When it’s been a full weekend of nothing but Instagram, chicken wings, and chardonnay, I get a text message from my dad while I’m in class on Monday: U OK?
I text him back: Yeah, I’ve just been busy with Ezra.
He responds: K. See U 2nite.
I figure this is a sign that he’s not happy I haven’t been staying in touch, even though we agreed that I’d split my time between home and Ezra’s apartment. My dad’s always been pretty easygoing, in comparison to my mom, before she abandoned us for her newer and better family. I have memories of her being strict. I had to wear everything she told me to: those stupid lace dresses and shiny shoes and pearl earrings, bows and barrettes in my hair. My dad was always the one that left the discipline to her, and even after she left us, he’s never been great at setting rules or curfews or anything.
I jump back into my project. Our thesis class takes up the second half of the day, after lunch, before classes let out at two o’clock. The thesis class is our chance to work on whatever we want to, and for most rising seniors like me and Declan, we’re focusing on the portfolio we’ll end up using for our college applications. Declan’s taken up a corner of the room with his collage work spread across two tables (the narcissism is impressive, truly), but I end up in front of a prepped and stretched canvas, acrylic paints waiting in a neat stack beside me.
I’m sitting at one long white table with Ezra, Marisol, Leah, Austin, Hazel, and Tyler. Well, it’s more like I’m sitting with Ezra, and everyone else is sitting with him. Leah’s focused on her laptop, editing photos for her portfolio—I’ve heard her say that she wants to work in photojournalism, so she takes her photography super seriously. She was really pissed when she was told she had too many photography credits for the summer program, forcing her into acrylics instead. She’s the only one in the room who’s completely silent. Everyone else is whispering while they work.
“Astrology isn’t real,” Hazel says. Hazel has dark skin and hair that’s dyed purple, piercings and tattoos. “It’s like Hogwarts houses.”
“Excuse me,” Ezra says. “Hogwarts houses are real.”
“I still haven’t read the books,” Marisol says, leaning back in her chair.
“What? Really?” Austin doesn’t glance up from his landscape. Austin has blond hair, blue eyes, a dimpled smile, and gives the vibes of someone who might wear a sweater tied around his shoulders unironically. “They’re, like—a cultural phenomenon.”
“I kind of hate reading,” Marisol says.
“That explains a lot,” Hazel mumbles. Marisol gives her an icy look. I guess the breakup isn’t going very well.
“Astrology is real,” Tyler insists. “Listen. The moon controls the tides, right? The human body is mostly water. It’d make sense if the moon controls us, too.”
“Tyler,” Hazel says, “no one knows what the fuck you’re talking about.”
Marisol snorts. Tyler looks frustrated. His cheeks go pink.
“I kind of think astrology is real, too,” Austin says, earning a smile from Tyler. “I mean, it can’t be a coincidence that so many people relate to their signs, right? And the way signs interact with each other. I’m a Libra, and I’m always attracted to Leos, without fail.”
Ezra perks up at that. “I’m a Leo.”
Austin blushes a little. Leah says, without looking up, “He knows.”
I blink and glance at Ezra, who gives a small, surprised smile. Okay. Weird moment.
Hazel’s bored with whatever micro-flirtation is happening. “You probably believe in destiny and soul mates and all that crap.”
Austin hesitates. “Well,” he says, “yeah, I do.”
“I definitely do,” Tyler tells us.
“Oh, come on,” Hazel says. “How can you live in the twenty-first century and believe in bullshit like that?”
“Okay, all right,” Ezra says. “Calm down. It’s just a conversation.”
“Yeah,” Marisol says. “Why’re you getting so riled up?” She says this, clearly for the sole purpose of riling Hazel up. From the expression on Hazel’s face, it’s working.
“I don’t know,” Austin says. “It just feels like so much is connected, you know? Don’t you ever feel like you were put on this planet for a purpose? Like you’re meant to do something important? I think about that all the time. What’s my destiny? What if I’m missing out on what I’m supposed to be doing?”
“What if it’s your destiny to miss out on your destiny?” Marisol says.
“That’s . . . slightly terrifying,” he says.
I can’t blame Austin. It’s something I’ve thought about before—the question of if I’m doing what I’m meant to be doing in this lifetime. The thought sends a spike of fear through me. I was having a hard time concentrating before, but I’m having an even harder time focusing now. I stare at the blank canvas in front of me. Portraits have always been my specialty, but the portfolio can’t be a random collection of paintings. Should I choose one subject? Should there be a running color theme? What am I trying to say with these portraits? What’s the story I’m trying to portray?
What the hell am I supposed to make, to convince Brown that I’m good enough?
The questions make me freeze. I could do anything, but it somehow feels like I don’t have any options. I can already feel the years of hard work, resulting in nothing but my average grades and less-than-average test scores, going down the drain. My dad’s going to be disappointed. He’ll smile and say that he’s proud of me, but how could he not be disappointed? He’s given up everything for me, for this education, so that I could do something great with my life—and instead, I’m sitting here with nothing but a blank, white canvas.
I start gathering the acrylics to put them away in the supply closet.
“Where’re you going?” Ezra whispers, barely glancing up from his sketches of dresses sprawled out in front of him. A few of the others glance up, too.
“Home. Nothing’s coming to me.”
“Home? You mean my place?”
“No,” I tell him, “my dad wants me back tonight.”
“Oh, good,” he says. “Now I can finally invite my special friend over.”
“See you later, Ez.”
“All right,” he says, and actually looks a little sad to say goodbye. “See you later.”
I walk to the door, ignoring Declan, who rolls his eyes and shakes his head, muttering something across his two tables to James as I leave. Things have calmed down at school. I don’t know if Ezra made it a personal mission or what, but somehow, everyone figured out that I did not want to talk about the gallery. I just want to pretend it never happened. And so that’s what everyone’s doing. This has made being back in class bearable, even though my throat still closes up every time I walk through the lobby, or whenever I open my Instagram app, afraid that there’ll be another message waiting for me. To be honest, the only thing that makes any of this better is thinking about how I’m going to destroy Declan Keane’s life. I can’t help it. I’m a little obsessed.