This Might Hurt(27)

A door to the brick building opened. The line of people began shuffling through the entryway. Lisa clapped giddily. I smiled at her excitement.

“Sometimes her shows are interactive,” Lisa said as we filed inside.

Was that a good thing? I studied the space: concrete floor, white walls, high ceiling. Other than the warm bodies filling the gallery, the building was empty. Usually when Lisa dragged me to art installations, there was . . . art.

I nudged her and gestured at the barren walls. “Isn’t something missing?” Lisa shrugged, eyes flitting around the room, trying to take in every inch.

The bouncer closed the door. As the minutes ticked by sans any action, reverence faded. Voices crept higher. Then the door opened again. In walked a woman I assumed was the artist.

She was petite, in her sixties, had waist-length, unkempt jet-black hair with a thick silver streak. She wore a billowing rainbow-colored dress that resembled a parachute. Her expression was solemn, even grave. She drifted barefoot to the middle of the room as if in a trance. She held a black piece of fabric in one hand.

Lisa elbowed me. “That’s her! That’s Evelyn.”

I patted my friend’s hand.

Evelyn stopped in the dead center of the room. When she spoke, her tone was hypnotic. She turned in a circle, making eye contact with every patron. “We have become accustomed to violence. When we hear that more than one million people have died in a war, we hardly flinch. Are we proportionately more upset over one million than one hundred thousand casualties? No. Should we be?” She paused. “What number would it take to make us put an end to this senselessness?”

She stopped turning and locked eyes with me. “What about one? What if we make violence personal by putting ourselves on the receiving end of it?”

Evelyn looked away from me, fingering the black cloth in her hand. “I invite you now to insult me. The criticisms may pertain to anything. My art, my physical appearance, things you imagine to be true about me. Whether you believe the things you’re saying is immaterial. Do not hold back.” She bent her head. “Please begin.”

People in the crowd exchanged glances, shifting their weight uneasily. Some of them must have known what they were signing up for. I glared at Lisa, who already looked guilty, was undoubtedly aware of the ribbing she’d take from me back in the dorm tonight. Who was this deranged woman asking people to denigrate her?

No one spoke.

“I thought that might be the case.” Evelyn tugged the black fabric over her head and around her eyes. “How about now? Is this better?”

Another twenty or thirty seconds passed, the room holding a collective breath. No one wanted to throw a punch, but no one wanted the awkward silence to continue either.

Finally, a man across the room timidly offered, “You could use a haircut.”

Several people sniggered. Evelyn bowed, as if in thanks.

“Your nose is too big.”

Evelyn nodded.

“Your smock is hideous.”

“I can’t believe I came all the way out here for this.”

On and on they came, like a dam had burst. I glanced at Lisa again. She bit her fingernails.

“Are you on drugs?”

“I find your beliefs offensive.”

“My father died fighting for your freedom to do this show. Sometimes violence is necessary.”

“Your husband doesn’t love you.”

“No one likes you.”

I froze, then craned my neck to locate the source of the barb, half expecting it to be Alan sneering at me onstage again: No one likes you.

The jabs at Evelyn continued, but I no longer heard them. My face burned as I remembered Sir’s shame in the front row while Alan high-fived his friends in the back. Show after show he had taunted me. He was merciless.

Until the day I rescued him.

It was the last week of freshman year. I’d stayed after algebra class to ask my teacher a question. When the bell rang, announcing the beginning of our next class, I hoofed it down the hallway, hoping I wouldn’t be too late to history. I whipped around a corner and spotted two students at the other end. They were Alan and Peter Levine, an eighteen-year-old junior who was perfectly sized for the football team but too much of a delinquent to qualify for extracurricular activities. Peter Levine had trapped Alan by the water fountain and was holding his face in the stream of water while Alan thrashed helplessly.

I turned back the way I’d come. I wouldn’t have won any popularity contests in high school but had a just-hostile-enough demeanor that my peers, drama club notwithstanding, generally respected. I kept my nose out of others’ business, and they returned the favor. I could handle the occasional nuisance like Alan. The last thing I needed was an actual bully after me.

As I walked the long route to class, I admit to being satisfied that Alan was getting his comeuppance. He deserved the humiliation. No one would have been more surprised than I was when I wound up heading back to the water fountain. Peter Levine had only an inch or two on me but had half a foot on Alan. Alan wasn’t going anywhere until Peter Levine got bored.

“Hey, Walking Cliche,” I said when I was within earshot of the fountain, not daring to get much closer. If anyone would strike a girl, it’d be Peter Levine. “Leave him alone.”

Understand that I didn’t stick my neck out for Alan because it was the right thing to do. I didn’t come from a home that put much stock in altruism. I stepped in because I saw an opportunity to save my show. I wanted to spend the next three years practicing in peace.