Work of Art

Les Demoiselles D'Avignon

Miss Lillian wore a long gray wool coat and black leather boots on the first day of the annual field trip. She wore her hair up in a sleek ponytail and she looked stunning for a woman pushing fifty and stylish for a residential manager of an orphanage. She'd rolled out of bed that morning and rinsed her face with cold water, which was excruciating but necessary, and dressed up a little nicer than usual. A trip to New York City seemed deserving of a slightly more fashionable ensemble. Where she'd usually be stressing about getting all the little ones on the first floor up and ready to leave for the day, she'd only allowed girls thirteen years of age and up to participate in such a lengthy trip. It was, after all, the furthest (and grandest) annual field trip they'd ever taken.
She'd pitched the idea of the annual field trip years ago after she noticed a depression spike following the holiday season. There was even an attempted suicide, as she recalled fuzzily, though she tried her damndest never to think about it. The girls would receive so many gifts during the holidays: clothes, toys, electronic devices, and lots of money, all by donation. And they were as grateful as they could be. But Miss Lillian worried. Though the donors were especially generous during the holidays, she watched her girls slump forward into the harrowing eleven months of the year where value and acknowledgement from the outside world were scarcely in the spotlight. So the annual field trip that took place around mid-January was born.
This year, however, a company called WayTech out in California appointed their newest CEO, Travis Baxton. Travis's and Miss Lillian's childhoods overlapped fondly, and though his family moved to the Bay Area just after their high school graduation, Travis remembered the altruistic Bailers well. After his father and founder of WayTech died, he reached out to Lillian Bailers hoping to create a partnership and make the Natasha Bailers Home for Girls their priority charity for which a large, luxurious, and hopelessly expensive charity auction and gala might be hosted in their benefit every year. While she found Travis himself a little pompous, she could not and would not deny the girls such a life-changing opportunity.
His first donation as their newest benefactor: donating an educational (and ridiculously expensive) trip to New York City. Including admissions to the Museum of Modern Art (which was not the expensive part due to the fact that children were admitted for free), dinner for the whole group at a swanky restaurant called Somono, and six grand double rooms at the five-star Opulark Hotel, complete with a big, black motor coach to take them up, around, and back again.
"I'm worried about this trip a little bit," Miss Lillian confessed to Miss Jennifer. She looked up from her desk work in the week prior to the trip as Miss Jennifer sat relaxed in the chair across. "I don't want them to get used to this kind of extravagant living."
"I don't think it's much to worry about," Miss Jennifer had replied. "I think it's good for them. Shows that luxuries are things you are rewarded every once in a while after hard work. Or maybe a way of life they can aspire to work towards."
"I suppose," she'd said. "What's a one-time thing, anyway?"
"Well, if the Home becomes Travis's priority philanthropy, the annual trip might become this same kind of lavish caliber every year. What with Travis's interest in you and all...."
"You said you'd stop saying that," Miss Lillian returned to her work.
Miss Jennifer rolled her eyes, a thoughtful smile passing her lips.
So Miss Lillian had gotten up a little bit later than usual, refreshed from the cold water, she went to her office to straighten out a few last minute details before the motor coach arrived, and Artemis would probably be up any minute to usher the youngest girls off to breakfast anyway.

Up on the third floor, Artemis rubbed her eyes and rolled over to grab her iPod from her nightstand. About a year after her sisters left, she'd been relocated to the third floor. A bear of a walk after a long day, but it was nice to have a room all to herself. It was all the way at the end of the left hall near the fire exit which made her feel uneasy at first, but after a while the lack of foot traffic outside her door and the inconspicuous exit from the building was beneficial for the nights when she snuck over to St. Mith's or out to drink in the back field with Honey and Chrys.
7:12 A.M. the device read. It was a Friday morning and about the time to get up and make sure the little ones were up and ready for breakfast. Since she'd turned seventeen, she'd become more of a babysitter/chaperone to the newest girls on the first floor, which Miss Lillian sometimes paid her for. The money she made from her responsibilities around the Home plus the funds from donations specifically to send the girls to universities had been secured in an account and would become accessible to her on her eighteenth birthday. She was supposed to be working on multiple college and scholarship applications, but despite Miss Lillian's constant nagging, the energy to do so deserted her.
She swung herself out of bed. Where once she greeted mornings with invigoration and readiness, she found herself yearning for the place beneath her covers later and later into the day, and she felt like an anvil when she had to leave it. It was the "Aging Out" Cloud, she'd decided. Although the Home runs multiple programs and raises a wealth of funds throughout the year, it was the drive for Artemis, the days slipping away while she couldn't change a thing.
