The Right Kind Of Wrong Girl. A. C. Meyer

just this once, I should move on.”

      Ana Carolina

      Malu

      All that fear that I hadn’t felt when facing the possibility of starting over hits me now that Rafa has called that art gallery woman. Holy shit! I’m not ready to show anyone my amateur artwork. It’s hard enough to have him wandering around and touching my stuff, let alone having a stranger here.

      Feeling my whole body trembling, I go to my bedroom where all my papers are. I feel stupid for not having any idea about my rights. At least, I’m organized regarding my paperwork. I come back to my atelier to find Rafa standing still, looking at one of my paintings on an easel. Curious to know what’s that he’s looking at so closely, since the easel was facing backwards, I get into the bedroom holding a folder in my hands and stop right next to him. Hum… shit.

      “Where did you find this?” I ask, putting the folder over a stand, suddenly feeling shy.

      “In that corner over there.” He points to some paintings which were leaning to a cupboard. I don’t even remember putting them there.

      The painting he’s looking at is a self-portrait in watercolors. It’s a nude, wherein I’m lying down on a canopy bed with red satin sheets, displaying an uneven Chanel haircut style in my natural color: black. I had my breasts exposed and my hips covered by a thin almost-transparent fabric. Beyond the red sheets, the spotlight was on my tattoos: colorful flowers on my right shoulder, a sentence in an infinity shape on my wrist and a rose starting from my left ankle going all the way down to my foot.

      My face had a serious look, with languid eyes and parted lips. It’s definitely a sexy portrait, but I’ve never considered sharing it with anyone.

      Without saying a word, I come closer and lift the painting up to put it back where it was.

      “What are you doing?” he asks.

      “Putting it away. You were not supposed to see it.”

      “Why not?”

      “Just because. I haven’t painted it for showing publicly. There are some things that are personal.”

      “That’s your most beautiful piece. It’s sexy, sweet, inspiring. You must show her” he says in a low voice, which makes me stop midway. I lean my head down and he comes closer, holding my arms from behind.

      “No… I can’t.”

      “Why not?”

      “Because it makes me feel… exposed.”

      “It’s beautiful, Malu. If there’s one painting, she should see, that’s the one. You must share your art with others.” He says precisely the one thing that would be able to convince me at the exact moment the doorbell rings. He takes the painting off my hands, put it back on the easel and, holding my hand, walks towards the front door.

      A petite old lady with blond hair up on a bun is standing at the door. She’s wearing a beautiful green dress, low heel shoes, and an elegant handbag. Her makeup is impeccable and, when she sees Rafa, she opens a welcoming smile and hugs him, who, in turn, leans down to kiss her on the cheek.

      “What a pleasure to meet you again, my dear. You’re using your hair short now, so handsome” she says making him smile.

      “That’s my pleasure, Hellen. It’s been many years since we’ve met in person, hasn’t it? You still remember me with long hair.”

      “Actually, last time we’ve met in your father’s place, your hair was neck length, and you were still rebelling against adulthood conventions.”

      Rafa laughs loud and hard before inviting her in. She stopped right in front of me, measuring me from head to toe. Shit. I should be wearing something more… adequate? She then smiles.

      “And who are you?”

      “Er… Malu.”

      “How exotic. Just Malu?” she asks me, making me feel a bit embarrassed for not introducing myself properly. If the Judge could see me now, my manners would make him pass out.

      “Oh, I’m sorry. I’m Maria Luiza Bragança, but nobody calls me that. Just my father.”

      “Nice to meet you, Malu. Hellen Torres.” She shakes my hand and pulls me for a hug. After greeting me, she turns back to Rafa. “Is your girlfriend the artist?”

      “We’re not dating”, I reply quickly, before she gets things the wrong way.

      “Malu is a friend of mine, Hellen. She’s leaving Law School because painting is what she really likes. I’ve found a whole world of paintings in a bedroom she uses as her atelier. I’d like you to take a look at them to see if her skills have trade value enough for her to consider a full-time dedication.”

      “Well, you both know how hard it is to make a living with art in this country” she says, following Rafa to my atelier, “but…”

      She gets in and comes across that painting Rafa had placed over the easel, but now facing the door.

      Hellen suddenly stops talking and walks towards the painting, watching it in silence. With my whole body trembling, I feel a lump in my throat that won’t let me breath. I leave the room in pursuit of a cigarette and some water.

      After drinking a whole glass of water in one gulp, I move to the balcony, where I light my cigarette and lean on the grid to look at the view. I’m not ready to hear someone saying my paintings are bad. Not at all.

      I stay there for some time until Rafa joins me at balcony and holds my hand.

      “Put out that cigarette and come with me.”

      “No… you can tell me later whatever she said.”

      “I can’t decide your exhibition details for you” he says. Suddenly I’m taken over by a choking cough episode. “I’m so tired of asking you to go easy on the cigarettes.”

      While he stubs my cigarette out in the closest ashtray, I look at him jaw-dropped in complete disbelief.

      “Holy fuck, Rafa, maybe the smoke’s clouded my brain. I could swear I heard you say ‘my exhibition’.” I say, air quoting and laughing, completely skeptical. He can’t be serious.

      “Shhh! I’ll have to do something about this foul mouth of yours. That would probably scare all you potential clients” he says, popping my eyes out of my head. “She’s totally charmed in there with everything you’ve already done. But that painting you wouldn’t let anybody see is the one that Hellen is in love with. Come, she’s waiting.”

      We walk towards the atelier to find that Hellen has a notebook now and she’s making an inventory of everything there.

      “Oh, my dear! Such a talent! This one is my favorite. Have you named it?”

      “No regrets” I reply, making her smile with sparkling eyes.

      “Oh, that’s perfect! I’ve called in my assistant Jacques. He’s on his way and we’re going to make a full inventory of all these pieces for the exhibition. July 6^th is our opening. We’re going to call it ‘Just Malu’ and, obviously, No regrets is going to be our main piece. We’re also going to have a cocktail with the press and other important guests. I believe you have enough for an exhibition! What’s the name of that one, with the surfer?” she asks, without a single breath between sentences. I can’t help but feel dizzy with everything that’s happening.

      “Name? Drop” I reply, making her smile again. “It’s a surf slang, meaning going down the wave from crest to base” I explain, to which she smiles even more. Hellen takes her phone, still making notes and, suddenly, she’s talking to someone.

      “Nuno, my dear! Hellen here! I’ve just found what you were looking for.” She