Who Are You? (9780307823533) by Joan Lowery Nixon

Lisa
that was replaced was another forgery—a very well done forgery, to be sure. The museum denied it, of course.”
    “Well, was it a forgery?” someone wants to know.
    Ms. Montero shrugs. “We may never find out.”
    “What about the art experts? Can’t they tell?”
    “Some forgers are so talented that it’s very hard for even the experts to tell the copies from the real thing,” Ms. Montero explains.
    “I have a question,” Jonathan says. He asks about security in museums in the United States, but I stop thinking about the
Mona Lisa
theft. That’s over and done with. I can’t help thinking about what might be another theft. All I can see in my mind is the shining burst of color that hangs in Douglas Merson’s entry hall. And Ms. Chase’s words,
Douglashas two paintings for the gallery
, echo in my brain. Many trips to Europe … paintings brought to an art dealer … is Douglas Merson an art thief?
    After class I ask Ms. Montero if I can see the slide of Kupka’s painting again. I describe the painting, and she knows which one I mean. She reaches into the shelf behind her desk and pulls out a book with photos in it from the Museum of Modern Art in New York. “Here’s a photograph of the painting,” she says. “It’s called
Madame Kupka among Verticals.
Kupka used his wife as his model.”
    I study the picture carefully. It has to be the very same painting I saw in Douglas Merson’s home, but I can’t tell Ms. Montero that. I’m not an art expert, so I can’t be sure.
    “Has this painting ever been … well, stolen from the museum?” I ask.
    She shakes her head. “Not to my knowledge.”
    “Is it hanging in the museum now?”
    “It should be.”
    “How do I find out?”
    She smiles and says, “You can call the museum and ask.”
    “Thanks,” I tell her. I feel foolish. I should have thought of that myself.
    I pick up my books and turn to leave, but she says, “You’ve made me curious, Kristi. Why do you think the painting might have been stolen?”
    She’s so nice to me, and she’s given me so much encouragement. I have to answer her. “Right now I’m just guessing,” I say. “I think I saw that painting in someone’s home.”
    “You probably saw a print.”
    I shake my head. “No. It’s oil on canvas. I could see the brush strokes.”
    “He’d have to be very rich to purchase that painting.” She laughs, but I look at her seriously.
    “He is.”
    “Okay,” Ms. Montero says. She’s not like my parents, who wouldn’t give up until they’d learned the whole story, then told me what they thought about it. She smiles at me again and asks, “Do you have the application for the summer art program filled out?”
    Slowly I shake my head. I fumble with my books, looking at them as if they’re the most interesting things in the world. I can’t meet her gaze. “My parents don’t want me to go on with art lessons. They think … well, that there’s not enough money … that I’ll end up with a degree but no job. I—I tried to talk to them.”
    “It’s all right, Kristi,” she says. “If you really want something, you’ll work to get it. It might not be in summer school. It might not be in college. But eventually, art can become a very important part of your life.”
    I raise my head and look into her eyes. “I want to be a professional artist,” I say.
    Her smile grows even brighter. She answers, “Then I have no doubt that you will be.”
    As I open the door to leave, Ms. Montero says, “Are you coming to the art club meeting after classes this afternoon? We’ll be doing some still-life sketching. I hope you’ll join us, Kristi.”
    “I’ll be there,” I tell her. Just try to keep me away from what I love to do more than anything else inthe whole world. Besides, Jonathan Stockton will probably be there, too.
    Jonathan’s not only at the meeting, he arrives before I do, so when I walk in, he’s already shading in highlights on his sketch of a