Beverly had, in her own special way, aged out of the system. She was never headed for a university, she'd never even tried. When she turned eighteen a few months ago, she'd quit her last year of classes and gone to live with some high fashion male model named Gordon (one of those 'sans last name' wannabes) in Los Angeles who'd claimed he had connections for her blossoming modeling career. Bev did turn out beautiful, Art thought to herself as she attempted to rub the sleep out of her eyes, a classic beauty. A long way from that frizzy, coarse hair. And she really had. She stood at 5'11" when she'd left, which scared off all the boys at St. Mith's, only a few were taller than her. Her frizzy bob had grown into a silky mane that fell to the base of her spine, her face had dropped at the chin making it pointed and mature while her eyes hadn't changed a bit from their wide and wondrous size, and somewhere along the way the universe had gifted her a small waist and large bust size. A luminous look envied by all who lived on the second and third floor of the Home.
But a quality not so envied was the drug problem from which she never fully recovered. While Art's last and final usage was the panic attack in the shower after her sisters left, Bev continued to use, especially after meeting Gordon who apparently had drug connections all over the eastern seaboard, though Artemis thought this highly unlikely and took him for some insecure loudmouth blusterer. He wasn't exactly a trust fund kid from St. Mith's who had actual connections, some even through their parents, and some scarier and sadder than that.
Even so, Bev had left with him before the last school term had wrapped up. She hadn't even waited for graduation, which was only a few short months away. She'd only said good-bye to Art and she promised to e-mail about the fantastic new life she was bound for out in California.
Her e-mails came often then scarcely, and it had been a couple months since Artemis had heard anything from Bev, although she'd Google her periodically just to see if she'd gotten famous overnight. Art was now the girl at the end of the hall who'd been there the longest. Though she'd occasionally slum it with Honey and Chrys and the other fifteen- and sixteen-year-old girls who lived on the other side of the third floor, she was mostly alone.
When the announcement of the excessive annual trip came from Miss Lillian, Art had done some research on the places in the itinerary. After hours of looking through photos and menus and amenities, the five-stars and four dollar signs on the internet had compelled her to carefully select an outfit the night before: a sleek pair of black jeans, a black V-Neck sweater that tied in the front, and a pair of black slip-on loafers with a gold buckle (the newest addition to her monotonous wardrobe). Originally, she thought she'd just wear some loose-fitting jeans and a sweatshirt. They'd already been instructed to pack something nice for the dinnertime portion of the trip and she'd opted for the simple black cocktail dress that she'd inherited from Bev after growing six inches in the span of four months, but this was her first trip out of state and to the ultimate metropolitan city, hell, any metropolitan city, and she felt some sort of exceptional fashion statement was necessary.
After brushing out her soft brows, combing mascara through her lashes, and adding a minimal amount of rosy blush to her cheekbones and freckled nose, she took a last look in the mirror, muttered something about averageness, and made her way out the door.
She took the fire exit most days what with it being right next to her room, and the fresh air of the mornings was a better pick-me-up than caffeine. She skipped down and re-entered through the side door on the first floor where she was greeted by a low wail drifting toward her from the dimly lit hallway. She paused to listen. The wail repeated, followed by shaky heaving, so Artemis continued in cautiously and quietly trying to locate the source of the sound. Miss Lillian's room was far on the other side of the floor and though she tried to keep the babies closest to her room for convenience, Artemis worried for the girls who were just a little bit older, the ones who were starting to comprehend their own predicament and were particularly susceptible to the weight of it.
Treading carefully, she stopped short of the door two down on the left side and pressed her ear to the cool wood. The soft wailing grew a little clearer, so she gave a light knock and turned the knob slowly.
The room was still dark but reeked of a bitter stench and she could just make out the silhouette of Diana Hayes sitting up in her bed. Artemis flicked the light switch on and found that Diana's face, while one of concern, was undisturbed and dry. She turned her attention to the bed across the room. Ten-year-old Rose McCallin was curled up in a ball beneath the blankets with her back turned to the room, clutching her stomach with her mouth hanging open, her top quilt covered in a pale green and orange substance.
"Rose?" Art said breathing through her mouth and making her way into the room.
"I think she had a bad dream," said Diana, now looking sick to her stomach herself. Artemis sighed, taking a seat on the bed next to Rose, careful to avoid the mess, and peeling strands of her golden hair where they'd matted to her sticky face.
"Di, can you do me a big, big favor this morning?" Art asked. Nine-year-old Diana, having had a series of nightmares herself in the weeks prior, nodded fervently. "Get dressed quickly and please let Miss Lillian know that Rose had a bad dream and the first floor still needs to be readied for breakfast. Make sure you knock first."
Diana sprung out of bed and grabbed her uniform from the closet and pulled it on hastily before slipping into her shoes and turning to hurry down the hall. Art then walked across the hall to fetch a washcloth from the linen closet and slipped into the bathroom to dampen it in warm water. While making her way back she spotted Telor, the elderly janitor who came weekly to mop the floors, disappearing down the main hall. She called after him.
