Текст книги "I Love Him, I Love Him Not "

Автор книги: Ella Martin

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Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 16 страниц)

Chapter Twenty-Six

I couldn’t hold my breath while Mrs. Riley reviewed my artwork after school that day, but I tried. From a crack in the door, I peered into the art studio from the adjoining lecture classroom and watched as Mr. Collins put each of my drawings on an easel at the front of the studio art room.

The willowy drama director silently glided back and forth among them. Every time she stopped to study one more closely, it took all my willpower to keep my feet rooted and not rush into the room to explain my work.

She pointed to the poster I’d spent the least amount of time on. It was a silhouetted skyline with Chicago in bold, graffiti-style letters rising from the tops of the buildings. I shoved my hands in my skort pockets to keep from wringing them.

“Not this one,” she said, stressing the first word. “It’s generic. Flat. Uninspired.”

Wow. That was harsh.

I must have let out a small whimper, because Mr. Collins looked toward my hiding place and raised his eyebrows. I widened the crack enough to wave, and he smiled though he shook his head.

Generic, Mrs. Riley had said. Flat. Uninspired.

I agreed with the “generic” part of it, but if I admitted that aloud, I was sure they both would’ve asked why I’d bothered to submit it.

Well, that one hadn’t been my favorite, anyway.

My heart raced as Mrs. Riley stood between the remaining two sketches, her back to me, and I wished I knew what she was thinking. I was most proud of my Struzan-esque design, of course, but I thought the other one was pretty good, too. I’d splayed Chicago across the sheet in huge letters with vignettes of key scenes from the play in each one.

“These show some promise,” she said. I waited for her to say more, but she began pacing the short distance between my drawings instead. A quick glance at Mr. Collins assured me he was probably nervous, too, and it made me feel a lot better.

Finally, she stopped in front of my preferred design. “Conceptually,” she said, “this is quite sophisticated. It’s compelling and rather ambitious.”

A small gasp escaped my lips. I would have done a series of backflips right then if I’d known how.

“A more experienced artist could execute it better, though,” she said. “She’s not talented enough.”

My heart dropped like a stone into my gut. In ten seconds, I went from soaring above the clouds to wanting to dig myself a hole at the bottom of the ocean. I didn’t hear anything else she said. She was pointing at different elements, and I could see her lips moving, but the rest of my senses dulled.

She’s not talented enough. Her words seared my soul and etched themselves onto my brain.

Mrs. Riley pointed to the last one and moved her hands in large, sweeping gestures. I rubbed my eyes to refocus on what she was saying.

“—holds my attention, and the result is rather charming.” She turned to Mr. Collins with a rare smile. “Please extend my thanks to Miss Nicoletti, Todd,” she said. “I look forward to reviewing her resubmission Friday.” And she breezed out of the room.

Mr. Collins waited a beat before he said, “You can come out now, Talia. It’s safe.”

My art teacher began taking down my work as I slinked into the studio. I was still reeling from the rejection. My mouth was dry as I worked up the courage to speak. “I’m sorry, Mr. Collins. I know that could’ve gone better.”

“Meetings like these can always go better.” He didn’t look at me. Instead, he was busy putting my artwork back into my portfolio case.

I didn’t know what made me feel worse, the fact Riley said I wasn’t talented or that I’d disappointed my favorite teacher. I climbed up onto a stool and slumped where I sat, crushed.

“You heard her feedback,” he said, sliding something on the table before me. It was the last sketch Mrs. Riley looked at. “The question now is how you can take this one up a level or three.”

I was puzzled. “What?”

“You don’t have to make any decisions now,” Mr. Collins said. “In fact, it’s usually better to digest the criticism for a while before diving back into it. We’ve got to bring it back to her Friday, though, so I’d—”

“But she didn’t like any of them,” I said.

Now Mr. Collins looked confused. “Of course she did. I believe she called this one ‘charming.’” He grinned. “That’s high praise coming from Elizabeth.”

Somehow, that still didn’t make me feel any better. I remained silent, and he grabbed a stool to sit across from me.

“Do you remember how I warned you against giving Mrs. Riley more power than she really has?” He pushed his black frames up higher on his nose, and I nodded. “Hers is a single opinion. As an artist, you’re going to experience a lot of negative reviews, and some of it will sting. A lot.”

“But she said I wasn’t talented enough.”

He didn’t say anything for a while, and I was certain he was going to agree with her. But he stood, took out the other two drawings from my portfolio case, and laid them out on the table. I looked down at all three of my concepts and tried to see what they saw.

