The Bounce Back Read online

  OTHER TITLES BY ADDIE WOOLRIDGE

  The Checklist

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2021 Alexandra Massengale

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Montlake, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Montlake are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781542030342

  ISBN-10: 154203034X

  Cover design and illustration by Liz Casal

  To CoCo and Marshall: I know what being a sister means because of you two. I love you.

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CHAPTER ONE

  “Don’t clap for that.”

  The harsh whisper shattered Neale’s concentration. Looking up from the photo she’d just lit on fire, she searched the sparse crowd for the whisperer but saw only a few bored-looking patrons over by the bar. Objectively, she knew not everyone was going to like her art, but did they have to whisper so loudly about it? Her piece had just started. They could at least give her five minutes to warm up. Hell, everyone had given Sarah’s giant papier-mâché dog’s head in the next room nearly an hour, and that didn’t even have a multimedia element to it.

  Flames from the photo in her hand licked her fingertips, and she dropped it into the burn bin she’d painstakingly lugged into the gallery earlier that morning, belatedly realizing that she hadn’t recited the line from Return of the Jedi before she’d let it go.

  Picking up another picture, Neale waited for the flash of pink light from the projector overhead to tell her that it was time for the next photo. When the mutilated makeover scene from Grease began playing, she seized the image of the March for the Equal Rights Amendment, clicked her lighter, and said, “Upgrade yourself. He’s a stud.”

  Neale waited for the audience to react. Over by the bar, a woman clapped half-heartedly into the silence. Maybe the audience didn’t realize the film and the march had happened at the same time? Darin might have been right. The piece needed show notes. At least she’d remembered her line this time.

  “I swear, Americans will clap for anything,” the bored-looking white man by the bar said, putting his hand over the woman’s to silence her claps. “This is not good.”

  Definitely should have done show notes, Neale thought as she began to wilt under the heat of the sparkly white sequins on her majorette uniform. How could something without pants be so warm and itchy?

  This was not going the way she had anticipated. She had imagined this piece being met with awe. The kind reserved for great artists like Lorraine O’Grady or Tehching Hsieh. Instead, she was getting crickets.

  Shaking the thought off, Neale reached for the next picture as she watched the art features editor for the Seattle Times walk into the gallery and saunter over to her parents. Of course he was here. The Wootherford Collective shows were always covered. After all, it was known as the Seattle showcase to find up-and-coming artists. Knowing her dad, he’d probably emailed the guy weeks ago, just to be sure he saw Neale’s name on the flyer.

  Overhead, Julia Roberts bought clothes in Pretty Woman, and Neale was painfully aware that her video loop only had a few more seconds before she needed to give up on the picture and prepare for the next clip. A little bubble of panic began to rise in her. Hoisting the cover of The Beauty Myth to waist height, she clicked her lighter and shouted, “Money is his power, baby.”

  In the corner, her sister Dylan clapped as if she could inspire the entire room to follow her lead. Next to her parents, the Times critic tilted his head to one side and then the other, as if getting a better angle on the piece would provide additional clarity. Neale reminded herself that art was meant to make people uncomfortable. She just hadn’t expected herself to be one of those people.

  “I don’t think she made it into the Collective on her own merits,” the formerly clapping woman said, tipping her head toward Neale’s parents.

  That stung. Gasps of delight over the dog head came from the next room, further highlighting the perplexed audience reaction in front of her.

  The screen flipped again, and The Birds’ infamous schoolhouse scene began to run in a flickering loop; the sounds of Tippi Hedren and a pack of schoolchildren running and screaming from a murder of crows echoed around the gallery. Scanning the crowd, Neale found Dr. McMillan, director of the Wootherford Collective, watching her, followed by Jenna, her assistant, filming on her phone.

  In that moment, every critique Neale had ever received ran double time through her scattered thoughts, causing her anxiety to spike and little beads of sweat to form under her giant smelly hat. Why hadn’t the company dry-cleaned the outfit before renting it out again? That seemed like a thing they should have done.

  Neale watched a less-than-congratulatory smile creep across Jenna’s face as if she was enjoying the lukewarm reception. Neale needed to wipe that silly smile right off her face and get everyone’s attention. It was time to go big or go home.

  Reaching for the photo of the March on Washington, Neale thrust the image over her head along with the lighter and took a deep breath. “Better to fear pretend monsters than face the real ones.”

  “Oh!” the woman by the bar shrieked, covering her mouth. Next to her, the face of the rude whispering man went slack with surprise.

  Neale tried and failed to suppress a grin. That was the reaction she was looking for. Dropping the photo into the burn bin with panache, she waited for the color from the projector to change again and reached for the next image. She had just started to recall her line for The Godfather Part III when a strange smell caught her attention. Almost like burnt plastic.

