and one-dollar bills into it and then flattened it with his fist. “It’ll come in colors like pink or green or red or briefcase brown. I developed the material myself. It’s one hundred percent biodegradable and compostable.”
Elizabeth grabbed it and tucked it into the front of her orange prison jumpsuit, which she’d asked Tupper to purchase from the jail so she could wear it home.
Tupper laughed. “That won’t work. You don’t even wear a bra.”
Elizabeth let the Money Pit drop into her jumpsuit and continued to eat her noodles. It fell through to the crotch area, where it bulged masculinely. Tupper wondered how long this prison behavior would go on. She’d only been “inside” for three days. Every time Elizabeth went away and came back, he felt like she was experimenting with a new persona—affectionate Elizabeth, distant Elizabeth, hungry Elizabeth, surly prisoner Elizabeth. He had news, but he didn’t want to deliver it until she appeared to be paying attention.
“Why don’t we go out and celebrate?” he suggested. “It’s unusually warm for this time of year. We can go to that upstairs bar outside in the park.”
“All right,” she agreed. “I just need to wash my feet.”
* * *
It was Friday afternoon and the bar was packed.
“Get vodka,” Elizabeth commanded, choosing a grubby, newly vacated table in the corner. “A whole bottle.” She was still wearing her orange prison jumpsuit. People stared. One man gave her a thumbs-up.
Halfway to the bar, Tupper turned around to make sure she was still there. Elizabeth had turned away to take in the view. Ferries crisscrossed the harbor from Manhattan to Brooklyn and Staten Island and beyond, leaving frothy white wakes. In the far distance, the Statue of Liberty towered greenly, symbolically. The sun was low, bathing the silvery buildings and dark water in golden light.
Tupper’s nervousness made her restless. The boats made her restless.
It wouldn’t be long now.
Tupper brought the vodka back to their table with two shot glasses.
“Icelandic.” Elizabeth admired the bottle. “Perfect.”
Tupper had noticed the letter from Iceland on top of her stack of mail and the particular interest the rich Icelandic art collector had taken in freeing Elizabeth. He poured them both shots, reminding himself to say what he had to say while his head was still clear and he wasn’t about to throw up everywhere.
“I’m guessing that’s where you’re headed next—Iceland?”
Elizabeth’s downturned mouth turned down even further. She tossed back her shot.
Tupper knew he was cornering her, but he was tired of her performative antics and complete self-involvement. She hadn’t asked about The Hunt. She didn’t seem interested in the Money Pit. She didn’t care that Monte was closed, even though their neighbors liked it there. She hadn’t even noticed that he’d joined Full Plate so that they could dine on delicious meals for two. It was possible to be an artist and a nice person, but Elizabeth didn’t even try. If she wanted to go, she could go.
He threw back his shot and poured himself another.
“I was awarded a MacArthur,” he said, finally delivering his news. “They called last night.”
Elizabeth gray eyes widened. “For The Hunt? That was a collaboration.”
Tupper grunted. Of course she’d believe the award was somehow meant for her.
“They said it was for my promise as a designer. They can’t wait to see what I’ll make next.”
Elizabeth drank two shots in a row and poured herself another. Out on the harbor the Staten Island ferry blasted its horn. She’d underestimated him. She was always underestimating him.
“I’m not going anywhere,” she said, deciding it on the spot.
Tupper pushed his glass away. “But I want you to go. I want to make things, you want to make different things. It’s better if you go.”
“No.” Elizabeth gritted her yellow teeth determinedly and folded her arms across her chest. At last, it was back: the frisson. At least for now. “No.”
* * *
Her mum was probably right. Shy should have dropped the idea of table tennis and signed up for a pottery class instead. Mr. Streko was so different now that the season had started. He took table tennis far too seriously, as if they were training for the Olympics. Practices were every day, and only Mr. Streko and the senior captains were allowed to speak. Table tennis was a game of concentration, like chess, he said. Talking distracted the players. Sometimes Shy would forget and ask him a question or giggle and make a self-deprecating remark about her own clumsiness. Mr. Streko would just shake his head and