“I don’t know if this was deliberate,” he said, “but you chose a solid array of pieces to show her. They’re all unique. They all show a different side of you. But most important, they all show what you can do.” He pushed the silhouetted skyline closer to me. “Flat, generic, uninspired,” he said, echoing her words, “and I would agree.” He ignored my scowl. “This one’s easy for you. It’s smart because it’s simple and minimal, but it’s also safe. I would’ve passed on this, too, because I know you’re far more capable than this.” He pulled back the silhouette and pushed the other rejected design forward.

Ally’s face stared up at me from the paper. Well, it was sort of her face. It was supposed to be, anyway.

“This one was a bold entry. She liked the concept,” he reminded me. “I believe she said it was ambitious, and I’d agree with her on that, too.” He paused. “But it’s also a little beyond your abilities, and judging by the way you’re frowning at it, I think you agree with her assessment that it’s not quite there yet.”

“I did my best,” I offered lamely.

“And it’s very good. But it’s still missing something.” He sighed. “Talia, you’re all of, what? Fifteen? Sixteen?” When I nodded, he said, “There are artists far older than you who can’t even envision something like this, let alone execute it. Revisit this same concept in another five years after you’ve really studied art, and I guarantee you will nail it.”

“So, what Mrs. Riley said….”

He held out his hands, palms up. “You have plenty of talent, and she knows it. If you didn’t, she wouldn’t have singled you out among my students. And if she thought you were really a talentless hack, she wouldn’t be asking you to rework this.” He shoved the third design toward me.

I studied the drawing before me. It was hard to be objective when I knew every line on the paper, but compared to the other three, this was by far the most polished and compelling. It didn’t have the same level of sophistication that my Struzan-inspired piece had, but Mr. Collins may have had a point about my readiness to tackle something like that. My bruised ego was the probable culprit for my self-doubt. Knowing this still didn’t make me feel any better, though.

He placed all three sketches back in my portfolio case and handed it to me. “Go home,” he said. “Think about her feedback. And you can use this room during lunch or whenever to polish that piece, okay?”

I nodded, and after a quick good-bye, I adjusted my backpack strap, grabbed my portfolio case, and headed toward my car. Jake’s car was already gone when I arrived at the sophomore lot. I tossed my things into the back seat and paused, unsure of what I wanted to do next. On any other Monday, I would’ve gone to Jake’s house and hung out for a few hours, but everything had changed.

And besides, he was probably out with Clover.

My chest tightened at the thought of them together. It wouldn’t have done any good for me to sit alone at home obsessing over it. I needed to be around people.

****

It sounded like a stampede when I opened the door from the gymnasium lobby. I stuck my head through the opening and spotted Bianca sitting at the top of the bleachers on the other side of the gym, her face partially obscured by her copy of Their Eyes Were Watching God. I stayed close to the walls as I made my way to her, careful to stay clear of the boys bouncing basketballs as they ran across the court.

I sat beside her and tapped on her shoulder, and she jumped. She pulled out her earbuds. “What are you doing here?” she said as she snapped her book shut.

“Just left the art room. I had to show Riley my poster art.”

“And? Did she love it?”

“Not exactly.” I made a face. “She kind of hated the one I really liked. Said I wasn’t talented enough to really execute it or something.”

Bianca’s eyes grew wide. “She actually said that?” When I nodded, she put her arm around my shoulders and gave me a quick squeeze. “Well, not that it’ll help much, but she says stuff like that during auditions all the time. Like last year, Brittany Meyers told me Mrs. Riley once said she sounded like a dying whale,” she said, referring to a girl who’d graduated the prior year. “And she’s at Juilliard now, so.” She shrugged and added, “It’s totally subjective.”

“That’s what Collins said.” I stretched my legs out onto the seats in front of us. “There was one I guess she kind of liked, but I have to go back and change some of it.”

“You got a second chance from Mrs. Riley?” she said, sounding impressed. “That’s like a narwhal. Like, you sort of know they exist because you’ve heard people talk about them, but no one you know has ever actually seen one.”

A shrill whistle pierced the air, and the boys tossed their basketballs into a large net sack before lining up on one of the baselines.

“Suicides,” Bianca said when I asked what was going on. She returned to her book. “Finn says they’re the worst thing about basketball. Tim and Brady hate these.”

At the whistle, half of the team launched themselves toward the midcourt line, tapped it, ran back to the baseline, tapped that, ran toward the other baseline on the far end of the court, and sprinted back to where they started. Then the other half would repeat the process while the first group gasped for air. And all the while, Coach Norton’s whistle blew in repeated spurts as if to urge them on.

I could see why suicides were so despised. I was exhausted from just watching them.

“And the point of this?” I said.

“My dad calls it ‘conditioning,’” she said without looking up. “Tim says it’s torture. They do it a couple of times in every practice.”

“I guess there’s more to basketball than throwing a little ball into the hoop.”

She snorted. “Finn could’ve told you that ages ago.”

I kept watching the boys dart to and fro. It was strangely hypnotic.

