Legion of 8

Chapter 1: Ella

The plain white walls of the art department building were suffocating. And they only seemed to close in further as the representative in front of me adjusted her tortoiseshell glasses and slid my sketchbook across the wooden desk.

"Mrs. Murphy, these designs are impeccable," she began. My heart skipped a beat.

"However, they're not exactly what we're looking for in this company. We need something fresh, fun, exciting, and digitizable. I'm afraid these are just a bit too niche and bland. They're simply unmarketable."

Unmarketable.

I could only stare at her in shock. Those sketches had practically been my life for the past several months. I'd spent ages on them, only for her to take one look at them and slide them back across the table like a school lunch she didn't particularly like.

She got up and brushed a few wrinkles from her clean black pencil skirt, entirely unaware she had just crushed my dreams. Or maybe she was aware and couldn't care less. Either way, it didn't look good for me.

"You're only seventeen though," she continued, "So you've got a lot of time to build your skillset. Get some graphic design experience under your belt and maybe come back in a few years."

I nodded, trying my best to remain professional and keep my tears at bay, "I will. Thank you for your time."

She gave me a quick nod as I exited the back room of the art department and finally let the tears fall. I tried my best to wipe them away so the people who walked by wouldn't give me strange looks or ask questions. Plus, I didn't want to ruin the white button-down I borrowed for the interview.

Unmarketable.

The word pounded through my head like a bass drum. They said I was unmarketable. I grasped my sketchbook and made my way through the chilly fall air of my small town. As I passed a dumpster, I thought about chucking the sketchbook in there, but something inside me said I should keep it, either as a reminder of my failure or as a reminder to keep going. I would decide later.

Sheer frustration was the only thing keeping me speed-walking towards the Louise Branson Home For Children, where I'd been staying for the past week, along with around twenty-five other kids and teenagers.

The building had pretty white columns holding up the brick walls and a black shingled roof, with steps leading up the front porch. It was deeply nestled into the oak trees with a brick sidewalk marking the entrance to the driveway.

I barged through the glass front doors and didn't even bother to wave to Amile, one of my favorite staff members, at the front desk. I didn't mean to ignore her, but I wasn't in the mood to talk. She flashed me a concerned smile but didn't say anything, just scribbled something on her notepad with a furrowed brow.

I flew up the stairs, turned the second doorknob to the right, and opened it to reveal the small bedroom I shared with my roommate, Reanne.

The bedroom was basic: two beds with neatly made white sheets and a tie-dye pillow each of us had made at an art event a few days ago. We each had our own desk and shared a little closet, although I didn't have many clothes to put in it.

"How'd your art interview go?" Reanne asked, looking up from the book she was reading.

"Fine." I flopped onto my bed and buried my head in my covers.

Reanne closed her book and sat up, "I have a feeling it's not fine."

I removed my face from the soft cocoon of the comforter and rolled over onto my back, "They told me I was a good artist, but there's no way that they'd be able to sell any of my work because it was too niche. To quote them exactly, it was 'unmarketable' or something."