  Neale flicked her eyes toward the bar to see if they had started creating some sort of fancy cocktail. No. No flaming cocktails. But the bartender did look at her with complete horror, which was an unexpected response. The strangeness of it made Neale hot. Like, her head was starting to sweat. And the burnt-plastic smell was getting—

  “Shit,” Neale yelped, reaching up and yanking the flaming hat off her head. Chucking the hat into the burn bin with a force to rival an NFL quarterback, Neale ran her hands over her head to check for singed hair. Lucky for her, the hat was so tall and so furry that the fire hadn’t managed to do any real damage . . . unless she counted the damage to her ego.

  Looking around, Neale took in the puzzled faces of the crowd, all of whom seemed to be grappling with what they’d just seen, unsure whether Neale had intentionally lit herself on fire to make a statement or if something had gone wrong. Scanning her family’s reaction, she was confronted by the enthusiastic nods of her father, the wincing of her mother, and Dylan’s holy-shit-this-is-bad smile.

  Okay, maybe the mistake was more obvious than she’d realized. But her battleship hadn’t sunk yet. Sure, Dr. McMillan’s mouth was wide open in a potential scream of terror, but she hadn’t stepped in. Maybe Neale could keep going.

  Neale coughed and reached for the next image. Her eyes were watering, but she refused to give in to tears or sniffles. Although those could have been caused by the burnt-plastic smell—

  “Oh dear.”

  Dylan’s polite remark rocked Neale just as the bin next to her began belching flames. She watched in anguish as the bartender grabbed a bottle of San Pellegrino and began sprinting toward the billowing black smoke coming from the bin. But he wasn’t fast enough. Someone in the next room squealed, and then the space was filled with the sound of breaking glass.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Neale could see her father quickly snatching a red fire extinguisher from the wall, as if this were something he handled all the time. He was so dramatic. Neale choked in a breath of chemical fumes and began, “Dad, I don’t think that is going to be—”

  And then the ceiling began to rain blood.

  Or at least Neale thought it was blood, until rusty water from the fire sprinklers got in her mouth. Around her, people screeched and made for the exits as Neale stood watching her sparkly white cowboy boots slowly turn a sad, stale brown.

  “Come on, Neale. Time to go.” Her mother’s stern hand wrapped around her forearm. Half-conscious, Neale let herself be marched into the next gallery, where Sarah’s papier-mâché dog head was slowly turning into sludge in the middle of the room. Something inside of her snapped as she watched the Lisa Frank–colored mess on the floor, and Neale found h
erself closing her eyes to fight the giggles.

  If this was real—and Neale struggled to believe that this wasn’t an absurd fever dream—then all she could do was hope the company wouldn’t charge her for the damage to the majorette suit. Her mother’s grip on her tightened as she tripped on the soaking floor mat that protected the entryway to the gallery. Wrenching her eyes open, she barely righted herself in time to prevent her face from being the second casualty of the night.

  As she stood outside the gallery, with the damp March Seattle air wrapped around her, it finally dawned on Neale just how bad things were. To her right, Sarah stood sobbing into Lo’s shoulder, who stopped comforting her just long enough to look at Neale like she was the Antichrist. Behind her, Darin was staring at her as if she had grown a second head. Looking down at her stained, sparkly uniform, Neale guessed she looked a little rough, although the uniform still showed off her legs nicely. She completed her rotation just in time to catch Jenna grinning like a kid on Christmas, holding up her phone like she was still taping the show. Somewhere in the distance, a fire truck blared.

  “Neale? Honey?” Her father’s voice sounded like it was coming from underwater, not three feet away. “Do you think the trauma damaged her hearing?”

  “What? No, Dad. She is just taking it in,” Dylan said, her voice sounding like the eye roll that Neale was sure her sister was too polite to display publicly.

  “Okay, Neale. Blink if you can hear me,” her father said, reaching out.

  “Maybe we give her a bit of space? Let the fresh air help.” That was from Dylan’s boyfriend, Mike, who gently backed away, trying to give her the inverse amount of space to her father’s hovering.

  “Oh, poor Neale,” Henry said, pulling her into a hug as her mother exhaled.

  “Henry. She nearly burned down a gallery. I think it’s okay to give her a moment before expecting her to respond—”

  “Everyone okay?” Dr. McMillan’s voice boomed, causing Neale to jump.

  “Oh, good! You are in there.” Her father squeezed her even tighter, causing the fabric of her unitard to squelch uncomfortably as a volley of yeses and over heres went up around her.

  “Dad, don’t hover,” Neale heard herself say, her voice scratchy from the smoke and the fact that her father was squeezing all the air out of her lungs.

  “I’m not hovering,” her father said, looking affronted behind his Coke-bottle glasses.

  “You are, darling,” her mother shouted over the wail of the approaching sirens. Not for the first time, Neale marveled at her mother’s ability to project. Bernice Delacroix could probably sub in for a siren if the fire department needed an extra one. Which it appeared it did not, seeing as it had sent not one but two ambulances in addition to a truck. The sirens shut off as the firefighters disembarked and walked toward a drenched Dr. McMillan, ostensibly to understand what exactly had happened and what help the gallery actually needed.

