Ovenshine

18.

A phone call wakes Percy in the morning. The shrill, repetitive tone of it drags him from the realm beyond consciousness and into the reality of his bedroom: gray and blue and frigid, the arctic. His shoes rest right where he left them, leaning by the door, one sneaker turned on its side, muddy sole on full display.

He blindly fumbles for his phone until he locates it on the little side table inches away from his bed, rolling over and letting the glaring light puncture his heavy eyes. He squints; it's his mother. His thumb hovers over the answer button for a lingering moment, and he contemplates answering, pulling the trigger and getting it over with.

Somewhere in the back of his drowsy mind a million different versions of the conversation about to happen play out, because they are all versions he has already heard before.

Percy turns his phone off and the ringing cuts off, silenced. He slides the device back onto the table, and buries further into the covers.

In the dining hall later that day, Indy glances at Sylvia to confirm she is observing the same thing: Gatz, for whatever reason, is in an impeccable mood.

To be certain, they're usually in a good mood. A seemingly endless supply of generous energy and a thirst for life and every part of it is something that just comes with the Gatz package deal, Indy's observed. This mood, however, is even more elevated than most. Their eyes seem brighter, nearly childlike. Excitement is a glow permeating from some obscure layer just beneath their skin.

At their table in the corner, a smorgasbord of Mexican cuisine dispersed between them, Sylvia is the first to crack. "Gatz," she says, and Gatz sits up straighter, still beaming. "What the hell's wrong with you?"

"Everything," Gatz says, grinning. They wrestle their phone from their pocket and drop it on the table with an unsettling thwack, shoving it towards the three of them. "But especially this."

Indy and Sylvia lean forward; Percy seems more interested in ruthlessly attacking his burrito. On the tiny screen, a deep mauve flyer glows back at them, small digitized versions of oil paintings lined up to make a border around bright gold text reading: New Venice Annual Art Auction.

Sylvia shoves the phone back in their direction with a huff. "Gatz, I hate to break it to you, but none of us have the kind of money to buy anything they're selling."

Gatz bites into a French fry, then holds it between their fingers like a cigarette. "We wouldn't be going to buy anything. Did you not read the little text?"

"No one ever reads the little text," Indy says, bringing the phone closer to her face to read the little text. When she does, her stomach drops, leaving an empty hole in its place, a sensation both dreadful and terribly exciting.

Sponsored by Dobbs & Co.

"Well?" Gatz says. By then, their grin has spread wide enough to rival the Cheshire Cat's.

"Is it—?" Indy can hardly put together the words. "That could be anyone, right? There's certainly more than one Dobbs out there—"

"It's the family you're thinking of," Percy says. He sets his burrito down, efficiently wiping guac from his fingers with a napkin. "At least, I'm pretty sure."

"Yeah?" Sylvia says. "How do you know?"

"Because my parents are hosting the damn thing at our house," Percy says, and Indy's stomach defies physics again as she scans the flyer once more, confirming the address that's less than a five minute's walk from her own childhood home. "My mom's a film critic, but she and my dad both love anything art-related. They work with art dealers all the time to put this sorta stuff on."