Broken wood is scattered across the floor, shreds of it splintering from each rod. I sit in the silence, arms tight around my curled legs, practically holding my breath. Red splotches saturate the grey couch fabric, oozing past every strand and fiber, the thick paint already beginning to dry. When Claude Monet was dissatisfied with his pieces, he obliterated them until they were remnants of another fruitless vision. Now, I’m surrounded by my own field of debris after having done the same.
The gallery is in two days, and I’ve completed all but one piece in my portfolio detailing the journey up a mountain. I talked to some other applicants, and someone is doing conflict and adversity, another is doing the loss of innocence. Climbing up a mountain is the best I could come up with. Applicants at my university enter a small portfolio of five to ten pieces on a specific theme. They’ll be on display at the art museum and a small banquet will be held, honoring the three best students with a free year of school.
I can take no more than five minutes trying to ground myself. When Brynn gets home, she’ll say it’s fine, that she knows the chaos is part of the process, but her weary smile and the way her bright auburn hair will stand on end is going to say otherwise. Although she won’t scream at me for the mess like I deserve, I adore her too much to do that to her.
I disappear in my room for hours. Around ten-o-clock, I hear Brynn blasting music in her bedroom as she hums along, and I know she’s getting ready to go out. I take another sip of the coffee I brewed. I start a new sketch, but my hand trembles over the canvas. Where I intended straight, even lines, there are scratches of lead, crooked and uneven. I slam both of them down. For a moment, Brynn’s music pauses, but then it continues.
At some point, fatigue weighs on my eyelids like dumbbells, and it becomes harder to fight them fluttering to a close. I climb into bed, pulling the soft white covers over my tired body. Just five minutes to rest my eyes: I set a timer and everything. But then when it finally rings, I shut my phone completely off, and I don’t wake until the daylight leaks through my blinds the next morning.
My blood turns cold as soon as I pick up my phone and see the date on my lock screen. It is officially the due date. My portfolio has to be at the museum by seven-o-clock tonight, and I still don’t have the last piece. I miss my ten-o-clock class, desperate to finish something. I flip through my sketchbooks, collages, books and magazines on art history, desperate for something that will spark a cascade of ideas in my tired mind.
In The Artist’s Way, Julia Cameron writes that the best art is that produced when channeling The Creator (substitute God, the universe, etc.), and the art that falls short derives from the scraps of our mediocre human brains. So, where is He? I’d love to sit around and wait for Him, but I don’t think the museum would be open to conforming to His timing. Frustration mounts inside of me, the tension a thickening knot in my chest, dry eyes in need of tears to expel. I need the scholarship: I need the money, I need the award on my resume, I don’t have anything to make me stand out to grad schools.
I quickly wash up and change, throwing on a sweater, sweatpants, and UGGs. I take a walk downtown, away from campus, away from the expectations and deadlines, the crushing weight of it all. I put my cream headset over my ears, blasting music with hopes of emotionally escaping, replaying Living Breathing by Mesita. I feel like I float off the sidewalk with each strum of the guitar, each note in the piano’s melody. Slowly, the world is piecing back together, each fractal shifting into place, the margins no longer dissolved like Elena Ferrante wrote in My Brilliant Friend.
I pick up my pace as I approach The Book Burrow, the best bookstore known to existence. Vines climb up the front and curl around the sign of the dark brick building, short leaves blossoming from the stems. Short, plump pumpkins are arranged under the white windowsill beside the front door, the glass partially cascaded by looming tree branches boasting a mosaic of fiery red and orange leaves. I walk in, the bell chiming as I open the front door. The girl behind the counter smiles and waves to me, and I return the gesture, after seeing her here so many times.
I make my way over to the poetry section, my fingers gliding over each of the spines. I settle on one of the thinner ones, with a woven violet cover. I collapse onto the same plush grey couch, stretching my legs over the length of it, since there are only a handful of other people here wandering around the bookshelves. I take my time with each poem, digesting each word, desperate for the solace of a short break, but also for answers. And then I freeze, rereading one over and over again.
Your ‘no’ is merely a pause,
a breath held
before your next triumph awaits.
