The Art of Life

My hands instantly went clammy at her words, the palms slick enough to wipe on my jeans and leave dark tracks. My heart felt like it would beat out of my chest completely and plop out onto Ms. Savannah’s desk so we could watch it die together.

“You made it into the top five, which is impressive considering how many people applied.”

“What’s the point of placing when you don’t get the scholarship?” I whispered, afraid if I spoke normally my voice would betray me with a crack or a quiver. Winning that scholarship would have been my ticket out of this place into the art school of my dreams. Into the life of my dreams. Yet another disappointment on a dark and dreary road that had been full of them. Most of them my own fault.

Ms. Savannah opened her mouth as if she were going to say something and then closed it again like a fish struggling for air. There wasn’t anything she could say now that would make the news that I didn’t win the art scholarship any better and she knew it.

The letter from the school lay open on her cluttered desk, the words- Dear Samantha Darkling clearly legible at the top, the rest obscured by a fold. I didn’t need to read it to know that even though I didn’t win, I would still receive a credit on my first year’s tuition and that I could reapply for the scholarship the following year. I’m sure there was also something in there about how proud they were of me and they were looking forward to having me represent their school, blah, blah, blah.

“Even with the discount on my tuition there is no way I could afford to go there.” It felt like the one thing I wanted more than anything in the world had slowly slipped out of my grasp and shattered onto the floor into a million pieces. “I screwed up getting approved for student loans, remember?”

Ms. Savannah fiddled with the edge of the letter as she went into what I liked to call her ‘thinking mode’. She was the guidance counselor at my high school. I had been sent to her after a not so nice run in with my math teacher my sophomore year. Since that time, she had helped me focus my energy on my drawing instead of my usual lashing out at others. The only time I had ever found myself fall out of her good graces was when I sent in the application for my student loans and had been denied because I fabricated almost everything on them and signed my grandmas name because she refused to. Now I was paying the price again.

Ms. Savannah opened the top drawer on her desk and pulled out a white business card. “Here. My friend is the curator of an art gallery on Main Street, her name is Diane Nickles. It gets pretty busy there in the summer months, so give her a call and see if she would take you on. I already told her about you, so I would appreciate it if you would give her a call soon.”

I took the card from her outstretched hand, grateful to have someone like her in my life. With my parents gone and my grandma not the most nurturing of people, Ms. Savannah took a chance on me and I’m glad she did. I smiled up at her and tucked the card into the front of my bag.

“Now get out of here, you graduated last week, I don’t want to see you in here again.”

With a laugh that I hoped sounded real, I stood and slipped my bag onto my shoulder and made it to the door before she called my name.

“Could you possibly stop by Mrs. Cordova’s house on the way home? I think the news should come from you and not me. And Sam? I truly am sorry you didn’t get it.”

I cringed inside as I nodded. Mrs. Cordova had been my art teacher the last two years of my high school career. She was the one who had helped me out of my comfort zone and helped me find myself as an artist. I knew she was going to be just as devastated as I was, and it was not something I was looking forward to.

I gently shut the door after me then leaned my body up against the cool wood, trying not to let the tears building in my eyes fall like they were threatening to do. Art school should not be so out of reach for people that didn’t earn scholarships. Turning on my heal, I dragged my feet down the main hallway of my high school for what I hoped would be the last time. Never again would I have my shoes squeak against the freshly waxed linoleum or put the combination in the janky lock that held my locker shut. I glanced into the art room as I walked past, smiling to myself as memories sparkled in my head. It had been my favorite place to be in the entire school, my home away from home.

Outside, the sun shimmered on the blacktop like an oasis. Shielding my eyes, I headed for the green park bench next to the bus stop. I tossed my bag onto the bench with a sigh of frustration, sinking down next to it, feeling the hot painted metal through my clothes. I still had 15 minutes before the next bus came, so what better time to get some more drawing done.

