Linger (Camren)

Chapter 26: Still Gotta Love Them

{Lauren's POV}

Finals week can kiss my ass.

No, seriously. Someone tell me, how is art even gradable? It's so subjective.

It's my form of personal expression. My views, my thoughts, my emotions, my desires, dreams, and hopes. They're all put out there for everyone to see, and you want to just slap a letter grade on it? That makes zero sense.

Half of these professors don't even like most of the things we create anyway because we're too avant-garde for their taste. Then again, most of them have definitely been sniffing on those paint fumes for too many years, so their opinions are irrelevant to me.

I frantically look through my apartment to make sure I have everything I need for my final critic, when the faint buzzing sound of my phone makes me groan.

I love Camila. I really do. But she needs to leave me alone.

I know she's probably calling to make sure I'm doing the opposite of what I'm doing right now, which is losing my shit, but I need this.

It's good to be in this state from time to time. It makes you hyper aware of things. It wakes you up, and I need to be as awake as possible because today is going to be a long day.

I let the call go to voicemail and continue going over the checklist in my mind.

"15 page paper? Check.  Portfolio? Check. USB? Che... Fuck!"

It's always the USB.

Getting into graphic design has been one of the best things I could have ever done. The computer allows me to explore realms I didn't know possible with my art and it's amazing.

What's not amazing is having my life stored in a teeny, weeny little flash drive. Every time I save a project or take that thing with me anywhere, I give it a little kiss for good luck and to show my gratitude, because without it, I would be lost.

It has every assignment and project I've worked on this entire semester, including my thesis, so if I lose this thing I might as well start acquiring a taste for cardboard now because not passing these classes means I don't advance. I don't advance, I don't get my degree. I don't get my degree, I end up on street corners painting portraits for a quarter. 

Not saying that people who do that for a living don't get money or aren't talented, because let me tell you, it takes a whole lot of skill to be able to capture people the way they do and I honestly commend them.

I, however, do not possess the skill or charisma to do that.

So here I am, on my knees looking underneath every piece of furniture in this house for a goddamn piece of plastic with my life encrypted in it for the past 20 minutes.

Without much luck, I grab fists full of my hair and let out a noise. 

What kind of noise? Who even knows. Some cross between a frustrated art student and a demon. Your typical everyday kind of noise, basically.

The sensation of warm fingers tapping rhythmically against my shoulder, in a way that I've grown so accustomed to over the years, made me freeze in place.

The steady sound of chewing in the distance and the clink of a silver spoon against a bowl behind me makes me whip around at lightning speed. The sight before me was the last thing I expected to see this morning, of all mornings.

My brother and sister. Casually enjoying my cereal in my apartment like nothing. How lovely.

"When the actually fuck did you two..."