–you are a metamorphoses of your past resiliencies
That’s what this scholarship has the chance to be–that’s what I need it to be. And a spark lights inside of me, ideas flickering through my thought space, the surge of artistry I was hoping for. The stream of consciousness that Julia Cameron spoke of, I find it in each syllable. I think of my mountains, of each shifting scene lifting to the top. I close the book and rush home.
Around lunchtime, I go into the kitchen to fix myself a snack and see Brynn sprawled across the couch, reading.
“Any progress?” she asks me.
A smile tugs at my lips. “I think I tied it all together.”
In the late afternoon, I rush across campus to the museum, sweat beading across my forehead. The gallery is tomorrow night. I only have a little more than twenty four hours before I know what the judges thought of my portfolio, and I need the time separating me and that answer to dissolve. I walk to a cafe to study, hoping the evening will fly by until I go to bed and I pass by eight hours while I sleep.
It doesn’t.
Brynn and I don’t have classes the next morning since it’s Friday. I constantly check the time, only for minutes to be going by, rather than hours. A thick rope is knotted in my chest, and every time I check the clock, it’s like it only grows, pulling tighter and tighter. Reading and studying usually make the day fly by, but I can’t focus. Instead, I nag Brynn. She laughs, but I catch a glimpse of the mounting frustration starting to grow within her. Before she boils over, I leave to go on a walk. I trail through the old part of campus, past dated stone buildings t, across trails splitting lawns of trimmed grass and a group of boys passing a soccer ball, fall foliage embellishing the scene. I start down the gravel walkway back home.
At the center of classmates shuffling past, some hurried, others slow, clutching their backpacks and phones I find him floating on the air he strides through. Ruby and burnt orange leaves swirl in the shadows of his footsteps, and I watch him shiver as he shoves his hands in the pockets of his deep mahogany flannel. We had plans to see each other later, but here he is. His gaze is set in front of him, lost in the world his airpods transport him to.
“Carter!” I say, but he doesn’t flinch, and just as he’s about to brush by me, my fingertips graze the soft sleeve of his shirt, and his eyes widen, free from his trance.
He pauses whatever song he’s playing, and his soft eyes fall on me. He offers me a small wave, and when I realize he’s not going to stop, I change directions and walk beside him.
“What are you up to?” I ask him.
I watch his thumb slide over the screen of his phone and pause the song again. She’s Just a Friend by Cardinal Bloom.
“Econ,” he tells me. His face is as plain as his voice, void of emotion.
I nod. “Are you still coming tonight?”
“Yeah. What time did you guys want to leave?”
The schedule unfolds in my mind. “Me and Brynn were going to start walking down at six.”
As long as he gets there by six, we’ll be able to hang out for a bit and definitely leave by six-ten, and still get there ten minutes before the event starts at six-thirty.
“Alright,” Carter says. He stops in his tracks and I realize we’re standing before one of the tall, older buildings with faded bricks and stained window frames. Lofty trees with bright leaves line this row of buildings, and it casts a shadow over us. “This is my building. I’ll see you later.” There’s a tug at his lips as he says bye to me, a gentle Carter smile, and I’m able to let out a breath because it’s the smallest bit of relief I need that he actually wants to go. I think about his eagerness and giddy nature as a child. I imagine the years following since I saw him last at thirteen, chipping away at the boy I knew more and more, until only his dull undertones were left. But once in a while, there in the sparkle of his bright cerulean eyes, or in the shallow depths a smirk much like now, I manage to catch a glimpse of him.
By the time I get home, Brynn is gone. I imagine her having gone off to the library or somewhere else where the sound of my voice won’t make her want to rip her hair out. I collapse onto the couch in her place and check the time. It’s hardly been half an hour. I make myself food, watch a show, and when I realize only an hour and a half has passed, I do it over again. I need the hours to pass, to fast forward to tonight, but the more I check the time, the more it seems to stall.
Once four-thirty rolls around, I decide I’m going to get ready an hour and a half early. I blast music, hum and belt out the notes even though Brynn’s not here to join me. I pull my outfit out of the closet, one that’s been planned for about a week now, and put it on. I smooth down my skirt as my eyes trickle up and down my reflection in the mirror. It’s the tight black one with the small slit on the side, along with tights, a form-fitting white sweater with a sweetheart neckline, and Doc Martens. It’s flattering enough without bordering on slutty. With my hair blown out and natural makeup on, I put on small gold hoops and a dainty necklace with a small heart pendant and study myself. I decide it’s the best I’m going to get myself to look, and just in time, because Carter texts me that he’s here.