My most prized possession was zipped up in a hidden pocket I had sewn into the inside lining of my bag. I pulled it out and ran my hand over its worn black cover. It had been a present from my wonderful grandpa before he had died. He had thought I would make a pretty kickass journalist one day, but instead I filled its lined pages with sketches of the world and people that lived day to day around me. I was sure he wouldn’t have minded. My little black book was close to being completely full, so I had become pickier as of late by what I graced its pages with. finding a nub of pencil in the bottom of my bag, I flipped through the worn pages until I found an empty spot to fill.

Closing my eyes, I conjured up Ms. Savannah’s face behind my eyelids. Her sharp nose in contrast to her red lips that were thin and quick to smile, showing off a row of straight white teeth. Pale skin that was almost translucent, with just a touch of smile lines forming around bright blue eyes and on her forehead. She tended to wear her auburn hair up in a French twist that would come loose by the end of the day making her hair dance around her face like kisses from feathers.

Yes, this portrait would be a tribute to her for everything she had done for me over the last few years. The recommendation letters she had written on my behalf, the portfolio she had helped me get together for the scholarship competition. None of these things had worked, but she had put in the effort anyways, even now, after graduation. I wasn’t even considered a student at the school anymore and she had stayed after hours to see me.

I opened my eyes, my pencil poised over the page. She was so clearly in my mind’s eye it was like she was standing in front of me. I put pencil to paper and got lost in the contrast between white and charcoal, hard and soft, light and dark. I was so absorbed in the process that I almost jumped out of my skin when the bus hissed to a stop in front of me and the door accordioned open with a shriek. I realized I was pouring sweat, drops making paths from my hairline down to my chin. I put my black book away and wiped my face with the edge of my t-shirt.

20 minutes later, I was released back out into the blazing heat two houses down from my destination. I was surprised to find no one out on the porch swing that occupied one side of the front porch, that’s where I usually found them this time of day with either a lemonade or iced tea on a small table next to the front door. I climbed the stairs grudgingly, not looking forward to the disappointed look in Mrs. Cordova’s eyes when I told her. Taking a deep breath, I let it out with a long sigh then opened the front door into the airconditioned foyer.

“Surprise!”

I jumped back in shock, my hand on my chest, my breath coming out as a gasp. The room was full of smiling faces and bright eyes, some I recognized, others I did not.

Ms. Savannah and Mrs. Cordova stepped forward and handed me an envelope. “Open it,” they said in unison like giddy little schoolgirls. Ms. Savannah’s wispy hair floated around her face half a foot above Mrs. Cordova and her tight gray curls.

Confused, yet intrigued, I opened the envelope. Inside was a check with my name on it for- I couldn’t believe it. “Twenty-thousand dollars?” It began shaking in my hand. This had to be a dream, I was still on the bus and had fallen asleep.

A woman in a pinstriped business suite stepped forward, a wide grin across her tanned and heavily made-up face. “Hi Samantha. My name is Diane Nickles, I am the curator at Blu Locust Gallery on Main Street.”

“Um, Hi.” I didn’t know what to say. My tongue felt too big for my mouth. Too many things were happening at one time and it was becoming quite overwhelming. I had to sit down, so I turned around and went back outside deciding the porch swing would be my best option. I looked down and realized the check was still in my hand. $20,000. Where did it come from? I didn’t understand. That was more money than I had seen in my entire life.

“We held a fundraiser at the Gallery,” Diane explained, following me outside. “We sold prints of your drawings as well as other local artists work and gave the proceeds to you.”

“But why?” I blurted out. This was the craziest thing that had ever happened to me.

“Because I didn’t get that letter today,” Ms. Savannah said, sitting down next to me, making the chains holding up the wooden swing creak. “I got it a week ago. I knew you would be devastated so I called up Diane and she came up with the idea.”

Tears of joy fell from my eyes. Tears of release, tears for all my hard work, tears for the hard work of all the people around me. This was love and I promised myself right then that I wasn’t going to let them down.

“Who wants some lemonade?” Mrs. Cordova asked with a beaming smile.