Carey

 

The day of the meeting with her guidance counselor arrived, and Carey couldn’t have been more nervous. Walking down the wide sidewalks of campus, she was certain that the news was going to be dire. She imagined Professor Hurt, her counselor, looking at her with those perpetually-worried eyes of his and telling her that the evaluating professors had thought long and hard about it, and that they weren’t going to be allowing her to graduate with her MFA at the end of the year. She had nightmare scenarios of telling her parents that the last five years of her life had been a waste.

 

Then, she gasped as she realized that without any prospects, she’d be forced to marry a man who’d be able to provide for her in the way she couldn’t for herself—a man like Brady.

 

Calm it down, she told herself as she approached the grand, columned building. Stop acting like you’ve gotten bad news before you’ve even had a chance to hear it.

 

Minutes later, she was in Professor Hurt’s office. As the fresh-faced, youthful professor, who couldn’t have been older than thirty, looked over her information, Carey couldn’t help but imagine that he was trying to find out the best way to break to her some terrible news.

 

“Here’s the long and short of it,” he said, sitting back in his office chair. “You passed your evaluation.”

 

The relief was palpable.

 

“That means,” he said, folding his hands on his lap, “that you’ll be all set up to come back and finish the rest of your program this fall, and graduate with your MFA on track.”

 

“Oh my God,” said Carey. “I’m so glad to hear that.”

 

“You sound surprised,” said Professor Hurt.

 

“I mean, I am,” she said. “I felt like they ripped me apart in there.”

 

“That’s just how the process goes,” he said. “But …”

 

“But?”

 

“The team did have some concerns about your, ah, let’s call it an ‘artistic milieu’.”

 

“What does that mean?”

 

“It means that they feel that your art comes from a place of privilege, you see. Meaning that they felt that your art, while technically very, very impressive, didn’t properly capture the discursive attitude that our school hopes to instill in our students.”

 

“Um, I see,” said Carey, not sure what to make of all of this.

 

“But they proposed a solution that you might be very interested to hear.”

 

Carey’s ears perked up at that.

 

“Have you ever been to Holyoke before?”

 

Carey didn’t know what to say, struck by how strange it was that the small city had been brought up again, just a little while after Lily’s offer.

 

“There’s a local artist there, a woman named Penelope Dupree. Perhaps you’ve heard of her?”

 

“I have,” said Carey. “I mean, I’m not all that familiar with her work; I just know she does abstract sculptures and such.”

 

“That’s right,” said Professor Hurt. “And judging by the type of work you do, it’s not all that surprising that you’re not particularly familiar with her.”

 

Carey wasn’t sure if she should’ve felt insulted by that or not, but she continued listening.

 

“She has a small crew of local artists that she likes to use for little errands here or there, sometimes helping her out with projects. She’s an alumnus, actually, and was here the other day to speak with Professor Wilkins about one thing or another. I overheard her mention that she was looking for a new crew for the summer, and I told her about what I do here, and that I could keep my ear to the ground and see if there were any students that might fit the bill for what she’s looking for. And I think you might be perfect for the job.”

 

“Really?” asked Carey, a little intrigued.

 

“It wouldn’t be full-time work, mind you, but it’d be a great experience if you’re looking for something for your CV. And …”

 

“… and?” asked Carey.

 

“I think it might do you a little good to, well, let’s say ‘broaden your horizons’ a little bit. Don’t get me wrong—I love your realistic style. But it never hurts to expose oneself to other styles of art. Here—”

 

Professor Hurt typed at his keyboard for a moment before turning his monitor around towards Carey. The screen was filled with pictures of strange, almost sinister-looking sculptures of mostly female bodies, all of them appearing to be made of random items.

 

“They’re … interesting,” Carey said.

 

“I know, I know—not your style. But like I said, it’d be a good experience to get under your belt. Not to mention that if the evaluation panel hears that you’ve taken an assignment like this, they’ll likely be impressed when it comes to your final, end-of-MFA evaluation. What do you say?”

 

“I think … I’d like to think about it,” she said.

 

“I understand; take your time,” said Professor Hurt. “Big decision. But let me know before too long—by the end of the day if you can. Plenty of other students would love an opportunity like this.”

 

The two of them wrapped up their meeting, and soon after Carey was back out on the sidewalks of campus, the proposal occupying her thoughts. It all seemed like the universe was pointing her in a particular direction, towards Holyoke and whatever waited for her there.

 

What exactly are my alternatives? she thought. Sit around at the Cape house, watching Netflix and probably putting on ten pounds before the summer’s out? Or, stick around back at home and wait until my parents finally harangue me into going out with Brady? Not a damn chance. I guess … Holyoke, it is.

 

Shaking her head and wondering what she was getting herself into, Carey pulled out her phone and fired off to a text to Lily, letting her know of her change of plans.

 

Here goes nothing, she thought as she continued on along the broad streets of the college she’d soon be leaving.