I practically fly out of my bedroom, almost missing Brynn sitting on the couch in that flowy white dress she likes. I didn’t even realize she was back. I spit out a compliment, because aside from the fact that I do adore her and I’m grateful that she’s coming, she really does look beautiful. I swallow hard and pull the front door open. Somewhere in the few seconds between, I catch a glimpse of Brynn raising her eyebrows.
For a second Carter’s eyes flash open, like his dark, heavy lids found a new breadth of life. For that brief moment I study him, the bright shades of blue swimming in his irises, blended in motion, the ombre smooth like that of an oil painting. I like to think that it was at the sight of me–not at the fact that the door before him was thrown open like I was escaping a fire inside. But then his eyes soften, and I find myself face to face with that sweet Carter smile again. His broad shoulders and thick arms fill out his white collared shirt, and I try not to make it too obvious that I’m paying attention to that sort of thing.
And that’s when my eyes fall to his hands, and before me he holds out a small bunch of white daisies. The roots are sprawled below the stems, dirt sprinkling onto the floor. The flowers are bright, aside from the one that droops to the side.
“Where’d you get these?” I let out a chuckle and accept them from him.
“I was in a bit of a time crunch, but I figured I should be getting you something, and I saw these out front.”
“What a gentleman,” Brynn nags from the couch, “You shouldn’t have.”
He tilts his head and gives her a look. Grinning, but silently screaming, Shut up.
The walk across campus to the museum feels like an instant, like I got so lost in the endless whirlwind of my mind that I teleported straight there from the apartment. One of the faculty members shows us where everything is and leads us to the display of my portfolio.
I notice the other applicants standing beside their row of canvases, the bouquets of flowers their families hand them, the crowds of friends flocked around them to show their support, but shortly afterward, my eyes float past their scenes, settling on my own. I fixate on my six pieces, on Carter and Brynn in their best dress, and a warmness grows inside of me as I watch them study my artwork.
“Looks good,” Carter says, “Mountains.”
“So are you going to interpret the deep philosophical meaning behind them?” Brynn asks, “Ooh–and I want to see what you did with the last one–” Just as she starts to look over at the last canvas in the line, I step in front of her.
“I’d rather walk you through it,” I say.
At a glance, there isn’t anything extraordinary about the first five paintings. I give them each their respective attention, talking about the different scenes. The subject in the piece starts at the bottom of the mountain in the first painting, and gradually advances upwards as the pieces progress. At the bottom, it looks much like now, a mosaic of autumn foliage among luscious trees, the leaves scattered about the trail the subject climbs. There’s a common warm tone to the paints I chose. Along the way, the shifts are slight, but there, the phases of her journey alter with each milestone. The vegetation shifts from autumn to that of spring, winter and summer, along with the tones, strokes, and styles. The muse of one is clearly Impressionistic, another showcases my admiration for Romanticism.
We get to the sixth one, and it silences Carter and Brynn. They don’t Hmm, and Wow, and shower me in compliments like they did for the others. I watch them try to comprehend it, the squinting of their eyes, the twitching of their lips and eyebrows.
I suck in a breath. “And at the end of the journey up the mountain, there is metamorphosis,” I say.
We all look at the subject in the piece. Where her arm extends and her finger points, stems twirl and a bright flower grows. Something like wings sprout from her back, melding into the arrays of trees. She herself is blending into the world around her, morphing with the better parts of the forest into a unique beauty that’s all her own.
“It’s–incredible,” Carter manages.
Fireworks explode inside of me. Really?
“Yeah, really.” Brynn throws her arms around me. “Ugh–I’m just so proud of you,” she takes my arms in hers, “This scholarship is yours. My best friend is an artist!” she squeals.
We wander around the showroom, making small talk with the other applicants, allowing ourselves to savor the refreshments until the banquet dinner. I shove the hot penne vodka down my throat, chasing it with bread and salad. I want to finish eating, for everyone around me to finish, too, so it’ll be time for them to announce the recipients. Somewhere along the way of complaining to Carter and Brynn about how long they’re taking, a short man with glasses and sparse white hair in a heather grey tux shuffles to the front.
