Filling my hands with something to do,
trying to put all the hurt out of my mind. But my head spun with a loop of
Mark’s betrayal, Finn’s curses, my own words to Older Me, Mom’s disgust – then
back to Mark stepping out of the car to wrap his arms around Karyn.
I
took a deep breath to hold back a sob and shoved the pictures into my bag.
I
would go to the art room today, and I would act like Mark hadn’t pulled my
heart out of my chest and sliced it into a million pieces.
I
would pretend I didn’t care about anything that had happened last night.
I
would work hard. Because if things continued as they were, there was no future
for me in this town. I couldn’t watch Mark walk the tightrope with his dad and
pretend it wasn’t dangerous. I couldn’t watch him bury himself in Karyn to try
and forget about it. I couldn’t handle fending off Mom’s constant
disappointment.
I
had to get out. And right now, the competition was my best bet.
The
top twenty artists were displayed in New York over Christmas. The winner was
awarded a full-ride scholarship to the College of Fine Arts, New York. But all
the finalists had a shot; between the judges – who were usually tenured
professors at top schools – and the gallery opening, most ended up with
scholarships to other schools.
If
I could get into art school – any art school – I’d be free. It didn’t have to
be the best school if it meant I could leave, start fresh. Get away from the
madness here…
For
a moment I could see it. I could feel the freedom. Then reality crashed
home.
I
could try. I had to try.
Please,
God, may it work.
Get
me out of this place.
Chapter Eight
Doc’s
lips purse at me over the arm of his glasses he’s holding in one hand. His eyes
narrow. “I’m curious…if you’d known where this whole situation was going to take
you, would you still have gone through with all of it?”
I’m
startled by the question because it rides so close to the mirror and what
happens there. Either he doesn’t care, or he’s trying to trip me up.
I
swallow, pretend to think about it. Then, “I wasn’t lying when I said it felt
like my only option was to get out of town. Try to get into a good college. If
I went back, that would still be true.”
He
tips his head. “But what if you’d known?”
I
sit, silent.
What
would I have done?
I
was only five minutes late getting into the art room. I stopped just inside the
door and took a deep breath, letting the smell of turpentine and paint and dust
fill me up. The art room was my favorite place in the world – and not just
because Mark was usually there. This was the room where anything was possible.
Mark
looked up when the door clicked behind me. He smiled, but his eyes drifted to
the storage room and he tipped his chin. I nodded.
“Hi,
Mrs. Callaghan,” I called, crossing the linoleum floor.
“Hi,
Stacy. Glad you made it!” Her nasally voice rose from the storage room.
To
my right were two gaps in the wall – doorways to Mrs. C’s world of chaos. There
was the storage area, full to bursting with everything from paint and paper, to
toppled Styrofoam cups and dyed feathers. The other was Mrs. Callaghan’s
office, stacked with canvases, old computers, and art assignments she hadn’t
graded.
Between
the doors a large whiteboard hung on the wall, covered in dates to remind
classes of assignments due, or deadlines for competitions.
To
my left, the open classroom was dominated by a large U-shape of tables,
arranged that way so Mrs. Callaghan could walk around the front of our tables
and examine whatever we were working on without getting in our way.
Mark
was seated at the opposite side of the U-shape from where I’d entered. In the
wall behind him was a door to the creative wing.
Then,
at my far left, yet another door led into the adjoining easel room.
I
circled the U, clenching my fingers around the straps of my bag as I passed
behind Mark.
I
dropped my bag on the
trying to put all the hurt out of my mind. But my head spun with a loop of
Mark’s betrayal, Finn’s curses, my own words to Older Me, Mom’s disgust – then
back to Mark stepping out of the car to wrap his arms around Karyn.
I
took a deep breath to hold back a sob and shoved the pictures into my bag.
I
would go to the art room today, and I would act like Mark hadn’t pulled my
heart out of my chest and sliced it into a million pieces.
I
would pretend I didn’t care about anything that had happened last night.
I
would work hard. Because if things continued as they were, there was no future
for me in this town. I couldn’t watch Mark walk the tightrope with his dad and
pretend it wasn’t dangerous. I couldn’t watch him bury himself in Karyn to try
and forget about it. I couldn’t handle fending off Mom’s constant
disappointment.
I
had to get out. And right now, the competition was my best bet.
The
top twenty artists were displayed in New York over Christmas. The winner was
awarded a full-ride scholarship to the College of Fine Arts, New York. But all
the finalists had a shot; between the judges – who were usually tenured
professors at top schools – and the gallery opening, most ended up with
scholarships to other schools.
If
I could get into art school – any art school – I’d be free. It didn’t have to
be the best school if it meant I could leave, start fresh. Get away from the
madness here…
For
a moment I could see it. I could feel the freedom. Then reality crashed
home.
I
could try. I had to try.
Please,
God, may it work.
Get
me out of this place.
Chapter Eight
Doc’s
lips purse at me over the arm of his glasses he’s holding in one hand. His eyes
narrow. “I’m curious…if you’d known where this whole situation was going to take
you, would you still have gone through with all of it?”
I’m
startled by the question because it rides so close to the mirror and what
happens there. Either he doesn’t care, or he’s trying to trip me up.
I
swallow, pretend to think about it. Then, “I wasn’t lying when I said it felt
like my only option was to get out of town. Try to get into a good college. If
I went back, that would still be true.”
He
tips his head. “But what if you’d known?”
I
sit, silent.
What
would I have done?
I
was only five minutes late getting into the art room. I stopped just inside the
door and took a deep breath, letting the smell of turpentine and paint and dust
fill me up. The art room was my favorite place in the world – and not just
because Mark was usually there. This was the room where anything was possible.
Mark
looked up when the door clicked behind me. He smiled, but his eyes drifted to
the storage room and he tipped his chin. I nodded.
“Hi,
Mrs. Callaghan,” I called, crossing the linoleum floor.
“Hi,
Stacy. Glad you made it!” Her nasally voice rose from the storage room.
To
my right were two gaps in the wall – doorways to Mrs. C’s world of chaos. There
was the storage area, full to bursting with everything from paint and paper, to
toppled Styrofoam cups and dyed feathers. The other was Mrs. Callaghan’s
office, stacked with canvases, old computers, and art assignments she hadn’t
graded.
Between
the doors a large whiteboard hung on the wall, covered in dates to remind
classes of assignments due, or deadlines for competitions.
To
my left, the open classroom was dominated by a large U-shape of tables,
arranged that way so Mrs. Callaghan could walk around the front of our tables
and examine whatever we were working on without getting in our way.
Mark
was seated at the opposite side of the U-shape from where I’d entered. In the
wall behind him was a door to the creative wing.
Then,
at my far left, yet another door led into the adjoining easel room.
I
circled the U, clenching my fingers around the straps of my bag as I passed
behind Mark.
I
dropped my bag on the
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