My phone buzzes in my trench coat pocket like an angry bumble bee, making the fabric tremble and writhe on the chair. Kattar rolls his eyes, lovingly exasperated, as I sit back in my chair, and swallow the whole of the bonbon myself, with a teasing smile. I jump up quickly and retrieve the irritable robot from where I left it lying in the plastic chair by the television. 

“Sorry, I’ve gotta take this one - It’s the queen,” I say tauntingly, holding out my phone to show him his mother’s caller I.D. He just shakes his head, crossing his arms over the hospital gown and leaning into the pillows with something like a sigh, as I put the cell to my ear.

“Hel-”

“-Darling, does the television in Kattar’s room get the news?” Mrs. Moon asks - and the phone blasts a tad too loudly - before I can even finish the customary greeting.

I look at Kattar, who nods a little slowly, clearly able to hear her question as clear as day.

“Yes…why…?”

“Hush hush, listen. You have to turn to the local news station right now, mi corazon.”

Kattar looks at me and mouths “What’s the matter…?” I just shrug, pointing the remote at the blank screen. 

The scenes switch like stop-motion animation.

Basketball, basketball, a telenovela. 

“How many channels are on this thing?” I grumble.

“Six hundred,” Kattar sighs, “the local news is channel one hundred.”

I punch in the numbers and watch the screen flip from Latino drama to my face.

“What the…?” Kattar says, almost without thinking.

A disembodied female voice warbles from the set in classic news-caster fashion, as the footage cycles between brief video snippets of yesterday's “grand opening” and high-definition shots of weeping lions and ferny chickadees.

“-says Luis Bon, and America’s leading art journals are going wild over the young prodigy! ‘This is not talent,’ writes international journalist and art critic Nelson Berg, ‘but positive genius!’ And the masses heartily agree. Social media debates have grown heated as some theorize that she will be marked down in history with names like Rockwell, and even De Vinci, while others find the idea ‘audacious’ and 'ignorant.' Popular opinion, however, seems to be leaning in her favor, with the general consensus that it’s ‘good to see a new artist gaining some respect…it’s been too long.’”

“Since when does my mom watch the news…?” Kattar squints in confusion, his eyes disappearing into bewildered black semi-circles beneath the shadow of his hair. 

“I don’t,” Mrs. Moon replies airily before I can even pass on the message, “Jun texted me and told me to pull up the news on my computer. You’re blowing up the internet right now, darling. All the art journals are tripping over themselves to be the first to say something about you. If we’re not careful you may take over the entire art scene, and your schedule will be too packed for me.”

I imagine I can see her waving one of her manicured hands like a pant-suited queen as her bright laughter sparkles through the cell like shards of diamond, but it feels a million miles away - her last words still churning and crashing through my psyche without registering.

Stop.

Something about this feels uncomfortably familiar - the ghost of a ghost of something…I think I want to keep forgetting…

“I’ve got to hang up now, dearest,” Mrs. Moon says quickly, and I force myself to attend to what she’s saying as she prattles on - each word falling like fat raindrops on a cage, rolling their way around the thin bars with Laodicean energy and sliding reluctantly into cognition.

‘I’m leaving the office now and going to pick up our lunch from that bakery by the mall, so I’ll be there in about half an hour. Tell my little prince not to eat any of that nasty hospital food. I’m getting the scones that he likes.”

“Kay,” I say robotically.

“I’ll see you in thirty minutes. Kiss kiss.”

I hear the beep of the call ending and lower the phone in a pseudo-trance.

“That microphone is way too sensitive,” Kattar comments, shaking his head.

“Eh…” I throw myself down on the seat in front of the window, feeling his eyes follow my motions. I want to cover my face or look away, but I don’t.

“So how does it feel to be famous?” He smiles, a little roguishly, but sincerely.