“I know you’re bummed,” Bianca said after Coach Norton’s whistles stopped and the team started another set of drills. “But at least she’s letting you go back and make it better, right?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“What did Jake say about Riley’s comment?”

I almost told her I wasn’t talking to Jake, but I decided not to. It sounded childish in my head. “I haven’t told him,” I said. “His car wasn’t in the lot.”

She looked up from her book long enough to give me a reproving glance before she resumed reading. “Maybe you can tell him after you guys work out your little tiff. He’s better at making you less mopey.”

I grunted in response. She was right, of course. I didn’t know what he would’ve done, exactly, but it was like Jake always knew what I needed to hear.

And at that moment, I kind of hated him for that.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

I was surprised to see my mom’s car in the garage when I got home. Over breakfast that morning, we’d agreed a week-long bereavement was enough and we both needed to get back to some semblance of normalcy. I’d expected her to return to her seventy-hour work weeks, but I found her in the kitchen dropping large chunks of carrots into a big pot on the stove.

My mother was cooking. That was the furthest thing from normal.

“You’re home early,” I said after I greeted her with a kiss on the cheek. I plucked an apple from the fruit bowl on the breakfast bar and slid onto a stool.

“I could say the same for you. Aren’t you usually with Jake after school?”

I kept my expression neutral and lifted my shoulder in a half-shrug. “I hung out with Bianca for a little while at basketball practice instead.”

Mom turned to look at me, one perfectly shaped eyebrow raised in surprise. My admission of willingly setting foot inside the school gymnasium probably affected her the same way the sight of her cooking startled me. I crunched into my apple.

“Did anything exciting happen today?”

Another crunch. “Nothing major.” I lifted my chin toward the stove. “What are you making?”

“Something Isabelle sent me.” I froze at the sound of Jake’s mom’s name, but my mother didn’t seem to notice. She nodded at a sheet of paper on the counter before she covered the pot and set the timer on the microwave for fifteen minutes. “You toss everything into the pot all at once, and voila! Instant chicken lo mein.” She smiled. “And you’ll love it because I used up a bunch of veggies we already had in the refrigerator.”

“Um, Mom? You don’t cook.”

She brushed aside my remark with a flick of her wrist. “Relax. Isabelle says it’s idiot-proof.”

My stifled giggle came out as a snort, and her smile widened. I knew she wasn’t offended. Mom’s cooking efforts were legendary, and not in a good way. She single-handedly made me skeptical any time I saw osso bucco on a restaurant menu, and I’d lost count of the number of times we’d had to order food after she’d set off the smoke detectors. I took small comfort in the fact she was using the stove and not the oven, but I was still wary of the open flame.

“I guess we’ll know in about fourteen minutes,” I said. “You have a backup plan, right?”

“Of course.” She reached into a drawer and pulled out a stack of menus. “I’m always prepared for possible contingencies.”

I eyed the pot on the stove. “Maybe we should call for pizza or something. You know, just in case.”

Mom scowled and said, “Have some faith, Talia. Idiot-proof, remember? It’s like the recipe was written with me in mind.”

I crunched into my apple again, wondering if I’d be able to convince her I wasn’t hungry. Maybe if I grab that banana and another apple, I reasoned with myself, I could hold out until ten. Maybe.

“So what’s the occasion?” I said between bites.

“No occasion.”

“You’re home before me, and you’re risking everyone’s health to make dinner.” I took another bite and covered my mouth as I added, “If you’re an alien invader, you’re a pretty convincing imposter, but I’d still like my real mom back.”

She rounded the counter to sit beside me at the breakfast bar. “I talked to Victor,” she said. Her expression was solemn, as it always was when she mentioned her boss.

“Is he actually in town?” I’d met Victor Balian once, just before she’d been offered a partnership to Balian Law a few years ago. He was an older man, maybe in his late sixties, and he seemed like more of a figurehead than a practicing attorney, but maybe that was one of the perks of being the named partner. He was almost never in the office, either, which explained why Mom and the other partners had to spend so much time there.

“Just for today,” Mom said. “He’s heading back to the Bay Area tomorrow. But I, uh, asked to step down as a partner.”

I stopped mid-chew, my eyes wide. She couldn’t have shocked me more if she said she’d bought me a pet zebra. My mother’s career had always been a top priority. She was possessed for sure. “Who are you, really, and what did you do with my mother?”

“He’s not letting me step down,” she said, “so don’t get excited. But I told him Vince’s death was kind of a wake-up call for me, and I feel like I need to reprioritize a few things and balance some stuff out a little better. He said he completely understood.”

“So this means…?”

“It means I’ll be working out of my home office twice a week, and I’m only mentoring one first-year associate now.” Mom was relaxed as she shared this, almost as though she was relieved. She’d often said her job would be much easier if she didn’t have to watch over three first-years on top of her regular workload.

