Page 124 of The Picasso Heist
He chuckles. They both do. “Yeah, we’re really going to miss you, Halston,” says Tau.
Sarcasm truly is a lost art. These two are a couple of Picassos.
Deena Maxwell—Miss D—greets me in the foyer of the Sisterhood Foster Home. She knew I was coming, so she made sure Michelle would be there. It is a Friday, not our usual day. Of course, after going viral at Elise Joyce’s press conference, I am anything but usual.
I’m sure Miss D has a lot of questions after watching me at the podium with my brother, but she doesn’t ask a single one. This visit isn’t about her or the two of us, and someone with the compassion and fortitude to oversee an entire foster home understands that.
“Hey, Michelle!” she calls upstairs. “Halston’s here!”
I hear the footsteps before I see her scuffed-up pink Reeboks turning the corner around the banister on the second floor. Michelle had been told I was coming, but that’s all.
“Hi, Halston!” She practically leaps into my arms. “What’s happening? Are we going somewhere today instead of tomorrow? Huh? Are we?”
“Halston just wanted to stop by for a quick visit,” says Miss D. “Why don’t you show her what you were working on in the art room? I’m sure she’ll want to see it.”
Michelle’s eyes light up at the idea. She spins around and motions for me to follow. I mouthThank youto Miss D, and she shoots me back a wink. I had asked her if there was somewhere in the house where I could talk to Michelle alone, and she knew just the place.
“Wow, this is cool,” I say, walking behind Michelle into a den that has been converted into an arts and crafts free-for-all. Every inch of wall space, every tabletop, everywhere you look, there is some sort of creation. Paintings, collages, sculptures, hanging mobiles—and yet I am still able to spot it immediately, pinned to a large corkboard.
“Can you guess which one’s mine?” asks Michelle.
“I don’t have to guess,” I say, pointing. “Did you really paint that?”
Of course she did. The squiggly lines and drips of paint, the splatters and the splotches. I am looking at a nine-year-old’s homage to Jackson Pollock, made with all the colors of the rainbow instead of just black and white and brown. I wouldn’t want it any other way.
“Do you like it?” she asks.
“I love it!”
“Do you see what I did with all the lines, the way they go zig-zag-zig?”
“I think that’s my favorite part,” I say.
“Mine too.” She folds her arms, smiling. “Miss D called it a master-piece!”
“I agree.”
“Oh, and guess who didn’t like it?”
“Janet from Another Planet.”
“She was just jealous, right?”
“Totally.”
“I can’t wait to show it to my mother,” she says. “And I can’t wait for you to meet her!”
It is an easy segue. Unfortunately, it isn’t an easy conversation. “I wanted to talk to you about that,” I say.
Michelle can hear something in my voice. “Is something wrong?” she asks.
“I can’t wait to meet your mother too. I just won’t be able to when she comes and visits.”
“Why not?”
“I have to go away for a little while,” I say. “It’s, like, a business trip.”
“For how long?”
