Cleopatra and Frankenstein(112)

“So,” he said. “You think I sold out?”

Cleo touched the chandelier pendant hanging from her ear and regarded him. “I think you sold,” she said.

“That’s the same thing, according to them.” He nodded his head to the trailer door, then let it fall back on the couch. “Everyone wants me to be the next fucking Basquiat. Basquiat surrounded himself with white people, then killed himself. God help me if I end up like Basquiat, man.”

“I’d start by avoiding intravenous drugs,” Cleo said. “And white people.”

“Easier said than done,” said Danny, nodding toward her.

“True,” said Cleo.

She took another pull of champagne and passed the bottle back to him. He took a gulp and continued.

“Sometimes it’s like they want you to be high all the time. My agent would shoot me up herself if she thought I’d sell better.”

“At least you have all this,” said Cleo. “Now you just have to decide what to do with it.”

Danny nodded slowly and ate another handful of chips.

“And what about you?” he asked. “You showing anywhere? You know, you were one of the best in our program. All the teachers thought so. I remember your final show. It was … majestic, man.” He took a swig. “Fucking majestic,” he repeated and burped.

Cleo turned her body to face him. He had scattered chip crumbs all down his front. She reached over to brush them off. Danny opened his mouth to say something, then grabbed her wrist. She followed his gaze. It was her scar, protruding from her sleeve like an exclamation point. She saw his eyes widen to absorb its length. Cleo pulled her forearm gently away from his grasp. Danny looked at her, and his eyes were dark and liquid, incredibly tender.

“You want to talk about it?” he asked.

Cleo bowed her head. Very gently, he kissed her forehead. They stayed like that, his lips resting against the line of her hair, for what felt like a long time. He pulled away slowly.

“Come on,” Danny said. “There’s something I want us to do.”

He took her hand and pulled her out of the trailer and back into the party. They fought their way through the main room and out into the hallway. Danny picked up a wooden plank from a pile the guests had torn up from the floor and motioned for her to do the same, then led her back out to the courtyard. He walked toward his ice sculpture and, in one swift movement, walloped its head from the body with the wooden plank. He turned to her and grinned.

“Your turn.”

Cleo took the plank in both hands and thwacked it into the sculpture’s torso. The reverberation of the impact shuddered up her arms. The top half of the body cracked off and skidded across the cobblestones. Shards of ice flew like sparks around her. Danny knocked the remaining legs and feet to the ground and continued to smash them into smaller pieces with his plank. People were gathering around to watch and take pictures.

“Is this part of the show?” she heard someone ask.

Danny pushed through the crowd, still clutching his plank overhead. He ran toward the warehouse and struck the first window he saw. Glass shattered around his feet and onto the people gathering behind him.

“Dancing fucking star!” he yelled.

The energy passed through the crowd like an electric current. Somebody climbed into the taco truck and began hurling food from the counter window. A burrito exploded against the warehouse wall with a splat. Bodies were colliding and ricocheting off each other, everyone jostling to be near Danny, the anarchic pied piper. A burning torch got pushed over as a throng of partygoers surged forward into the warehouse. Cleo turned in the opposite direction.

She saw him from behind. Tall Anders, handsome Anders, shiny Anders for whom life’s difficulties slipped away like a silk dress sliding off a hanger. Someone was calling her name. She didn’t care. He thought she was Cleo the china doll, Cleo who cracked and broke under the pressure, Cleo who was hollowed out. Not anymore. She dropped the plank and picked up a silver ice bucket someone had just plucked a bottle of vodka from. She hoisted the bucket onto her shoulder, felt its weight tilt backward for one teetering moment, then pushed all her force behind it to tip it over Anders’s head. Icy water sloshed over his shoulders. The bucket landed perfectly over his head like a dunce cap. Ice cubes skidded across the floor around their feet. He scrambled to lift the bucket and turned to look at her, his hair dark and dripping, a look of profound shock on his blanched face. Someone grabbed her from behind.

“Jesus, Cleo.” Zoe was grasping her shoulders, searching her face. “Have you gone nuts?”

Security swarmed around them. Anders had thrown the bucket to the side and was bending at the waist with his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. His eyes did not leave Cleo. He looked at her through a slash of hair. She could feel her hands being pulled behind her, her wrists pinched together. Then she was being lowered to the ground, her legs knocked out from beneath her.

“Let her go!” yelled Zoe.

Cleo’s cheek was against the cold cobblestones. The dull pulse of a heavy bass traveled through the ground under her ear. She lay completely limp, drained of all fight. Her wrists were being zipped together with plastic cuffs. Her scar. She hoped they did not see her scar. Above her was shouting, the clanging of metal, footsteps rushing past. Electric riffs of guitar serrated the air. A crowd was chanting Danny’s name. Somewhere a girl was screaming for Danny, out of time with the others, over and over in a long, pained wail.