I Saw Your Mom At The Grocery Store

II

(2 weeks later)

Two weeks had passed, and not much had changed to prompt me to sit down and collect my thoughts. I kept going with the same routine: waking up in a sweat after yet another nightmare, smoking, occasionally shagging with a girl, drinking plenty of coffee, focusing on my sculpture, and repeating. It felt like I had been on autopilot for most of my life and nothing could get me out of this coffin I was building for myself.

At 9 AM, I was already dressed and ready to head to school. It would likely be one of those "nothing happens" kind of days that I resented, but they seemed to occur all too often. I passed by the mirror and decided to take a moment to look at myself, something I hadn't done in years. There I was, standing at 6'3" with long black hair always tied up, blue eyes, and a multitude of dark circles. I didn't frequent the gym, but being a sculpture major meant I was no stranger to manual labor and lifting heavy objects, resulting in a fairly fit physique. My hands were adorned with wounds and band-aids, not just for style, but as evidence of the time and effort I put into my work. I spent obsessive hours working, and it was during these moments that I truly felt alive and something stirred within me.

I used to be a natural blonde, like my parents, but one day, I decided to reject the idea of resembling my father in any way. So, I changed my hair color and even my identity as soon as I could. After taking a deep breath, I grabbed my bag and coat and quickly made my way out.

As I arrived 15 minutes later, I heard someone calling my name persistently. I initially ignored it, but the noise became too insistent for me to ignore. Turning my head, I discovered it was the director of my department, screaming my name from across the courtyard. Not particularly enchanted by the interruption, I mustered a fake smile and greeted him politely.

"Hi, Headmaster Keller. To what do I owe this honor?" I inquired.

He seemed slightly taken aback by my response and quickly replied, "Drop the act, you little fucker. I know you heard me ten minutes ago."

I tried my hardest not to laugh at his frustration but there's always something amusing about tormenting a member of your family like that.

Without missing a beat, he continued, "Your dad has been trying to call, but you've been avoiding him. But quite frankly, I don't care about that. What's more important is..."

He ranted on for at least twenty minutes, leaving me slightly bemused and amused at the same time. Finally, he got to the point.

"So, I've come to see you because you're going to represent the sculpture department at the alumni ceremony tonight. We're hoping to secure as many donations as possible to support the other departments. Since you're one of the best students and have had your work exhibited at the Museum of Modern Art, you'll be the perfect candidate. You've already made a "name for yourself," he said with a sly smile.

Accustomed to such requests from him, I simply nodded and replied, "Whatever you want, Uncle Kelsie."

His face lit up, and I decided it was time to leave. As I walked away, he added, "The ceremony will be held here, so be here sharp at 8. You'll be paired with Lawrence Road. I assume you already know who he is, though knowing you, you probably don't."

"Hey, are you listening to me?" he said as I walked away 

he tried calling me after, but I was already too far away to hear his continued ramblings. The only thing that lingered from our conversation was the name "Lawrence Road." I couldn't shake the feeling that I'd heard that name before, but I couldn't recall where or in what context.

I made a conscious effort to shut down any thoughts unrelated to sculpting as I entered the studio, where only four people were present. Most of the students had their own studios, especially the wealthy ones. I put on my headphones and immersed myself in my work.

I envisioned creating an angel falling from grace. Conceptually, it was amazing, but practically, it was a pain in the ass. Molding the wings was the easy part; now I had to create the movement of falling, and of course, it was a hanging sculpture, so I had to figure out how to attach it. As I worked on the body of my angel, "Slow Pulp" played in my ears, and I obsessed over the logistical challenges.

I worked tirelessly throughout the afternoon. Sculpting felt like giving life to something real and tangible. It was akin to the feeling some women might experience when giving birth. It must be one of the happiest days of their lives... or so I assumed. When I finished sculpting, it felt like the best day of mine. In the studio, I entered a trance-like state where everyone around me disappeared, and like a god, I had complete control over my creation. It was a powerful feeling, one that only those deeply passionate about their art or dedicated fans of hard work could understand.

As I snapped out of my trance, I glanced quickly at my phone and realized it was almost 7:30. I had been working non-stop for eight hours straight. I quickly packed my bag, leaving some stuff behind to retrieve later, and sprinted home. It was moments like these that I appreciated my habit of ironing my clothes and maintaining a "clean" appearance.

I arrived home in ten minutes, went straight to the shower, and retrieved my vintage Armani suit, a gift from my mother years ago. Regardless of my feelings toward my parents, they had always been generous with me. I dressed hastily, donning my nice shoes and a pair of shiny Weston's loafers, along with my Coach belt reserved for special occasions or events with wealthy individuals, like tonight's ceremony.

After spraying on some perfume, styling my hair, letting a few strands fall in the front, lighting a cigarette, I set off, taking my time this time.

I'd be late anyway...