“Did you at least get to choose which one you’re keeping?” Not all their first-year associates were created equal. I gathered that much from her rants, too.

“No,” she said with a quick shake of her head. “But Gail’s spot hasn’t been backfilled yet, even though she’s been gone almost a month. And I guess while I was out last week, Matt decided civil law isn’t what he wants to do, and he’s accepted a job as a deputy district attorney in Santa Barbara.”

“So now there are two openings.”

“Just one, and that person will report to another partner. But Victor won’t backfill Matt’s slot.” When I started to ask why, she added, “He got hired as a favor to Victor’s old law school buddy. It won’t be a loss.”

“Fallyn is mostly self-sufficient, isn’t she?” I said, referring to the third first-year she mentored. “So—”

“So my job just got a thousand times easier,” she finished for me, beaming. “I’d say it was a good day.” She elbowed me and said, “Your turn. How did Mr. Collins like those sketches you’ve been slaving over?” I stared at her in wide-eyed surprise, and she laughed. “I may be your mother, but I’m not as clueless as you think.” She nudged me again. “Come on. We’ve still got ten minutes before we know if we’re ordering in. Tell me about your day.”

“It was….” I started to tell her it was fine, but the day’s disappointments resurfaced and hit me at once. I put my head down on the counter and felt my body crumple. “I’m failing at life,” I said.

Mom didn’t say anything. I moved my head to look at her, and she was watching me, waiting for me to continue.

So I did. I told her how Mr. Collins asked me to create some concepts to show Mrs. Riley for the school musical, how I’d conceptualized something amazing and worked so hard to get it right, and how Mrs. Riley cut it down.

“She stood in front of it and said I wasn’t talented enough,” I said with a pout. “I mean, first she says it’s sophisticated and compelling, and then she goes and insults me.”

Mom pressed her lips together into a thin line and remained silent. Finally, she said, “Mrs. Riley. She’s the drama teacher, right? The one Bianca says is impossible to please?”

I sniffed. “I thought she was exaggerating, but no. Riley’s as bad as she said.”

“How many other students are showing their ideas?”

I sat up straight and considered the question. In previous years, the artwork had only been assigned to a single student, usually a senior. Mr. Collins had never mentioned another student working on Chicago’s poster art, though, and as far as I knew, Mrs. Riley had only reviewed my work that afternoon. “Just me, I think,” I said. “It would’ve been Misty Templeton if she hadn’t been placed on academic probation.”

“And what did Mr. Collins say?”

“Not to focus on the criticism,” I replied.

“That’s sound advice,” she said with an approving nod.

“I have to redo one of the other pieces I submitted before the end of the week,” I said. “And everyone says Mrs. Riley rarely gives second chances.” I could feel the pressures of my Friday deadline creeping up on me, suffocating me like a constrictor coiling around its prey. “If I screw this up….”

Mom patted my shoulder and kissed my temple. “It sounds to me like Mrs. Riley must think you’ve got at least a modicum of talent if she’s liked something well enough to ask you to go back and improve it. And I’m sure she’ll love whatever you present her.”

I was about to tell her how wrong she was when the microwave beeped. Mom slid off her stool to turn it off. If she saw the annoyed look I shot her, she didn’t say anything.

“Here goes,” she said, flipping off the burner, and she lifted the lid in a sweeping gesture.

“It smells good,” I said as she peered into the pot. “That’s a good sign, right?”

“Usually.” She reached into a drawer for a spoon to stir the contents and frowned after a couple of passes. “Oh dear.”

I knew that look. It didn’t bode well when food was involved. “What’s wrong?” I hopped off the stool and rounded the corner to take a peek.

“See?” She tilted the pot toward me. “It’s all stuck to the bottom,” she said with a sigh. “Either ‘idiot-proof’ was a false selling point, or I’ve reached an all-new low.”

I quickly read through the recipe on the counter. “Seriously, Mom? You can nitpick a contract to death, but you can’t follow a recipe?” I shook my head. It looked like she prepped everything correctly, but contrary to how she explained it, this was not a set-and-forget recipe. And certainly not with the burner at high heat the entire time.

It pained me to admit it, especially since it looked like a lot of food was going to waste, but this dinner was unsalvageable.

At least she had her backup plan. We wouldn’t starve. She was already flipping through the stack of menus.

“Mea culpa,” she said as she raised one hand. “I’ll do better. Isabelle may actually need to watch me the next time I try to cook.” She slid half of the menus toward me. “Now help me pick out what’s for dinner before Rob gets home. Maybe we can have Lebanese for dinner. It’s been a while since we’ve had shawarma.”

I grabbed a pencil and took a menu from the stack, wishing the artwork I needed to tweak for my new Chicago deadline was as easy to fix as ordering out.