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them. They should be in an actual museum, but my parents—hoarders that they are—won’t let them leave their building. I think he called them his
grotesques
. They’re an architectural detail that he used—something to do with redirecting rainwater to keep his buildings from collapsing. They’re haunting but I love them.”
    “You’re creepy like that,” Rory said.
    “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
    “As you should,” she said.
    “My sketch tonight,” I said with a little frustration in my tone. “It’s at least something more than what I’ve been doing lately, but there’s no life to them. They’re copies of his works from my memory, but that’s all they are—copies, not
real
art.”
    “Don’t say that, Lex.”
    “Did you ever hear about Van Gogh and his doctor?” I asked.
    Rory shook her head.
    “Van Gogh struck an agreement with his doctor that hewould pay him with art, which the doctor accepted. For the rest of their lives after that, the doctor and his children labored at re-creating those works. They even showed them at the Met here in the city a few years back. I went to see them. Those Van Gogh reproductions were the same quality as what I’m doing here.
Lousy.
They vaguely
looked
like Van Gogh’s work, but they lacked…I don’t know…I guess soul. Maybe at heart I’m just a copycat, too.”
    “Alexandra…” Rory said, exasperation in her voice. She would have gone on, but Marshall had just about made his way back to us. “Well? How did it go?”
    His eyes held a little bit of sad puppy dog in them and he gave Rory and me a halfhearted smile. “I thought it was going good,” he said.
    “Yeah?” I said, hopeful.
    “It was,” he insisted, “until they filled my hood with paint.” He turned around slowly. The hood hanging out over the back of his jacket was wet from the inside, a hint of red seeping through it, running down the back of his jacket.
    Rory clapped him on the shoulder. “Glad you got that out of your system?”
    Marshall nodded, then smiled, mustering as much pride as he could for a nerd who had just been shot down. “The end result didn’t matter, ladies. The important thing was the trying.”
    “Tell that to your dry cleaner,” I said, packing up my materials.
    “We’re headed to that new bar that opened up over on First Avenue, the one around Eighth,” Rory said. “You in?”
    I checked my watch. “I don’t think so,” I said. “I need to get home to deal with the bosses. Update them about the meeting I cut short to get here and the closings I didn’t get set up today, all before hurrying down here for the art sessions. I have to at least put in an appearance as the dutiful future of their empire. Hopefully, they don’t fire me.”
    Marshall laughed. “As their daughter? Can they do that?”
    “That’s not the point, Marsh,” I said, wanting to slug him.
    “Excuse me,” he said, still laughing, “but what is the point, then?”
    Rory slapped me on the back. “The girl doesn’t really have much choice, does she? It’s very adult of her. Missing hanging out with us is just a bonus.”
    “Fine, then,” he said, hurt, the laughter dying. “While we’re out making memories, she can go about making nice at home.”
    I sighed. “All right, all right,” I said. “Why don’t you guys swing by my building after you hit the bar? I’m sure I’ll be done dealing with the lord and lady of the manor by then.”
    Rory looked over at the other two women still standing across the far side of the room. Both of them were laughing. She looked up at Marshall. “You sure you don’t want me to beat them up for you?” she asked, then flexed her arms. “Dancer’s muscles. Hella strong.”
    Marshall shook his head.
    I slapped him on the back, my hand making a squelching sound. I pulled it away, my palm now red with paint, and I went for one of the rags hanging at my art station to wipe it off. “Better luck next time.”
    Marshall gave a weak