CHAPTER TWO The Masked Dancer

THAT AFTERNOON, BESS AND I met at the new gallery, located in a large concrete building tucked away in an old strip mall at the far fringes of East River Heights, nestled between used car dealerships and tire shops. The storefront had two huge picture windows printed with bright pink vinyl letters that read SLAY GALLERY. We’d been invited to the grand opening and a special performance later that day by two artists who called themselves the Goddess Collective. Bess led me around to the back of the building, where an unmarked gray door led to a warren of artists’ studios.

Sven Svenstein, the art student Bess had met, had suggested we visit his studio before the gallery opening. He told Bess he’d give us a sneak peek at his installation in progress. George (my other best friend, and Bess’s cousin) had said she was too busy to join us, but I think she just didn’t want to. She’s never approved of her cousin’s crushes, and Sven was a particularly odd one. Bess told me the last time they all hung out together, Sven and George had gotten into a huge fight about whether technology made art better or worse. Since then, George had been trying to avoid anywhere Sven might show his face. But she’d agreed to meet us later at the gallery opening.

Sven was gangly, pale, and thin, with intense gray eyes and a shock of white-blond hair. He always dressed in colorful leotards and refused to walk normally. Some days he only skipped; other days he walked on tiptoes or backward, bumping into people on the street. Sven did not say goodbye to anyone. He preferred to simply disappear, catapulting out of sight the minute you were distracted. When Bess and I had seen him perform at the college a few weeks ago, she’d fallen madly in like with Sven’s gray eyes and his ability to make himself the center of attention. I could understand that. Bess could be quite dramatic herself. Maybe they were a good match.

Given that my date was unavailable, I was thinking of going with George. She’d also gotten an invitation but immediately lost it in the chaos of her room.

When we got to the studio door labeled with Sven’s name, we knocked, but no one answered. I tried the knob and the door swung open, revealing a cavernous concrete space scattered with old telephones, printers, fax machines, paper shredders, and other broken electronics. In the center of the room, Sven had built a giant pyramid of TV sets. The TVs were all showing sections of a different image—the arms, legs, and torso of a faceless man in a bright yellow jumpsuit. The TV where his face should’ve been was running old Tom and Jerry cartoons. I noticed that the televisions didn’t have screens except for the head. What at first looked like an image was actually a three-dimensional sculpture positioned inside each of the sets. The construction was clever enough, I thought, but what was it trying to say?