Vivian is caught shoplifting, causing her parents to reignite an old tradition. They send her to Clear Lake Academy, a tight-laced academy for girls. There she meets a childhood friend and is forced to confront emotions she didn't understand back th...
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Hollow piano notes echoed through the halls, breaking up the silence. I leaned over fancy expensive paper, passing a pencil between my two hands.
Through the reflective marble floors of the school, maybe there was a universe where I wasn't here. Maybe there was a universe where I was with Taylor outside of this place, where she never had to leave and I never fucked up. We could drive through the New Mexico desert in a Harley Davidson, the wind whipping through her hair, and the sun silhouetting distant Plateaus.
But that wasn't our universe.
I looked down. While I was thinking I had drawn her face. I pictured her loving eyes and the knowing smile.
It never bothered me how smart she was because I loved her for it.
She was probably doing math right now, maybe calculus. Kids who weren't here for the arts usually had one or two advanced classes for whatever skills they focused on. Taylor was good at it all. She had this entire advanced curriculum with professional teachers and buttloads of homework.
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I turned the paper over, her face falling against the table. She made me promise to be careful, so I started again.
I drew the face of a woman with a tight jaw and a petite face. It was so insanely normal that I have no words to describe it.
The picture filled me with an emptiness, carving my soul with every touch of pencil to paper. Led strokes created her body, covered in a modest gala dress.
I used to draw realism exclusively. I could picture the sketchbooks at my house. They were filled to the brim with the model poses, everyday objects, and people who never smiled.
There was so much talent in those pictures. I would sometimes spend days on images as realistic as photos. But I could only ever draw from what was real. Real is boring, that's why I stopped. I loved the praise of my parents and all the people in my life, but it never made me happy.
I felt a hand lay on my shoulder and my body went rigid. Ms. Jacot leaned over to look at the drawing.
She said gently, "I'm glad you listened."
I stared straight at the paper, biting down on my tongue.
When she left, I felt a pain in the middle of my chest. It didn't feel like real pain, more a sharp manifestation of something else.
