Camryn Quinn is finally getting what she wants...sort of. Moving into a dorm and away from her not so supportive father is a good first step, but like everything with him-it comes with strings. She must attend the college of his choosing for at leas...
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I walk into our room a few days later, letting the door shut with a thud behind me. My eyes land directly on my bed, waiting to accept me in it with a loving embrace. I glance over towards Alyssa's bed as I crawl into mine. She is lying on her stomach facing her laptop, Greys Anatomy blasting through the speakers. So loud that Meredith's cry could be heard in space. She doesn't make a move to turn it down, or put headphones in, leaving me to squint in her direction trying my best to cause pain solely with a gaze. It must work because less than a minute later she hits pause.
"Ew, how long have you been staring at me like that?" she shrieks.
"Long enough for you to get the hint," I say, pointing to the frozen image of McSteamy's or McDreamy's face. I can't tell the difference, and don't dare broach the topic with Alyssa who will insist I watch it with her. I would never betray my CW dramas like that.
"Can I watch my show in peace?"
"You do know you can't provide sound medical advice no matter how many hours you clock that show, right?"Alyssa throws her pillow at me, but I manage to catch it and toss it back at her with one swift movement.
"I don't even want to be a doctor. And now you look like you want something...So what's up?" she says, closing her laptop with a click before turning her body towards me. This is a classic Alyssa signal I have picked up on. It means that I have no chance of getting out of this conversation or drifting peacefully into a nap anytime soon. Instead I sit up in my bed with my back against the wall. The cold of the cement sends a shiver through my body. I pull my blanket over my head and around my shoulders like a cloak. She motions for me to talk to her, interlacing her fingers in her lap. Another sign, the one that means she's ready to listen.
"Fine," I exhale. "The new art exhibit opens at the museum today. I have an extra ticket if you want to come."
Each fall the local art museum curator creates a new exclusive gallery in a small space within the actual museum. This year it happens to be a Van Goh exhibit. I have no idea how a museum in Columbus, Ohio managed to land it, but they are the proud place holders of his most famous works for an extended run of six weeks. I've never actually seen A Starry Night in person. The one time my mom and I visited the MET when I was eight, it was once again on loan to another museum. My mom, however, had seen it and was mesmerized by Van Gogh's technique. Impasto, or applying the colors directly to the canvas before first mixing them together with his fingers instead of a brush. She used it frequently to create an uneven texture on her canvas. "The world isn't smooth so I can't paint it that way," she once told me.
Glorified finger painting is what my dad would call it anytime he walked into her home studio, especially if I was assisting her. He always felt I should be pouring my energy into something that would matter. As if me practicing my free throws on the rim outside or learning to kick a ball into a net would magically make me coordinated or interested in anything he could relate to. I was much better suited to help my mom blend her colors together on a canvas. No matter the result, the room would explode with giggles in the brightest shades of primary and secondary colors. All drowning out any doubt my dad tried to cast over the creation.