“I can’t even beg-”

“-a bit of digging done by the art journalism team over at ‘Stop. Motion. Journal’ has revealed Miss Palmero as the newest affiliated artist, or ‘Rainbow Ocean,’ of The Precioso Veggera Foundation,” the television chirps, “and Alfonso Velasquez of ‘Bloom Weekly’ swears by their decision to sign the rising star. “We can definitely expect big things from this girl. (The Precioso Vegerra Foundation) knows what they’re doing when it comes to artists, and when they pick ‘em you can ‘stake your proverbial wig’ that they’re destined for greatness.”

Kattar glances from the television to me - a hint of concern surfacing in the dark eyes.

“Are you still going to be working with The Foundation?" he asks hesitantly, afraid he might be treading on dangerous ground - reopening the wound. “I mean, after everything with Mr.…”

He can’t even make himself say Shannon’s name - spitting out the honorific like it’s poisonous.

I grip my knees for dear life - tasting the edge of the shadow washing in like a salty wave - ready to lay waste to the skeleton of a wall I’ve managed to build up against the memory-

I don’t want to remember but-

“I’m going to try to…” I start to whisper, the words coming out almost like a gasp.

Kattar cuts me off, his face awash with worried vehemence-

“Don’t do it just because you think it’s what I want,” he says earnestly, watching my face as I force myself to meet his gaze with my own.

“No…that’s the thing-” I stammer, as the recollection tries to strangle me, “I really want to do this. I was so proud of my work - putting together the exhibit - and giving the speech in front of all those people. I even enjoyed working with him before…” 

I feel like I’m going to puke - the words sticking in my throat.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, wiping the salt water from my face, “I’m not going to make today another pity party.”

He shakes his head slowly, eyes burning and swimming with anger and worry. The sympathy is excruciating.

Don’t I wish I could feel better, just so he would stop having to feel bad for me…

Why does it always seem impossible to do anything to help the people you love?

I wring my hair in my hands, eyes locked on the floor, forcing my voice to speak.

“The truth is, it was one of the most amazing experiences of my life, in spite of everything. I don’t want to give that up.”

I sigh, looking up to meet his anxious look with a smile, tremulous as it is.

“I’m gonna keep searching for beautiful things. And it would be awesome if those things were crazy, beautiful, weird art ziggurats and exhibits in fancy-schmancy old museums.”

He gives something between a laugh and a scoff, shaking his head at my stupid half-joke.

“You know you’re corny, right?” He chuckles. 

Then he smirks, flashing a coquettish smile, and leaning forward with a teasing shake of his head.

“But you really don’t have to look that hard for beautiful things, though. You were prettier than the exhibit, yourself, at the grand opening, in that cute pink dress. My mom sent me the pictures last night after the event was over. Too bad you had to come visit me dressed like the awkward lead of a teen sitcom.”

“Aish,” I sigh halfway between embarrassed and annoyed, “Excuse me for not wanting to wear dirty clothes to come see you.”

“Don’t even begin to pretend you change your clothes daily. You used to wear the same pair of jeans for ten days straight when we were in college.”

“Maybe I’ve grown out of that,” I say argumentatively. He just raises one eyebrow as if he doesn’t believe that for a minute. 

“Okay okay,” I sigh, burning red up to my ears, “Since you’re so ridiculously set on it.”

He smiles satisfied, leaning back against his cushions, as I push the hair off my neck - uncomfortably warm.

“I guess I can wear the pink dress again when we go on our first date.”

There’s a flash like the moment before a light bulb blows - a fraction of a smile before it evaporates into anxious paralyzed worry. 

“Um…Lise…” he starts to say, but the words trail off, and he stares at me, mouth open but speechless.

“What?” I ask, feeling my heart sink into my stomach, “What’s wrong?”

“N-nothing…just,” he tries to smile but fails. There’s a moment before he can make himself start again, and when he does his tone worries me.“I don’t - I don’t mind if you tell anybody else that we’re…anything but…”

He stares at the blankets like he’s trying to burn a hole in the endless white - almost trembling - then he shakes his head quickly like he’s trying to wake from a bad dream.

“But whatever you do, please don’t tell my mom. Please. ”