I suck in a breath, grasping onto both of their wrists despite them being mid-bite. “It’s happening,” I gasp.
They both chuckle, but I don’t think they realize I’m not joking.
“Always so dramatic,” Carter says.
The professor announces the recipients one by one. With each name he declares, I clutch tighter onto the white tablecloth, waiting for my name to be next.
But it doesn’t come.
I feel my entire body melting into these polished hardwood floors amidst the winners and other losers, slipping beneath the cracks of the front door, until I’m sliding down the street and into the gutter among the sewer dump, where I belong.
I fix my vision on the tablecloth I’m clutching and twirling in knots. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the two of them glaring at me, and I can’t face them. Right now, I want to be anywhere but here.
“Those who entered their portfolios for the scholarship gallery were also entered for the Artists Across Europe program. The five students selected for the program will be offered the opportunity to spend their spring semester studying abroad across Europe, with tuition and fees matched to that of their fall term bill, along with an additional five thousand dollar scholarship.”
I slump in my chair, my phone between my knees so I can scroll through Instagram without it being too obvious. The professor rallies off names. One by one, I can hear students rising from various points in the crowd and shuffling out of their seats, making their way up front to the makeshift stage before the applause softens and they collect their certificates.
And then it lulls, and Carter is nudging me, and I ignore him. Brynn slaps the side of my leg. “Go up there,” she says through gritted teeth.
I look up from my phone and blink. The entire crowd, the recipients on stage, they’re all staring at me. The professor studies me, gripping the microphone, clearly agitated, and although he’s a stout man, it’s like his gaze is burning holes through me.
I’m one of them?
I drop my phone on the chair, make my way to the front. My footsteps echo in the silence. The professor hands me a certificate, and I stand in line at the front, next to a boy with a bulky watch that glimmers bright enough in the stage lights to blind me. Just as they call the next name and attention is off me, I read the certificate in my hands. A smile creeps onto my lips, and my head feels light, my entire body, even, like the exhilaration is about to lift me off my feet. Europe has been on the Pinterest board since middle school. When I fantasized about my great European exploration, I always pictured myself far into my twenties, maybe even later, when I was completely independent, with a real job and the big girl money to do so. I never considered that it could be within reach this soon. I feel the heat oozing into my cheeks, and I know how rosy I’m turning. I’m going to Europe.
I find Carter and Brynn in the small crowd. Brynn’s smile is bright, her eyes twinkling from her seat. Carter’s is tender, warm like the fires we used to sit around as kids.
The boy beside me nudges me. He offers me a fist bump, whispers, “Nice job.” I catch him glancing at my certificate.
Carter, Brynn, and I find each other as soon as they finish announcing the recipients. They congratulate me, hug me, tell me I’m way better off with this experience than the original scholarship, and propose plans for dinner.
“Congratulations–Sage, right?” I turn, and it’s the same boy I stood beside.
I nod. “You too,” I say. I peer to his hand, catching a glimpse of his certificate. “Remy.”
Something like a blush simmers into his cheeks, and he smiles at me the way Brynn does. He’s wearing cream pants and a half-zip navy sweater, and with his perfectly parted blond hair and milky white teeth, he looks like a sculpture from the Renaissance. And he’s an artist? I study him. He’s gorgeous. It’s like Michelangelo came back from the dead and molded Remy’s face with his bare hands. I notice hints of dark roots that make it clear he’s a fake blonde, but it hardly matters. The wavy, golden strands suit him.
“You an art major too?” he asks me.
“Minor,” I say, “Psych major. I want to go into art therapy.”
Remy nods, considering this. “Nice,” he says, and then he smiles, “Well, I’m looking forward to getting to know you better in Europe.”
My heart clenches. “You too.”
And with that he saunters off, leaving a graceful stride and perfectly straight posture behind him, even as he pulls his phone out of his pocket and starts to tap through it. Mine buzzes in my hand, and I look down at the notification.
Remy Donato has requested to follow you.
I turn to face my friends again.
Excitement sparks across Brynn’s face.
Carter blinks. A pale, dull look envelops him.