The Mandala Girl (COMPLETED)

Chapter 4

Before heading home, I had decided to visit my favorite oak tree. It sits on the edge of the property of the art studio, bordering a neighboring strip mall: a mini-mart, a nail salon, and a twenty-four-hour laundromat. Mr. Andersen told us once that the tree came with the property when he bought the art studio and that it's over one-hundred-years old. He claims he had to fight the county just to allow him to keep it when the owners of the strip mall wanted to buy a portion of his property to build a larger parking lot. But Mr. Andersen stood his ground and the county ultimately sided in his favor. And so, the century's old oak remains standing.

Many of the leaves have already fallen to the ground from the late summer climate. They crunch beneath my shoes as I walk over to the tree's trunk and lean against it, sliding down its base until I hit the moist grass below. The grass is overgrown; it reaches halfway up my knees and is full of weeds and wildflowers. The thick branches above cast monstrous shadows on the ground, giving the illusion that it's later in the day than it actually is.

I slip my art bag off of my shoulder and let it fall to the ground beside me. The exterior fabric is a solid black color with a flap that reaches over the top with two buckles on the side. Over the course of its life, I've painted it a kaleidoscope of colors, turning the boring black appearance into something that's fit for an 80s disco party. I even painted my name on it, making each letter a different color.

I unlatch the buckles and reach inside of it, pulling out my sketchbook. Do I even want to keep this old thing? Maybe I should bury it here beneath this tree? That would be rather poetic; burying it at the very place where I learned how to—or at least tried to—paint. Keeping it will only be a reminder of how I didn't get into art school and everything that could have been.

"Mandala Girl?" a distantly familiar voice calls out. "Is that you?" I look up from my sketchpad and see the boy who introduced himself as TJ the week before. He walks over to me. "What are you doing out here all by your lonesome?" He takes a seat beneath the oak tree next to me.

"I like to come here after class sometimes. It helps me unwind, and not having that Leon guy criticize my every brushstroke is nice. I feel like I can paint freely when I'm alone. Or I used to at least."

"Used to?" He tilts his head to the side. "What do you mean?"

"I quit today?"

His eyes widen in surprise. "What? No!" For someone he just met, he certainly has a vested interest in my craft.

"Yes." I nod weakly. "It's for the best." I continue to flip through my sketchbook. TJ looks at each page from over my shoulder.

"You like watercolors, eh?" he says.

"Yes. It's my favorite medium."

"You know what I think?" He wags a finger at me. "I think you're scared."

I'm not exactly sure what he means by that, so I just shrug. "We're all scared of something, right?"

"Quite true. But I think you're scared of something in particular."

I laugh. How dare he insinuate that he knows me better than I know me. "Look, no offense, but I don't even know you. And you don't know me. So . . . ?"

He gets more comfortable, leaning his left shoulder against the tree trunk. "You see, I know girls like you; all fearful of perusing their dreams and stuff. But in reality, they aren't afraid of failing—they're afraid of succeeding. When we step out of our comfort zone and venture into the unknown, we open ourselves up to the criticism of others. Fear of success is also fear of the unknown. Some people are more comfortable with failure because it's a feeling they're all too familiar with." His words sting, but I can't wholly deny them either. Maybe he does know me? "What did you say your name was again?"