Free Who Are You? (9780307823533) by Joan Lowery Nixon

titled. It’s an interesting painting, and the artist must have had a great time at the party, but he doesn’t breathe the fire of Frank Kupka.
    The next painting is an explosion of color radiating from the center. It reminds me of Boccioni’s
Dynamism of a Soccer Player
, but without the intensity and tremendous energy.
Lydia
, the painting is called.
Wow, Lydia! Did you ever make a great impression!
I think. I bend to read the artist’s name. Same artist. I haven’t heard of him, but that doesn’t mean anything.
You’re pretty good
, I tell him.
You’re on your way, but you need practice. Or maybe a soul. Lydia should have a soul. Did you look for it? You’ve left her soul out of this piece.
    This is great fun. I’m not only a world-renowned art critic, I’m a gallery owner too. This is my very own gallery—The Heavens by Evans.
Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I live to encourage young artists. At my own great expense I send them to art school when their parents won’t. And I—
    “Yes? You asked to see me?”
    I turn and look into the carefully designed face of Alanna Chase. This time she’s actually seeing me. Her eyes are slightly narrowed as if she’s a little suspicious. Maybe I’m the first teenager to set foot in her gallery. I can see that she doesn’t remember me from yesterday. Lindy and I were totally unimportant to her so she mentally wiped us out.
    “
You’re
Ms. Evans? You’re only a child,” she says. She doesn’t try to hide her irritation. She glances around, but the man who took my message to her is nowhere in sight. Now I know why he was smiling, but I don’t care. I’ve gotten my meeting.
    “My name is Kristin Evans,” I say.
    “So you told Landreth,” she snaps. My name hasn’t registered with her.
    “I’m hoping that Mr. Merson told you about me.”
    “Well, he didn’t,” she says. Then she cocks her head like a grackle studying a worm. “Why should he?”
    “That’s what I was hoping you’d tell me,” I answer.
    Ms. Chase’s lips tighten, and she looks at the gold and diamond watch on her left wrist. “I don’t have time to play silly guessing games. You have two minutes in which to tell me the purpose of your visit.”
    I’d love to ask her about some of the paintings. I’d love to be able to walk through the gallery rooms and explore the art. Right now, I take a deep breath and say, “Please tell me what you know about Mr. Merson. What is he like? What does he do for a living? Why does he travel so often to Europe? Does he import art for your gallery?”
    Ms. Chase holds up a hand—her rings glittering—and momentarily closes her eyes. “Stop!” she demands. “Who do you think you are, prying into someone’s life? Do you honestly expect me to confide details of Douglas’s life to you—not only a child, but a total stranger?”
    There’s no use trying to explain, so I simply say, “He’s kept a folder of clippings and photos of me for sixteen years. I have to know why. Maybe I can find out by learning who Douglas Merson really is.”
    Ms. Chase’s look becomes even more wary. She says, “Because of the contents of that alleged folder, I suppose you feel you have some sort of claim on Douglas.”
    “A claim?” That’s a strange thing to say. “Oh, no,” I tell her. “I don’t even know Mr. Merson.”
    “You and your parents have no idea why he kept this file on you—assuming you’re telling the truth and he did?”
    “No. I’d hoped he could tell me.” I can’t help sighing. “His face was bandaged. I couldn’t even tell what he looked like.”
    She steps toward me with such fierceness that I stumble backward. Thrusting her face into mine, she growls, “
You
saw Douglas? They let
you
in to see him?”
    “No!” I tell her. “I tried. I mean I got in, but a nurse asked me to leave.”
    It was a big mistake to mention going to the hospital. Ms. Chase is shaking, and the darkness behind her eyes frightens me. “What did Douglas say