“It’s not naked. It’s art.”

I thought of Violet’s Excalibur. The woman in the painting didn’t live in her comfort zone. She was fierce. She didn’t wait for things to happen to her. She rode headlong into battle.

Had I not always wanted to be like Violet? Before the brain cells responsible for common sense could protest, I blurted, “All right.”

Jo Bonger and I were going for it. All the way.

“Thank you. You need to shower and shave,” Strena rushed on. “Everything. And no body lotion, or the sugar mixture won’t stick. Come as soon as you can. Don’t drink anything. The show can’t be stopped for a bathroom break. I’ll put your name on the list at the staff entrance in the back.”

Click.

Wait. What? Wait!

I shot a desperate look at Lai Fa. “Is this too soon to regret that I said yes?”

Because I did regret it. Truly. Sincerely. Immediately. What had I been thinking? I couldn’t do this.

I called Strena back, but the line was busy. I called her again two minutes later, from the kitchen, after serving Lai Fa some chicken feed on an old porcelain plate. My call went to voicemail.

“She’s probably busy setting up for the show.” Or maybe her battery had gone dead. I didn’t leave a message.

“I have to go over. I don’t want Strena to be waiting for me, then if I don’t show up, it’ll be too late to call in someone else.”

I was sweaty and dirty from the day’s cleaning, so I ran upstairs to shower. A glance at the mirror over the sink set me at ease. No way would Strena put me in her show. The bags under my eyes were so big, they exceeded airline carry-on limits.

I shaved and used no lotion, in case somehow my participation became a matter of life and death, or tranquilization was possible. I skipped my second cup of coffee for the day.

On the way to the museum in the Uber—leaving Lai Fa the run of the house—I felt fairly safe. Strena would take one look at me and seat me in the audience. She was an artist. She had to have some care for aesthetics.

“Strena has a show today,” the driver said as he drove past the endless line of people waiting up front.

“You know Strena?”

“She’s a celebrity.” He pulled over. “Why do you think half of New York is here?”

I walked to the service door in a daze.

“Name?” A college girl in a NYU T-shirt asked, wielding a clipboard.

“Emsley Wilson.”

She checked me off. “Oh, you’re a model. Do you think Strena will give autographs to the staff afterwards?”

“I honestly don’t know. I’m just a last-second replacement.”