  “On the upside, the gallery doesn’t have to worry about whether or not their sprinkler system works,” Dylan said, a little too brightly, stepping strategically into Neale’s line of sight so that she couldn’t see the gallery door. Dylan was so not subtle. Under normal circumstances, Neale would be irritated by her babying, but right now, standing outside her ruined show in a disgusting uniform, she was grateful for it.

  “Good point. You never really know how safe these kinds of places are,” her father said, seizing on the idea as if Dylan had set him up for a touchdown.

  “Henry, you had a show here two years ago. What are you—” Bernice caught a glare from Dylan and stopped short. Attempting to redirect her honesty, she said, “But you’re right. You never know when management has changed.”

  “Mom. It’s okay; you don’t need to lie. The piece has some lumps. But I’m sure I can smooth it out next week. Maybe add show notes and rethink the costume.” Neale rummaged around in her head for some additional positive spin that she could put on this. “My horoscope did say that fire was a ‘do’ today, so who knows? This might be a good thing.”

  “Neale, maybe you shouldn’t plan to attend the next Collective workshop,” her mother said gently, as if it were normal for someone to skip a workshop after a failed show.

  “Why not?” Neale asked, trying to read the pained look on her mother’s face.

  “Maybe we talk about this once you’ve had a chance to shower?” Dylan’s diplomatic big-sister tone was back.

  “Yes. Let’s talk about this after—”

  “Neale. May I have a word with you?” Dr. McMillan appeared from behind her parents. Although she was a foot shorter than the family, her voice carried, and the sea of Delacroix parted to let her pass, anxiety rolling off each of them.

  “Yes.” Neale blinked at Dr. McMillan, whose white tuxedo shirt was stained the same repugnant rust color as Neale’s boots. She watched as the formerly immaculately dressed Dr. McMillan walked a few paces away before stopping, irritation written on her face. Neale belatedly realized that she was supposed to follow her away from her hovering family. “Oh. Sorry, I didn’t realize you meant now.”

  “That is generally what the phrase May I have a word implies,” Dr. McMillan said, propping one hand on her hip. This was not a good sign.

  “I just want to say how sorry I am. I know—”

  Dr. McMillan held a hand up. “I’m sure your intention wasn’t to devastate your colleagues and the showcase.” Her diction was so crisp that the t in wasn’t nearly gave Neale whiplash.

  “Yes. Yes. Exactly. I had no idea the hat was—”

  “Nonetheless,” Dr. McMillan interrupted, this time with a glare that would blind freeway drivers, “I think it is wise for you to step back from the Collective.”

  Neale heard a ringing in her ears that had nothing to do with the fire alarm. Logically, she knew the meaning of Dr. McMillan’s words. But cognitively, they did not make any sense. Feeling her face get hot, she stammered, “It was one bad show. Bad shows happen.”

  “My dear, this is beyond one bad show,” Dr. McMillan said, her tone softening a little as she watched Neale’s confusion. “I’ve already got board members hounding me left, right, and center about your removal.”

  “But the whole point of the Collective is to refine our craft. Clearly, this needs refining,” Neale said, gesturing to the gallery, where the firefighters were ambling out of the front door, probably grateful the damage was to a papier-mâché dog and a fuzzy majorette’s hat.

  “And that’s the problem,” Dr. McMillan said, her hawklike eyes watching as Neale checked to see if her heart had fully shattered yet or if there were still a few pieces of it intact. Nope. No pieces of it, she thought, only pulling herself away from her physical check-in when Dr. McMillan began to speak again. “Even if I could find a way for the board to reinstate you and to insure you after this, which I cannot imagine is possible, your work wasn’t ready for the cohort’s show tonight.”

  “That’s okay. I have other ideas for pieces that are stronger than this. I’ve been thinking about something for the June show. And—”

  “Neale, you are consistently late to Collective meetings, and you rarely have your materials ready for critiques. Not to mention that when you do put in even a modicum of effort, it is often derivative. For whatever reason, you just aren’t fully committing to your work.” Neale felt her jaw drop as Dr. McMillan continued with a shake of her head that reminded Neale of a deeply disappointed basketball coach whose team lost a playoff game on a technical error. “Now, I know there is tremendous pressure on you to perform, between your parents and your sister’s recent success. But I recommend you take this opportunity to reevaluate what you want.”

  Neale fought to suppress a whimper. She was sure her lower lip was quivering, and she pressed her mouth into a straight line until it lost feeling altogether. Bringing up her middle sister, Billie, felt like a low blow. It was wonderful that after years of toiling away in New York art-scene obscurity, Billie had finally found a way to transform her paintings into a variety show that had taken off like a rocket. And all right, Neale’s piece wasn’t perfect. But wasn’t burning down your own show and ruining your friends’ night enough? Did Dr. McMillan have to do the whole family-comparison thing too?

  “My advice is either get serious or retire. Right now, you just aren’t at the level you need to be to be a contributing member of the Wootherford Collective. Or the larger art world, for that matter.”