13
Emma
My chest thumps nervously as we walk into the gallery. Having my paintings stacked high in my living room is one thing; having them hanging on the wall of a gallery for anybody to see is quite another. Ever since the gallery took them, I have avoided this place, only for the reason that I might chance upon someone judging one of my paintings. I might see their reaction. The idea terrifies me.
When we approach the main desk, a face-painted, ultra-thin woman jumps out from behind it. She has short military blonde hair and wears a sleek white suit. She looks as out of place in the Cove as the gallery does. Her shiny black shoes click on the hardwood, reflective floor. Her face paint—there’s too much of it to call it merely makeup—is ghost-white.
“Emma!” she cries, in a high-pitche
