touched the ground and another with a hot pink mohawk—was the Con Artist herself.

“Ms. Poe!” The director called to her as the campus police helped everyone get in order and move toward the hall.

Finally free of distractions, she focused on us, her brown eyes widening when she saw me. “What are you doing here?” she questioned when she reached us.

Why, God? Why?
“I should be asking you that.”

“You know each other?” The director clapped in joy. “This is great. I can’t wait to get this open debate underway.”

“Debate?” the Con Artist and I said at the same time.

“I was under the impression this was question and answer with the students,” I stated.

“As was I,” she said.

“Really? We let your chair know, Dr. Davenport, and your agent, Ms. Poe. The reason is that the science and art department graduates have basically been having this battle for days now. They hope you both will hammer in their points. Since you two are friends, I’m sure this will be a healthy discussion. Follow me,” Director Mills basically proclaimed in one swift breath.

Neither of us understood what she meant until we followed her through a separate door leading to the stage where three red chairs awaited us. The crowd I had just seen blended together outside was now divided between the arts and the professional. The difference was so clear. Even the Con Artist and I were, without realizing it, representing our teams by our outfits. I was dressed in a suit, while she had been more free-spirited in her outfit choice.

“Ladies and gentlemen. It is with great honor that I introduce our first set of speakers for the day,” Director Mills said, already sitting in her chair onstage as we waited.

“This is a bad idea,” she whispered beside me.

“Our first guest is currently the youngest neurosurgeon at New York Presbyterian Hospital. He graduated from our very own New York University before rising to the top of his class at Yale Medical. Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Dr. Eli Davenport.”

The left side of the room cheered for me, rising to their feet.

“Good luck,” I said to her before walking onstage. Waving to the audience, I shook Director Mills's hand once more before taking the first seat.

“Our second guest is also a graduate of New York University. It was at our very own art gala that she debuted her first major work,
Screaming in the City
. Since then, her art and photography have graced almost every corner of the world.
Time Magazine
called her the Anselm Kiefer of this generation. Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Ms. Guinevere Poe.”

I had thought the applause given to me was shocking, but all the art students went completely wild. Stomping their feet and clapping their hands, they cheered as if she had ended world hunger or cured cancer.

She came out, the biggest grin on her face as she waved back with both hands. She even gave a bow.

I rolled my eyes.

“Good luck,” she mocked when, finally finished praising herself, she sat in her chair.

I wanted to wipe that look off of her face.

“Thank you for being here,” the director said to us as we were handed microphones.

“No problem,” she replied gleefully.

“I wouldn't say ‘no’ problem. I could be saving someone’s life right now, but—”

A bunch of ohs and laughter came from my section.

She glared at me, nodding her head as if agreeing to something.

Let the games begin.

Guinevere

That’s how he wants to play?
I had just made a pact not to allow him to drag me down to his level, and there I was getting into the ring with this…this
thing
…again. I had lived in the city for years, and never had New York felt as small as it had in the last few weeks. I just couldn’t get away from him.

“Shall we get started?” the director asked us.

We both nodded, turning to the students.

“Now, please remember to keep all questions respectful. We will go back and forth, starting from the quote,
professionals
.”

That got a few soft boos from what I guessed would be called the “creatives.”

A female student, her hair pulled into a tight ponytail, dressed in black slacks and a button-down blouse, stood. “My question is for Dr. Davenport.” Her gaze focused on him. “Do you not believe that, due to media, this generation is especially deluded about the life of the artist?”

There were a few groans and mutters at her question, but they all waited for him to speak. I watched him relax in his chair as a small grin crept onto his lips.

“Of course,” he said.

I was tempted to close my ears to the round of trash he would most likely spit out next.

“I mean, is it really possible for every last one of you in this room to become the next Anselm Kiefer or Lady Gaga? No. The thing about any type of art is: it’s not in your control. No matter what, your livelihood depends on whether or not you are, one: noticed, and two: popular. I’m sure there are many artists just as good as Ms. Poe, if not better, but none of them were noticed. Unlike in the professional world, where if you are the best in your field, you will get the recognition you deserve.”

How that bullshit answer got any applause worried me for the future of our country. “Am I allowed to respond to this?” I asked the director into the mic.

“Please.”

I sighed, rolling up my sleeves. “I told myself I would try to hold back, because often when I lay down the truth, people get hurt.” I grinned at the laughter filling the room.

“Anytime, Ms. Poe,” he said from beside me, taking a drink of his water.

“Well, Dr. Davenport, your statement highlights the fundamental difference between us. You look for recognition in your work. And don’t get me wrong, I’m sure you love what you do, but I’m also sure you don’t go into work
every day
hoping to save as many lives as possible. It’s about making a name for yourself. For people like me, I couldn’t give a damn if someone knows my accomplishments. My art isn’t for anyone but myself. When I paint, or take a photo, I’m expressing the innermost parts of myself. That is all the satisfaction I need. It may seem
scary
for all you people who need a path to walk, and the ten steps of becoming whatever, but for us, we artists make our own path, and set our own goals and limits. We are living a technicolor life, my friend.”

“Boom!” someone yelled from my side of the hall, and I winked in that direction.

“Next question.” The director pointed to someone from the creative side.

He stood. “My question is for Ms. Poe,” he said when he was given a mic.

