I paced my room when I got home, back and forth, forming a thick line in the carpet. Cooper had no idea what he was talking about. I was trying to paint better. I was trying to grow. I was trying to change. Wasn’t I?
The image of that brick wall and that same painting I kept painting for the principal flashed through my mind. I knew it was just a dream, but why had I painted the same thing over and over? Why did I never change it up?
I was scared of change.
The thought came to me like a revelation, and I knew it was true. I claimed I wanted to try to grow and change, but really everything I did lent itself to things staying exactly the same. When confronted with change, I dug my heels in. When Grandpa mentioned a therapist for Mom, I stopped it. When Lacey tried to be my friend, I kept her at arm’s length. When Cooper showed the least bit of resistance to my feelings, I shut them off. I wanted to stay in my perfect bubble, where I knew that even if everything wasn’t perfect, at least it was manageable.
This realization made me angry with myself. I marched to my art room. I tugged off the coverings on all my recent paintings: the sunrise, Cooper on the dunes, the stage, the tree. It was time to stop resisting change. To stop digging my heels in. Whether my paintings were ready or not, I needed to try.
I’d faced fear before. It was time to do it again, regardless of the outcome.
I stood at Cooper’s front door and knocked. His sister answered.
“Hi, Amelia,” I said.
“Hey. He’s not here.”
I hadn’t talked to Cooper since our fight on the beach two days ago. We’d get past it, I was sure. But right now wasn’t about Cooper and me. “That’s okay. I actually came over to see if I could borrow my painting back.”
“You’re going to show it to the art guy after all?” she asked with a big smile.
“Yes, actually.”
She clapped and bounced on the balls of her feet. “He’s going to love it.” She took me by the arm and pulled me through her house. Her parents were in the kitchen and I waved as I hurried past them.
The painting was on her wall, and she jumped onto her bed and helped me take it down.
“If it doesn’t sell, I want it back when the show is over.”
“Of course. I will bring it back that night or I’ll paint you a new one.”
She squeezed my hand. “Good luck, Abby.”
“I’m gonna need it.”
I hoped Mr. Wallace was otherwise occupied as I carried two of the five paintings into the building. My nerves were buzzing. Last time, I’d marched in here with my portfolio so sure that if he’d just look, he’d love them. Now, I didn’t know. I wasn’t even sure how I felt about them.
I wanted him to see all the paintings at once, so I snuck across the high-glossed tile of the museum. It felt like I was in some spy movie. I passed paintings hung on display and tried not to look at them. I was already intimidated. I didn’t need to compare myself to the professionals at the moment. A couple of patrons looked at me curiously as I passed, but I had yet to see Mr. Wallace.
The painting in my left hand was longer than the one in my right and it gave me an awkward gait. I reached his door and tried the handle. It was unlocked. And when I swung the door open, it was dark. I sighed in relief and flipped on the light. It was still as messy as ever, and like I’d hoped, the stack of broken easels still lined the wall on the right.
I carefully leaned my paintings against the closest wall and went to inspect the easels. I found five that if propped just right—one against the desk, two against each other, two against the wall—would hold my paintings. Then I rushed out and retrieved the others.
Sweat beaded along my lip as I finished placing them each on an easel. The tree on its large canvas was the centerpiece. I stepped back to analyze. My heart pounded hard in my chest. For a moment I allowed myself to look at them objectively, not as their creator. And in that moment I thought they were good. Really good.
I wiped at my upper lip with the back of my hand, steeled myself, then went to find Mr. Wallace. He was talking to a woman in a pantsuit. They stood in front of an impressionist painting. Maybe now wasn’t a good time. It would never be a good time. It had to be now. Now or never. He turned toward me.
I gave him a slight wave. The woman moved on to another painting and Mr. Wallace didn’t follow her. He waited. So I took the thirty steps between us.
“Are you busy?” I asked.
He glanced at the woman. “No. I didn’t think you worked today.”
“I don’t.”
“I need you starting Wednesday to help with prep work for the show. It’s coming fast.”
“I know. I’ll be here Wednesday.”
“Okay, good.” He started to walk away, like that was what I’d come to say.
“Wait,” I called a little too loudly. “Wait,” I said again, quieter. “I need to show you something.”
“What is it?”
“Follow me.” I led him toward his office.
“Did a mouse get into the storage room again?” he asked.
“No, no mouse.”
The doorknob was slippery. I wiped my palms on my jeans and took hold of it again. Then I opened the door and stepped aside, gesturing for him to go first. He did. I stood there for two beats with my eyes closed, then followed after him.
He saw them right away. They were impossible to miss. He walked to each one, analyzing them, not saying a word. I had taken up post by the door, like a guard. Maybe it was so I could run at the first sign of rejection. Maybe it was to give him a moment to process alone.
I swallowed hard, then stepped forward.
“These are yours?” Mr. Wallace asked.
“Yes.”
“They’re interesting.”
I wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing. “Yes, I’ve been working on emotion.”
“I can see that.”
“I want to be in the show. I want these pieces to be in the show.”
“I already informed the winning applicants. We’re full.”
My heart dropped to my feet, and I was so tempted to flee like I had last time. I didn’t. I stood my ground. “What? You said you weren’t doing that for a couple more days.”
“I did it early.” He looked at my tree painting again. “But . . .”
“But?”
“Maybe,” he continued, “we can analyze the layout and see if we can squeeze an extra artist onto the sales floor.”
“Yes? Is that a yes?”
“What happens if you get no offers?”
“I’ll be fine with that. I just want the opportunity.”
“You have a lot of drive, Abby.”
“Sometimes.”
“Okay, I want you to draw up a chart of a new layout that can include everyone and bring it in for me to approve.”
I clapped my hands together once. “So that’s a real yes.”
He smiled. “Yes.”
I let out a short scream and threw my arms around him. “Thank you so much!”
“This is not professional, Abby.” There was a smile in his voice.
I dropped my arms. “You’re right.” I gave him a handshake instead, pumping his hand way too enthusiastically. I couldn’t control the adrenaline coursing through me. “Thank you.” I started to rush the door before he changed his mind, but then I whirled back around, remembering my paintings.
“Just leave them here,” he said. “So you don’t have to haul them back in. Stack them against the wall. Did you bring some cloths?”
“I did.”
I made quick work of the paintings, then left in a blur of happy emotions.