Black Crescent Bay

what would my mother think?

A/N:

howdy everyone. I haven't really got much to say lately. I guess because it seems as though I'm screaming hopelessly into the void. Like who's actually reading these? Or this? not that it matters, of course, I enjoy writing my bullshit regardless. It just feels like the loneliest hobby on the planet sometimes. 

like... at least my gamer bf gets to game with OTHER people sometimes. or he has a discord with other gamer friends who he can speak to ABOUT games even if they're not playing together.

I used to think wattpad was like this fucking hub for writers, but it feels so empty and dead nowadays. It's so sad to see. ANd its not like I could go to one of those other writing websites because I don't write fanfiction and fanfiction is usually what people want to read anyway. 

I don't know. I wish there was like a community tab here where we could just talk about the books we're reading and writing, without it being like 'read mine and I'll read yours' because that seems so disingenuous. I just want someone to talk to about writing. That's it. I don't care if they read my story. But like? ANyone I try to talk to about writing, aka my sister who is my beta reader or my boyfriend, like its just like? They don't get it, really. 

I don't know. 

anywyas, happy reading. 

______________________________________________________________________________

The next Monday, I wanted to make a difference. I showed up to Madame Karpe's office with all my garments for this production and sketches for the next year and everything I'd been working my tits off on for the past week. 

"What is all this, Ms. Kestrel?" She asked. Bored. Uninterested. Like I was distracting her from sipping a coffee and staring at the wall.

I fucking actually bowed before her, because I thought it might warm her up a little bit. I mean, what was with the attitude? "Well, I know I haven't really been performing lately, and I know it must be one more frustrating thing on your plate to deal with. And I just thought that if you saw that it was all done, it might ease your stress a little bit." 

"You're here... To ease... My stress...?" Her bored expression showed a middle-aged woman who was unconvinced, "It does not sound like you."

"It's also to prove myself. I haven't been performing, but I'm better now. I've gotten my shit together, pardon my French, and I've gotten my ass in fucking gear, excuse me, and I need you to know that I'm still good at my shit-fucking job, sorry." 

She stared at me in silence. Even her eyes, which were usually stewing in anger, gave way to no emotion. 

"You really think any of this will make a difference?"

I'd feared she was going to say that. My efforts were made too late. There was no salvaging my grade, and worse than that, no salvaging my reputation.

"I know I'm behind, Madame, and I know you're probably exhausted from dealing with me. But I can make this up. Maybe not this semester, but I will and I can show you that I'm the right person for the job. Even Byrtie thinks so."

She huffed and crossed her fingers over her desk, "And just what do I care what Byrtie thinks? Of course, she's impressed by you, you were picked for a job she was willing to bow down for. I've been in this industry for years. I've seen people with your passion before and it usually burns out before they graduate. Same as it did for you. You want my honest opinion, Esmarie?" I didn't. I knew it wouldn't be good. But she continued anyway, "This whim of yours, to go into Theater Fashion, to make outfits that are performed in, it won't last. You'll never be in the Theater. Not real theater anyway. For Ma and Pop productions who don't have the money to pay you for your time, materials, or energy? Sure."  

"But--"

"No, no," she broke in, "I'm not finished. Honey, I don't think you even have what it takes to be pleading your case right now. I can't comprehend what bravery brought you into my office. You must not see what I see."

I shook my head. How could she not see what I see? This was my passion! I worked my whole life to get where I was. My MOTHER, my dead mother ingrained her very love for this life into me. I couldn't imagine doing anything else. It was what I was destined to do. I spent nights in my mother's bedroom begging to help her, begging her to teach me how to sew on sequins and jewels, begging her to teach me how to sketch concepts that were stuck in my brain and how to bring them to life. 

She's the one who didn't understand. Not me.

"I see a girl who doesn't know what to do with herself. I see a girl who is trying to keep her dead mother's dream alive. I see a girl who can't live up to her mother's talent, ambition, or dedication. No amount of flair or gravitas is going to distract from having no real skill. And you know what I think?" 

I didn't answer. I didn't move. Well, besides picking off the fresh gel manicure on my nails. The technician would be annoyed to see me so soon. I'd have to live with whatever grotesque monstrosity was left after this meeting for weeks until my next visit. I didn't care. I was frozen. I didn't know what to say or do. 

She persisted, "I think you should pursue another whim. I think you should give up. I think you should stop wasting your time, your money, and, most importantly, my time. Have you even stopped to think what you're getting out of all this?"

"I--" 

"You haven't. If you had, you would've noticed you are getting nothing from this. You aren't learning anything. You keep pushing yourself, but for what? You. Don't. Have. What. It. Takes." 

She stopped then. She must've seen the tears streaming down my cheeks. She'd made her point. I'd hung onto her every word. I knew she was wrong, but what could I say to change her mind about me? Not a single thing. She knew she'd made a mistake picking me instead of Byrtie. Maybe I did too. 

I nodded. 

I said nothing. 

I hesitated when I picked up my sketches and my garments. I'd hoped that maybe she would've stopped me, maybe she'd liked what she'd seen and would've requested to keep them. But she didn't. I left without another word from either of us.