I remembered taking a picture with him; his hot pink mohawk was hard to miss. I nodded, sitting up.

“How do you feel about how the educational system focuses on the sciences while cutting the art budget
once
again?”

“I’m ashamed. I’m living in a culture that has
disillusioned
itself into believing that the focus on arts is no longer needed. An artist designed that NYU shirt you are wearing, and an artist spent time creating the layout of this hall. Art is in everything, and without realizing it, the educational system is chipping away at the core of itself.”

“I concur, to a degree.” Eli faced the student. “However, a focus on the sciences is in fact more important, not only for our economy, but also our overall status as a society. America is ranked thirty-first in mathematics and twenty-third in the sciences. How can we not place a focus on that? If you want to be an artist, fine, but why does that translate into not understanding chemistry? So many students give up and say, ‘I’m more artistic, I don’t need to learn this.’”

“Well on that note, when was last time you painted anything or were creative, Dr. Davenport?” I cut in, forcing him to look at me. “What you are saying is that artists should be well-rounded, and I don’t find fault in that, but what about professionals? How many students take an art class for an easy A and don’t actually learn to draw? When was last time you were an artist, Dr. Davenport?”

He nodded. “Touché.”

“Next question.”

Another guy stood, dressed in a sweater vest, bow tie, and glasses. “My question is for Dr. Davenport. I also want to become a doctor, though I'm not sure what I want to specialize in. I know the next four years of my life will be medical school, and after that, internships and whatnot. So I was wondering, how do you find time to date? Or is that not even a possibility until after I’m finished with school?”

The moment he asked, my head whipped to Eli. Even though he laughed alongside a few other students, I could tell how uncomfortable he was.

“I’m sorry, dumb question…”

“No, it’s fine. It’s just…” Eli paused again, going off into his own world.

“Dating is possible,” I said for him, looking to the student. “After all, he’s managed to still keep me beside him.”

The gasps, whistles, and laughter that filled the room were deafening.

Eli's eyes peered into mine as if I had lost my mind.

“You two are dating?” Director Mills leaned in as if I was going to tell her a big secret. I glared at Eli, hoping he would understand what I was trying to say through my eyes.

“Yeah, I don’t even know how it happened. One moment we were just neighbors, then the next, we were in a relationship.” He laughed, but on the inside, I could tell he was yelling. The sarcasm in his voice was clear only to me.

“There you have it, the left and right brain coming together,” Director Mills stated.

“Kiss! Kiss!” they started to chant, to my horror. It was like the hole we were in kept getting bigger and bigger.

When I turned back to Eli, he, in one swift motion, kissed me softly on the lips before sitting again and accepting the applause.

What the hell just happened?

Eli

“What the hell was that?” I hollered at her when we finished, left alone in the backstage area as the students cleared.

“I don’t know! You weren’t answering, and I felt bad—”

“Who asked you to feel bad for me? Do I look that pitiful to you?”

“Are you saying that dating me is pitiful?” she yelled back.

“Yes! Especially compared to who I actually was dating! Not only was she beautiful and classy, but also extremely intelligent. How do you compare to that?” The words flew out of my mouth before I could stop myself.

She looked away from me, clamping her mouth shut for a moment before lifting her head and facing me. “I get it. I’m not worth a damn, but what about you? You apparently weren’t worth her love either. It must have been that extreme intelligence that made her run so quickly without looking back once,” she whispered, brushing past me on her way to the exit.  

I’m an idiot
. I had punched below the belt, and she had punched back.

Chapter Four

Defective Toys

Guinevere

“Gwen?”

Fingers snapped in my face. Blinking, I looked up at the small cup of tea in front of me.

“Thank you,” I whispered to Katrina’s secretary as she left.

Katrina sat at her desk, folding her hands over the papers.

Her office was, in a word, sleek, every surface either white or gray.

“Are you all right?” she asked, drawing my attention back to her.

“I’m fine, I just spent the morning talking to college students about how awesome it is to be me.” I forced a laugh, which sounded a lot more pitiful than I'd hoped.

“Maybe this will make your day just a little bit better.” She slid the document over to me. “All we need is your signature, and you will be released from your contract. They agreed to all of our terms and even gave you a bigger severance… Why don’t you look happy?”

I hadn’t realized I'd stopped breathing until she spoke to me directly. Taking a deep breath, I placed the cup on her desk and grabbed a pen. “All I need to do is sign this, right?” I asked, reading it over.

“Yes, they’ve already signed.” When she said they, she meant him.

I stabbed the pen right in the middle of the paper before dragging it down, ripping it until the end.

“What are you doing?”

“Did I do anything wrong?” I asked her.

“What?”

“Did I do anything wrong? I don't think so. So why am I the one running? Why do I feel like the other woman, being paid off, told to keep her mouth shut, to accept the money and disappear?”

“Gwen—”

“How much longer do I have on my contract?”

“Five months, but Gwen—”

“I will work until it’s over, and only then will I leave. So call him up and tell him I will be awaiting the next project.” I rose, grabbing my things.

“Gwen! Stop for a second.” Katrina walked in front of me. “I understand what you are saying, I really do, but you shouldn’t let yourself go though that kind of emotional abuse for the sake of your pride. There is nothing wrong with closing the book on him and all of this. It’s not running.”