The final image looks nothing like the others. Most wouldn’t recognize it as mine. The lines are thicker, darker, and more angular than the other two. The streetlight glows at the edge of the picture, but the illumination barely cuts through the shadows of the night that surrounds the sidewalk and building. It was the first picture I drew in art class after my mother’s accident, for an assignment that asked us to paint a place we recently visited in the city. Everyone else created images of Wrigley Field and Buckingham Fountain. I drew the site of my mother’s death. I didn’t keep a copy, but Mrs. Rudoren must have saved the file after I turned it in and given it to Rose when she asked for it.
“Did you bring other samples for me to look at?” Mr. Beschloss asks.
I nod and click on my tablet. My fingers tremble as I call up the portfolio and hand it over the desk.
He strokes his little beard as he flips through the files. “Your mother must have been proud. Did she work with you on these or influence the subjects you chose to draw? Maybe nudge you to find inspiration by talking about locations she appreciated or ideas she thought should be explored?”
I try to ignore the dark sidewalk in the picture still being displayed on the tablet to the right of me. “She did when I was little. A few years ago, when I got more serious about my art, she took a step back and encouraged me to find my own way. And in the last year she stopped volunteering information about her own projects.” I add the last because I don’t like the insinuation that I drew only what my mother instructed me to draw. Whether the projects are good enough or not, they are mine.
“How interesting.” The flat, beige color of his voice tells me he thinks my words are far less than interesting. “I would have thought with another artist in the house she would have been excited to share her projects and stories about the people she worked with.”
“She used to, and when I asked she did, but my dad isn’t an artist. Mom didn’t want him to feel left out of the conversation, so she tried to make sure we talked about things we all enjoyed.”
He studies me with a sad smile. “Well, I know how your father feels.” He looks down at the tablet in his hand one more time, then stands and holds it out to me. “Thank you for coming in to show me your work. Marcus Webster is right. You have talent. I’m sorry you couldn’t get your application submitted in the typical manner, but I can promise we will consider your work as we make our final choices for this class. We have your information, and if you’re chosen you’ll be hearing from us soon.”
Just like that, I’m dismissed. There is no time to ask about the last project my mother worked on or if her team finished it, because once I take the tablet, he is walking me to the door, talking all the while. He wishes me luck in my finals at school as he escorts me down the empty hallway and tells me to give his best to my father. He pushes the button on the elevator and within seconds the doors open.
“Keep up the good work, Merriel,” he says as I step inside.
The elevator doors close. Disappointment settles in my chest. My hand feels heavy as I push the lobby button. As the elevator starts to move, I hit the number three, and when the doors open I feel my mother beside me as I start down the hall. If anyone asks what I’m doing here, I will just tell them I want to take the atrium stairs on my way out.
The design has changed since the last time I was here. Now instead of vibrant walls of lavender and blue, swirling ribbons of color snake along a background of yellow. Screens are scattered along the walls, all muted but tuned to various programs. One displays a report on the weather—sunny and warmer with no rain in today’s forecast. On the second, a broadcast of the current president addressing a group of smiling workers. Two others flip through slides of a handful of upcoming projects—like a park with an arching, waterfall-like fountain and a new apartment complex in rose and white stone.
An unfamiliar blonde dressed in a bright green top and tight purple pants smiles at me as she ducks into a workroom to the left. A burst of laughter sounds from inside the workroom as I pass. People are standing around a large square table with a model of something in the center of it. I don’t recognize anyone in the meeting space, and there aren’t any familiar faces in the next, but I do spot one person I know in the workroom not far from the stairs.
Kacee Anderson’s back is to me as she draws on a whiteboard. She’s dressed in all black and taps her foot to old rock music that is pumped through the room’s speakers. Her dark hair is pulled into a tight ponytail that sways as she works. Several other artists are working at the table or on graphic-design tablets along the wall.
Mrs. Anderson turns. I hover in the doorway and start to step forward as her eyes widen in recognition. But a small shake of her head stops me in my tracks and she turns back toward her project as if she never saw me at all.
For the second time today, the sting of rejection pricks deep into my heart. Still, I wait for several more seconds, hoping she will look back at me. When she doesn’t, I hurry toward the staircase at the end of the hall. I blink away the tears I refuse to let fall, keep my head down, and make my way to the atrium. Someone bumps me. I grab hold of my tablet to keep it from crashing to the ground and walk on—through the atrium, past the elevators and the security guard, until finally I stand in the sunshine outside the gold doors and am no longer able to control the tears that fall.
Disappointment floods through me. No matter how hard I try to hold on to her, my mother is slipping further and further away, as are the dreams I once had for my future.
I swipe at my cheek and look up and down the street for Isaac’s car. Isaac and Rose probably think I’m still discussing my work and that they have lots of time to kill before I need them to fetch me. And I’m glad. The short time spent in my meeting will give away how badly it went. Poor Rose. She worked so hard, and even enlisted her father—which had to have taken a lot of persuasion. It isn’t her fault that my talent fell short. She shouldn’t have to feel bad because she tried to help. So as much as I want to go home, I decide to walk around the block and get myself together before I call them to pick me up. It’s the least I can do for all that she has done for me.
The light changes, and I follow a bunch of businessmen across the street. I start to turn down the block when I notice a guy standing next to a light post who stops me in my tracks.
I think I know him.
No. I take a step forward and squint into the sunlight. We have never met. But I have seen him before. And when he turns and I see him slide a piece of paper into the front pocket of his pants, I realize where I know him from.
Black hooded sweatshirt. Rich brown skin. Close-cropped hair. Blue jeans that fit like a second skin and red shoelaces that snake up his black high-tops. It’s the guy I saw out the window of my math class, searching the bush after the cops arrested the magenta-haired man and carted him away.
But it can’t really be him. It has to be a coincidence. Still, after going months without seeing any paper, I can’t help thinking the two things are connected. Maybe that’s why I find myself trailing him when he turns and heads down La Salle Street toward the river. His stride is long and quick, and I have to jog a bit to keep up with him. He pauses to wait for the stoplight to change, and I get close enough to see his profile.