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most renowned critics on the New York Times, and when he wrote something, the sycophants usually followed. Suddenly, they started writing stories about how the Emperor really had no clothes. Me being the Emperor in this analogy. Before that goddamned New York Times review of my showing at Luhring, I was widely becoming known as the “Mozart of the art world.” Just as Mozart was composing music at the age of five, I began painting seriously at that same age. Early critics also stated that my work would be influential on the art world, much as Mozart’s music had been profoundly influential on the music world. I was hailed as a fearless pioneer, who was blazing a trail with my subject matter and my technique. Of course, any comparison to Mozart would have been overblown at best. Nobody would ever be able to compare to him, in any kind of artistic endeavor. The comparison was mainly drawn because I was such a prodigy.
    After Henry Jacobs, though, it all went to hell. Suddenly, the critics decided that my work was stale and lifeless. Prosaic and derivative. It was as if these other critics really took their cues from Jacobs the big dog, and if Jacobs decided that I was a fraud, then that became the conventional wisdom.
    It was the first time that I had started having doubts about myself. I really was fearless before that Jacobs article. I took chances that other artists didn’t. I decided that I would turn the genre of urban expressionism on its head. That was what I was aiming for, and I felt unstoppable. But the cascades of poor reviews that happened after the Jacobs article made me want to crawl into a hole and die. And the word “fearless” was no longer a part of my vocabulary, and it was never again used to describe my work.
    I still tried to paint, but I started to look at my own work as being stale and derivative. Prosaic and lifeless. And I would rip up every painting I attempted during this time. I hated every one of them. I believed the critics completely, and decided that I really didn’t have anything meaningful to say. I was still an artist, through and through. It was still the only thing that I had ever wanted. But I couldn’t do it anymore.
    I finally just sighed, as my father continued to stare at me, his eyes sympathetic. My mother still looked pissed, I guess because she really couldn’t relate to me on the artistic level, unlike my dad. As far as she was concerned, I was an impetuous little brat who had won the genetic lottery and still became a waste. That was pretty unforgivable to her, I would imagine. My dad could also relate to my being an intellectual prodigy, because he was, too. He knew that it wasn’t easy for me to truly fit into a world that was clearly stupid in so many ways. He understood how frustrating it was to be able to outthink 99.99% of the population on just about every issue.
    So, I decided to give in a little. If only to try to please my father. My mother would never understand me, as much as she had always tried. But my father was a different story, so I wanted to try to please him.
    “Okay, I’ll have dinner with you every month,” I said, conveniently ignoring my father’s earlier plea for me to once again realize my gift and try to get over Henry Jacobs.
    My mom looked happy. “That would be wonde rful, Dalilah. That’s all that we ask. We can keep up on your life so much better if we can have regular contact with you face to face.”
    My dad put his hand on my shoulder, and brought me to him in a big hug. To my surprise, I found myself crying as I listened to his heart beating. He stroked my hair and said “shhhhhh, Dalilah, you’re okay. You’re going to find your way, baby girl. Your mom and I love you very much. And we always believe in you. Always.”
    I nodded my head and said nothing.
    But the tears kept coming, and it felt like they would never stop.

Chapter Six
    I woke to my phone buzzing incessantly. It was then that I realized that I had turned off my