I stare into the curved lines of splattered paint where the stringy sweeps of white seem to dance in front of the darkness behind them. The classroom is quiet. Dr. Cranston grabs the cat-eye glasses hanging from a chain around her neck and places them over her eyes. She tilts her head at us, squinting through that moment when professors expect more than we’re capable of giving. Sometimes I wonder if they forget we’re all just teenagers waiting to receive prepaid knowledge.
“Nothing?” she asks.
A male voice behind me says, “Random splatter.” Someone laughs.
She glances at the back of the room with controlled irritation. “I don’t mean in the literal sense. Anyone else?”
“Chaos,” a girl with braided hair in the front row answers—a drama major, no doubt, judging by her breathy enunciation of the word.
“Chaos. Hmm. I like that. Maybe.” Dr. Cranston rubs her chin with cautious optimism. The projector reflects a white light onto her glasses until she turns to tap the screen. “But what if defining it isn’t the point? Maybe the point is to experience it as a field of energy—and as, in the words of your textbook, ‘moving remnants illuminating the act of creation.’”
While everyone else shifts forward to write it down, I picture the words—“energy,” “remnants,” “creation”—and stare into the dust-speckled light of the projector.
Dr. Cranston clicks to the next slide, a quote from Jackson Pollock. She reads it out loud: “‘When I am in my painting, I’m not aware of what I’m doing.’ Have you ever felt this way about anything you do?” She scans the room.
I think about exploring museums—a place where I feel the least alone. Circling the same statue or gazing at the same painting has a way of connecting people, even if it’s just for a few moments. I also love volunteering at a nearby soup kitchen. It started with a mandatory freshmen volunteer day when Sadie and I signed up to visit with elderly guests for a meal. Although Sadie never showed up, I enjoyed chatting with a nice eighty-year-old lady named Helen. Ever since Sadie left, Helen is sometimes my only human contact.
Dr. Cranston paces again, catching my attention. “Here’s a tip. If something makes you feel that way, it’s probably what you’re meant to be doing with your life.”
I stare at my paint-splattered desk and try to imagine the place I’ll spend every weekday after college. I wish I could picture it, but I just can’t. This is why I’m here. And it’s why I stay.
* * *
I spot Josh first. I’d been nervously excited to hang out with him—I could barely concentrate during any of my classes today, not just Art Appreciation, and spent an embarrassingly long amount of time choosing my outfit, only to end up in the same thing I’d been wearing all day.
Josh sits on a couch in the back corner with two other students: an attractive well-dressed guy and redheaded girl. They seem relaxed, just happy to be hanging out together. I hesitate at the door, suddenly unsure how to approach their familiar dynamic. Then I lock eyes with Josh, and my apprehension softens.
He stands up to greet me. “Hey, I’m so glad you came. I want you to meet my friends,” he says, guiding me toward them.
The girl with red hair is even more striking up close. She’s staring at me in an inquisitive way, yet still friendly—the exact opposite of Sadie’s friends.
“This is Emily,” Josh says. His hand is warm on my back. I can smell the clean scent of soap radiating from his skin.
“I’m Heather,” she says. Her eyes are wide and watery and slightly tilted in kittenlike contours, with minimal if any makeup. Her mouth is pursed to the side as if she’s amused.
“Nice to meet you,” I say.
I look over to the other couch where the preppy guy with floppy brown hair keeps tucking it behind his ears like it’s a habit. “Hi,” he says. “I’m Andrew.” He stands up and shakes my hand. His hands are soft with long, slender fingers, the kind you’d want to tangle into your own during a movie. He’s incredibly good looking, but his smile seems forced. And he keeps glancing at the others as if he’s distracted.
“Want some coffee?” Josh asks me.
“Sure.” I stand there awkwardly as he walks away.
Andrew sits back down and pats the empty spot on the couch. “Have a seat.”
Josh is already standing under a giant blackboard crammed with chalk-scribbled options, so I sit beside Andrew.
Heather bends forward to put her bag on the floor. When she sits back up, her hair springs with her. Her curls are loose in a Julia Roberts sort of way, and Heather radiates that same magnetic energy. I’ve always wondered what it would be like to draw the attention of an entire room. “Josh said you’re from the South,” she says. “I have good friends from Nashville. They’re the nicest people I’ve ever met in my life. They’re like my family.”
“Yeah. I guess we Southerners are known for our hospitality,” I say. Heather offers me a genuine smile.
Andrew shifts to face my direction and crosses his leg, exposing a blue Polo logo on his tan sock. “You know, you really don’t have a thick accent. Not like that guy, at least.” Andrew points to Josh, who is casually propped against the brick wall, still waiting for my coffee. Heather laughs at Andrew like it’s some sort of inside joke.
“Yeah, just ask Dr. Davidson,” Heather says. Andrew bursts out laughing.
“Who is Dr. Davidson?” I ask.
“You’ll have to ask Josh about that,” Andrew says. “It’s hilarious.”
“Ask me what?” Josh hands me my coffee and sits down next to Heather.
“Dr. Davidson,” Heather says with a smirk. She leans over and elbows his arm.
“No.” Josh sinks back into the couch and smiles at me. “It’s too embarrassing.”
“You should tell her,” Andrew says. “She’ll totally understand.”
I take a sip of my coffee and watch expectantly.
Josh exhales a dramatic sigh. “I said ‘yes, ma’am’ to my psych professor. In class. By the way, don’t say ‘ma’am’ to a female professor—or any female north of Nashville.”
Heather and Andrew burst out laughing.
A sudden heat spreads across my face. I actually made this exact same mistake my first week of school. Luckily, it happened in the privacy of the professor’s office, but it did not go over well. I’m still too humiliated by the look of horror on my professor’s face to share this with anyone.
“What did she do?” I ask Josh.
“Well, she called me ‘sweetheart’ and suggested we reintroduce ourselves.”
Heather cringes dramatically. “And …,” she says, hitting Josh’s arm as if prompting him to finish the story.
Josh looks up at the ceiling with an amused embarrassment. He shrugs but doesn’t elaborate. “And now she picks on him,” Andrew chimes in. “Trust me. I’m in there. She calls Josh ‘Mr. Ma’am’ in class.” Heather and Andrew start laughing again.
Heather pulls her feet up under her thighs as if making herself at home. She smiles at Josh again. “I promise. We aren’t making fun of you.” She tries to hold in her laughter, but can’t stop another outburst.