"Telor! Oh, thank God. I need some help over here."
At first she was not sure he had heard her, or perhaps had chosen not to hear, but after a few seconds Telor reappeared from the way he'd come, walking backwards and cocking his head over his shoulder with a surly expression. "What do you need?"
"One of the girls had a little accident on her bedsheets, I was wondering if you could take them to the laundry room for me, please." Art clasped her hands together and scrunched up her nose.
Telor rolled his eyes and grunted. "What kinda accident? Which end was it comin' out of?"
Art put a hand to her lips, pausing a beat to make sure only words would come out when she opened her mouth. "What does that matter?"
"Well, I gotta know if I need my grabbers, Art."
"Oh, jeez, it was throw-up, all right?"
He shrugged. "All right, well, that ain't so bad." He started over and Artemis walked back into the room, ushering a sobbing Rose out of bed. Fortunately, none of the mess had gotten in her hair, just a little on her chin but the covers had caught the majority. She took the damp washcloth to Rose's pale face while Telor carefully wrapped the blankets in a ball, holding them at arm's length as he carried them from the room.
Once he was gone, Art turned her attention back to the shaky girl catching her breath on her roommates bed. "Did you have a bad dream?"
She nodded, her face twisting back into its weepy contortion as it played back in her head.
"Do you want to tell me what it was about?" Art asked. The question that felt logical in the moment but after she'd asked it, she wasn't so sure she wanted to hear about it. She feared she did not have the maternal touch to her words like Miss Lillian. To her relief, Rose shook her head.
"Okay," Art said, taking a deep breath. "Well, we need to get you cleaned up and ready for breakfast. You need to put something back in your stomach. Something that sits easy. Can you head to the shower for me? I'll bring your clothes."
Rose sniffled then nodded, sliding off the edge of Diana's bed and walking across to the linen closet to fetch a towel.
Art stood herself and walked to the Rose's closet, pulling the sliding door open and selecting a clean tweed dress and button down. When she walked across to the bathroom, the water was already steaming overhead and she followed the faint sounds of Rose's sniffling to one of the shower stalls. She hung the clothes on the hook just outside the drawn shower curtain. The bathrooms always gave Art the creeps. Everything was the same yellowy white color from the floor tiles to the stall walls to the ceiling, and it constantly smelled of chemicals, sterile, like a hospital.
"Rose?" she called. She was met with a weak hum of acknowledgment.
"I'm going to make sure that all the other girls got up okay. I've put your clothes on the hook right outside and—"
"Can you stay here, please?"
"You want me to sit with you?"
"Mhm."
Art exhaled and took a seat on the bench next to the stall resting her head on the tiles behind her. She brought her knees to her chest and sat silently, thinking about what she could remember from her first few nights in the Home. She considered herself relatively fortunate to have arrived before six or seven years old, before she really started to understand her circumstance. Rose had been there only three months and Diana, while trying to be as supportive a friend as she could, was already fully accustomed to the Home and lacked the empathy needed for a newcomer.
However, Rose was very lucky to have Diana. Although they were not on the same level of acceptance, Di had a genuine concern for Rose's well-being and Rose was the only close friend Di had made. They had clicked instantly.
Artemis thought about her sisters. She wondered if she was lucky to have them when she was in the middle of adjusting to the Home. She did not at any point feel like she was lucky to have them but perhaps she'd have turned out to be a horrible, terrible person without them. She did not feel like a horrible, terrible person now.
Artemis hadn't heard from her sisters since they'd left four years ago. She thought that Aurora and Anastasia had probably assumed that she wouldn't want to hear from them, and for a long time she didn't think she wanted to either. But every week that went by without some sort of overdramatic written apology waiting for her in the mail was another tear in her heart until it was so torn up she couldn't even feel it anymore. She hated when she let herself think about them, and, honestly, it was not often that she did.
"It was Di." A soft voice came through the shower curtain suddenly, interrupting her depressing recollections.
Art tilted her head toward the stall. "What was Di?"
Rose paused, uncertainty surely running through her mind as she tried to find the words or will to continue. "I had a dream that Di got adopted without me. And she never talked to me again and I was all alone here."
Artemis winced, and a bitter veil of silence landed like snow over the bathroom with only the persistent pattering of the shower water like a rainstorm in both of their thoughts. She hadn't a clue what to say to make Rose feel better. She did not think herself the most reliable of sources for pep talks or inspirational speeches. Bringing happiness to others felt a lot like trying to teach something you never knew or give something you never had, and she fell short every time.
"Well, sometimes that happens," she said. She regretted saying it immediately.