Then I say to Mara, “It was my first year of art school. My mother was dead. My father was dead. My uncle was dead. I was an orphan, alone in the world.
“It didn’t feel strange to me, because I had always been alone. People crowded around me, drawn by looks and money, and the charm I could turn off and on at will. But to me, all those people seemed the same, and not like myself. I was a wolf in a world that seemed comprised almost entirely of deer. Especially once Ruben was gone.
“You probably know CalArts is a small school, only a thousand students. Some of them were hoping for a career in film. Tim Burton was a famous alumni, as we were reminded practically every fucking day.
“I doubted he was popular when he actually attended. Art school was no different than anywhere else I had been. People didn’t suddenly become high-minded simply because we were studying art. The same rules applied there as everywhere else: money, connections, and strategy mattered just as much as the work itself.
“All the rules of subterfuge applied as well. Classmates like Valerie Whittaker were always going to get the most direct instruction from Professor Oswald because he loved bending over her canvas when she wore one of her clinging, low-cut sweaters.
“That irritated some of the male students in the class. I thought it was only natural. Valerie was using every weapon in her arsenal. She was talented, one of the best in the class, and I found it amusing how she had the professor wrapped around her little finger.
“All the professors at the school were working artists themselves. They spoke with reverence of the Damien Hirsts and Kara Walkers of the world, but couldn’t hide the edge of envy that they had failed to become one of the greats themselves, instead of scratching a living teaching the spoiled children of families rich enough to afford the tuition.
“If you were really poor, you could get into CalArts on scholarship. That was the case with Alastor Shaw.”
Even though she’s been waiting for his introduction, Mara gives a little grimace at his name, unconsciously touching the raised scar running up her left wrist.
“I disliked him immediately. Not because he was poor, but because he kept insisting that he wasn’t.
“It’s impossible to pretend to be wealthier than you are. You might as well plop yourself down in the center of Kenya and try to convince the Maasai that you’re one of them.
“Alastor was a terrible liar. His incompetence irritated me more than the lies themselves. After the Christmas break, he came back to school wearing a Rolex that was obviously fake. He kept flashing it at everyone, not realizing that Rolex is the McDonald’s of luxury watches. Even a real one wouldn’t have impressed at our school.
“He hadn’t yet learned to ingratiate himself with people. No one particularly liked him. He was not as you know him now. Back then, Alastor was chubby, moon-faced, awkward. Always trying to suck up to the popular students, especially me.”
“Was he really?” Mara says in amazement.
“Oh, yes. He got rid of his glasses after first semester, but he still had terrible skin, the haircut of an incel, and he’d wear tent-sized t-shirts with hideous, bright graphics all over them …”
I pause, chuckling to myself.
“Actually, those t-shirts might have been the inspiration for his entire aesthetic, now that I think about it.”
Mara frowns, the much deeper well of sympathy she possesses distracting her from the inevitable end of this tale.
“It almost makes me feel sorry for him,” she says.
“Don’t. Don’t feel sorry for either of us. At least not until you’ve heard everything.
“Alastor fixated on me from the beginning. He’d try to set up his easel next to mine. Make conversation with me between classes. Sit near me at lunch.
“It took a couple of cuts, me humiliating him in front of other students, before he backed off. Even then, he was always watching me. Always close by.
“You will probably understand that Alastor recognized something familiar in me. Those who don’t feel the normal range of emotions are better at noticing when a smile comes a second too late, or when it doesn’t quite consume the whole face. We learn to imitate sympathy, interest, humor … but like Alastor’s Rolex, some counterfeits are better than others.
“He tried to insinuate that we were like each other. That we might have interests in common. I shut him down hard. I didn’t want to think I was like anyone. Especially not him.
“Alastor hadn’t developed his own style yet. He imitated the professors and other students. The hierarchy of talent in our classes quickly became apparent: I was at the top, along with Valerie Whittaker and a few others. Alastor bounced between the middle and the bottom, depending who he was cribbing from on any given week.
“I was consumed by art school. It was the first time I had felt a sense of vocation. I couldn’t wait to get the fuck off of campus and start working full-time. I only stayed because I was aware how important it was to develop connections with professors and visiting lecturers. People in the art world who could help me once I had pieces to show.
“Professor Oswald liked me almost as much as Valerie. He invited us to private shows and introduced us to everyone. Similar to what I did when you and I first met.”
Mara nods, understanding perfectly as she just experienced the same mentorship.
“Oswald was no genius. He was competent, but he’d been making the same broken-mannequin-type sculptures for decades, and Robert Gober was already doing that better. It was clear he was burned out, frustrated, barely scraping by with his shitty Buick and sport coats with holes in the elbows.