not as much as people seem to think.
“Let me make sure I understand you,” Bronca says. She’s still smiling, although it’s taken a hit. “You want to make a donation to the Bronx Art Center? Of twenty-three million? We’re delighted, of course, but… you mentioned a catch.”
“Mmm-hmm.” White’s smile has crept back, though not as broadly, becoming instead something sly and smug. “We just want you to make room in your gallery for some of the Alt Artistes’ pieces. Not the ones you object to!” She holds up a hand quickly as soon as Bronca opens her mouth. “You did explain your policy, and I’m in complete agreement. But they have a lot of pieces, beyond what they showed you yesterday. I’m sure they’ve got something almost completely bigotry-free. Let’s say you put up three of their works. Just three.”
It sounds reasonable. Slippery slopes always do. Bronca narrows her eyes. “I’ve seen their videos. Their whole shtick is trying to prove they’re being discriminated against because they’re a bunch of rich white boys—”
“So put up some of their art to prove them wrong.” Dr. White looks at Bronca as if this is the obvious solution.
“Dr. White, I’m afraid your friends’ work isn’t very good. That’s why I rejected it.” And it isn’t very good because they’re a bunch of rich white boys making art as a prank—and apparently expecting a wealthy benefactor to open doors for them.
White sighs as she lowers the clipboard. “Look, we both know that sometimes you have to make compromises. This one is simple: put three of their works up, get twenty-three million. Unrestricted funds.”
Unrestricted? That, Bronca really doesn’t believe. Philanthropists don’t think nonprofits know how to spend money—or that they won’t just embezzle it all. Because that’s what they would do if the chance presented itself, she suspects, and they figure everyone has the same wonky moral compass. It’s time to call bullshit.
“What’s your gain from this?” Bronca demands. It comes out belligerent. She’s lost her smile, too, because she doesn’t like being fucked with. “Are these boys your relatives? Are you with, I don’t know, some kind of religious group or something?”
Dr. White’s smile has turned pitying. “No, no, nothing like that. I just believe in… balance.”
“How is—” Okay, this is pointless. Trying to reason with bigots is always a losing game. And Bronca can already tell there’s going to be an epic explosion from the board if she refuses the donation. With a frustrated sigh, Bronca rubs her eyes. It is a small concession to make, isn’t it? A few terrible paintings on the walls for a few weeks, in exchange for enough money to keep the Center running at peak for years, even if the city reduces its funding. With that kind of money, Bronca could make a real difference in the lives of the keyholders. She could hire more staff, finally make Veneza full-time, offer more programs. She could—
“Also,” says White, sliding that into the silence as if she can smell Bronca’s imminent capitulation, “there’s just one more thing. I’d like these taken down.”
And she nods at the photographs of Unknown’s graffiti.
Bronca inhales in shock before she can think not to. “What? Why?”
“I just don’t like them, that’s all.” White shrugs, then extends her hand to Bronca again. “Those are my terms. Do let the board know of your decision by the end of today, will you? They’ll take it from there if you decide to accept.”
Bronca stares at her, though she takes the proffered hand. Habit. When she does, there is a quick, sharp stabbing sensation in many points all over her palm, which makes Bronca jerk back in surprise and stare at her hand. “Ow, shit!”
White sighs in palpable irritation and says, “Something wrong?”
“I don’t… Felt like something… I don’t know.” Allergies? Eczema? Maybe she’s getting shingles. She’s heard that hurts. “Sorry.”
White smiles again, and it feels put-on this time. “Well, you’ve got a lot to think about. I’ll leave you, for now.” More odd phrasing. Bronca follows as White turns and heads out of the Center. Privately she marvels at how quietly White moves. She’s wearing pumps, but the floor creaks only faintly beneath her feet. Light-footed as a dancer.
And then, just as Dr. White lets the glass door swing shut behind her, Bronca notices something else strange. White stops on the threshold for a moment as if to let her eyes adjust to the bright sunlight outside. Then she… wavers, sort of. There is a heat-haze flicker,