Page 82 of Dante

I admire the soaring ceilings and the ornate Gothic architecture. If Dante had been here in the 1880s, he would’ve fit right in with his dark suit and cold authority.

I bet his great-great-grandfather Salvatore might once have stood in this room, pretending to be legitimate while running guns and liquor.

“What does the Academy use this room for now?”

“Touring opera singers and other musicians, like the old days,” Chelsea says. “And internally, we use it for awards ceremonies. Our professors want us to be competitive, so there’s always a new incentive being presented. The winner of the current contest gets to be interviewed by the New York Times art editor.”

I nod, impressed. “Cash too?”

“Not directly. The global exposure is more important,” Chelsea explains. “Fame is almost guaranteed when a student finds herself on the front page of the arts section.”

All my life, I’ve dreamed of Warhol-style fame. “Is it too late for me to enter the competition?”

“I don’t think so. Best to speak to Professor Washington about that, though.”

I nod, my mind racing. Once my drawings are incorporated into the restaurant as wallpaper, would they still be considered art? Eligible for recognition? I can’t wait to discuss this with Professor Washington.

“Would you like to see the projects submitted so far?” Chelsea asks.

“Oh yes!”

Chelsea takes me into a smaller hall filled with paintings, sculpture, and etchings.

Seeing the extraordinary talent, I’m grateful that Robert Smith and Professor Washington believe my work is of the same caliber.

“The level of professionalism is pretty intimidating,” I say.

“That’s why the Academy is held in such regard. Come on, I’ll show you our classrooms.”

Chelsea opens a door down the hall to reveal students listening to a lecture about art history. We listen for a minute, then she swings open another.

In this room, students are gathered around a raised platform where a nude male model holds a classical pose—torso twisted, muscles carved like marble.

Because I’m hyper-focused on finding the posture of a confident chef for my mural, I imagine him wearing a tall toque.

The resulting mental image makes me laugh.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes,” I whisper. “I’ve sketched nudes. But his posture intrigues me. Do you mind if I take a picture so I could sketch him later?”

“Go ahead.”

I snap a picture, then I tuck the phone away.

Chelsea glances at her watch.

“It’s time for your appointment. I’ll take you to Professor Washington’s office and pick you up in an hour. Follow me.”

Once outside the classroom, I put Biscotti down as we walk to a new section of the immense building.

He jerks on his leash several times, trying to go the opposite direction.

“Biscotti!” I admonish, wondering why he’s so distracted. “Show Chelsea you’re a well-behaved dog!”

“It’s okay. Workers are doing repairs on the structure below the building. Something in that dank air attracts canines. Something they can smell but humans can’t.” She shrugs. “The professor’s office, on the right. See you soon.”

CHAPTER 31