One
“I don’t get Art.”
Jane stopped, a frown creasing her face for a moment as she finished another of the many geometric shapes on the canvas, and wiped her brush off with a rag before looking around at her guest. Although, now that she thought about it, ‘guest’ wasn’t the right word, was it? Pest? Tormentor? Neither seemed to do her justice, and that was just perfect considering the person involved. At a glance, Quinn Morgendorffer had turned self centered prattle into an art form, and every waking moment was spent refining that art further. It was maddening, and despite her efforts to lose herself in painting, she could feel a migraine starting to build from the onslaught of pointless chatter.
“What?”
Jane glanced back at the canvas, where the shapes combined to form an abstract portrait of Quinn herself, in all of her annoying, endlessly vocal glory. She was actually quite proud of it, having captured the subject matter quite well in a short time, but Quinn seemed determined to rain on her parade. Was she really so oblivious that she couldn’t see what she was trying to do? Or was this just part of her ongoing efforts to keep every conversation about her? It shouldn’t have been surprising, especially given the Lane family’s predisposition towards clueless narcissism, but it did. Daria had her spoiled, she thought; maybe people could ignore anything if they tried hard enough.
Daria, she thought, now there was a teen with questions to answer. Bad enough her Amiga took off to be winded and dined by some school for tools, with Jodie goddamn Landon of all people, leaving poor little Janie in the lurch, but now she had to babysit the princess of pleather to boot. Alright, she conceded, technically she didn’t have to babysit her, and Daria hadn’t dumped her on her either. In fact, if she was being completely honest with herself, she could have shooed Quinn out into the night at any point. She shouldn’t even have been there, if her recent word-tsunami was to be believed, having been due to stay at Sandi’s. Yet there she was, in her room, her Sanctuary, making ludicrous statements like-
“I said; ‘I don’t get Art’,” Quinn said, rolling her eyes. “God! Sometimes it’s like talking to Tiffany. Why would you want a picture of a bunch of squares and squiggles when you can buy one of those cute little cat paintings from the mall?”
Jane gaped. There was no other word for it; her words had failed her, and again she asked herself why she had agreed to put herself through this. Quinn had clearly managed to wear out her welcome with Sandi, and logically, the rest of her little friends since she’d come to Jane in her hour of need. She could have refused her, she thought, still gaping at Quinn, but the sad, lost puppy look on her face had just been too much for Jane to say no to. She was going soft, damn it! But, as much as she’d wanted to say no, Quinn was terrified to go home by herself. That had hit a nerve with the little girl that the Lane family had left behind. She closed her mouth, trying to express her horror, and threw her hands up in the air.
“No, no, of course,” Jane said, “why? Why would anyone want a personal shopper when you could just pick up one of those kitsch little numbers from the discount rack?”
“Eugh!”
Quinn’s reaction to the very notion of such blasé shopping was almost pantomime in its physicality. The horror was a living thing with her, and, in a way, it reminded Jane of Daria, which brought a small smile to her face. Thankfully, Quinn’s little performance bought her enough time to school her face to calm once more. She doubted that the younger Morgendorffer would appreciate being compared to her ‘cousin’ any more than Daria appreciated sharing a gene pool with most of humanity. Thinking of how easily Quinn snubbed Daria was enough to bring her frown back, and she tuned back in to what Quinn was doing just as she began to speak.
“Don’t ever, ev-er, assault my delicate ears like that again.”
“They are miniscule, aren’t they?”
“I might never recover,” Quinn said, not one to be deterred.
A girl can dream, Jane thought, rolling her eyes. A girl can dream.
“Well, now you know how I feel,” she said, aloud. “Those cookie cutter, corporate crap-fests are to a Jane Lane Original what a clunky gift sweater is to...I dunno, Gucci or Ralph Lauren.”
Now it was Quinn’s turn to gape, and again Jane was struck by the similarities between the two Morgendorffer sisters as much as by the differences. They were like sunrise and sunset in some ways, but when the shock hit them, they fell back into so many of the same patterns. They must have inherited them from Helen, she thought, watching Quinn’s mind actively freeze for that fraction of a second before she could get her emotions back in check. Even as Quinn tried to turn her expression of wide-eyed, open-mouthed horror into vogue-cover cute, she wondered how Quinn kept it up every day. It must have been exhausting.
“I am so sorry,” Quinn said; “I didn’t know!”
“It’s fine.”
“No. There are Rules. I’m sorry.”
That sounded surprisingly genuine, Jane thought, and for a moment, just a moment, she felt her control of the conversation slipping. Getting actual emotion from a Morgendorffer could be drawing blood most of the time, but it was a thing to cherish all the same. Still, that did not mean she had any idea what to do with it, which may have been the one flaw in an otherwise perfect plan. She couldn’t allow herself to look thrown though, or who knew what Quinn would take it as? Shrugging nonchalantly, she grinned rather more cheerfully than she felt and waved Quinn away.
“Apology accepted,” she said, striking out for normality, “but, seriously; how can you not understand art? You do it all the time.”
“What? Ewww, no! I’d never touch paint; what if it got on my clothes? Or in my hair?!”
“That’s why you wear...”
Jane stopped, having been about to launch into a speech about how make up, hair and ensemble preparation were an art form of their own, and just shook her head. That moment must have been in her head, she thought, because otherwise Quinn was even better at burying things than Daria was. She threw her hands up in the air, grabbing her brush once again and taking down the canvas in a quick, irritated moment.
“Forget I said anything then,” she said, “you inhabit your world and I’ll inhabit mine, preferably in a different room.”
She grabbed her easel, reaching for a fresh canvas.
“No!! You can’t leave me here!”
Jane paused, raising an eyebrow at Quinn’s little display.
“Pretty sure I can come and go,” she said, “I live here.”
“But all the mass, serial puppy kickers and stuff!”
“You can handle it. I have faith. Plus Trent’ll probably scare them away; he’s got crazy skills.”
Provided that these puppy-kickers could be intimidated by bad guitar and a completely horizontal approach to everything in life, then that may well have been true. Jane loved her brother, really she did, but proactive was not a word anyone could use to describe him and keep a straight face. She should have kept going, but the crestfallen look on Quinn’s face was just too much. It was like telling Trent that all the pizza was gone, or that he had to get up; just heart breaking. She really was terrified of being alone, wasn’t she?
“Please? I’ll be quiet, I promise!”
Now this had promise, she thought, narrowing her eyes.
“I don’t know,” she said, “I’ve heard promises like that before...”
“I mean it!”
“I’ve heard that before too.”
She strung it out a moment more, looking longingly at the door while Quinn wavered, then shrugged dramatically, turning back to Quinn who could not hide her relief. She raised a finger, however, in warning, before Quinn could open her mouth.
“Two conditions,” she said. “One; I get to paint you without complaint...”
“That was me?!”
“And two,” Jane said, ignoring the violation, “you answer my questions honestly, or I walk.”
Quinn’s eyes narrowed, and Jane could almost hear the gears turning as she weighed up the costs; Morgendoffers loved a good haggle, after all. She just had to bid high enough to be plausible but not so high as to cause outright rejection. Besides, she’d rather not have to supplement her offer with cash if she could avoid it.
“How many questions?”
“Eight,” Jane said, stone-faced.
“Two.”
“Seven.”
“Three.”
“Five.”
“Sold.”