I could take it. I would be the master of things that sucked.
At least that was one thing I could be good at.
And then I realized even that wasn’t true.
My professor motioned me over, and dread filled me. “Sara?” She crossed her arms, leaning against the front of her long, worn desk.
“Professor Alden?” I pulled my sweater tighter around me, because I was always cold these days, even in the dead of summer. Today I was freezing.
“I received a phone call this week.” Her eyes searched my face, and I waited as she buried the lead.
It used to make me so anxious knowing someone was about to drop a bomb on me,waiting for the worst-case scenario—waiting for the proverbial other shoe to drop. But the thing was, I’d already experienced the worst-case scenario because nothing could be worse than the long pause the doctor had taken before he told us my mother hadn’t made it. It was one of those moments where I knew, before the words had ever left his mouth. Maybe there was some sort of energetic bond that had been severed the moment my mother had taken her last breath. I didn’t know.
What could Professor Alden say that was worse than that? Nothing. Literally nothing.
So, in a way, I felt invincible now. Nothing could hurt me because there was no room for any more of anything. Pain, happiness, grief—I was full to the brim. No get-out-of-jail card for me.
“I believe you sold your first painting over the holidays?” Professor Alden asked, concern still lacing her expression, as if allmy thoughts were on broadcast. I swallowed hard. How did she even know that? “I’d like to help you get that shipped to the buyer.”
I took a deep breath, knowing I couldn’t really say no. “Okay.”
She reached out and touched my arm. “You doing okay?” I only nodded, leaning a hip against her desk. I feltsofatigued today, needed to sit. Desperately. “Have you picked up a brush yet?” I’d picked up the brush many times, but I knew what she meant, and I shook my headno. “Why not?” She asked curiously.
I knew she meant well, but I was so over this conversation. I picked at my nails, trying to figure out how to explain it—my nails, I realized, had never been this clean, this paint-free. “Nothing interesting enough to paint.” I shrugged indifferently, rather than explaining that I was all dark and twisty, all fucked up inside. Ruined. Probably for good.
She nodded, and I knew she was about to lower the axe. “Sara, I’m going to give you an assignment, and it will account for your entire grade this semester.”
I was slightly surprised by the panic rising in my throat. So much for not caring.
She pointed to a big bucket next to her desk. “Your semester assignment is to use this entire bucket of paint. No exceptions.” I stared at the bucket, totally confused. It was just cheap wall paint from the hardware store. It wasn’t even a good color… Ineverused black in my pieces.
“I’m not going to be grading you on your technique.” She watched me closely. “You’ll be graded based on the amount of paint left in the bucket.”
“Professor?”
“If you use fifty percent of the paint, you’ll get a fifty percent, if you use seventy-five percent, you’ll get a seventy-five percent. My only stipulation is that you must use the paint on a canvas.” She added with a narrowing of her eyes. “Or many canvases, I don’t care. You just can’t pour it out somewhere. Understood?”
Dread filled my stomach. It wassomuch fucking paint. I hadn’t even been able to go through a tiny little tube the past several months, and this, this was impossible—no, that didn’t even cover it. This wasinsurmountable.
I couldn’t do it. I was going to fail my class.
“Sara?” A lump lodged itself so deep in my throat, I couldn’t even swallow, so I just nodded. “Meet me here an hour before class tomorrow, and I’ll bring a moving truck to transport your painting.”
I gasped as I hefted the bucket up with two hands, realizing how heavy it really was. How the hell was I going to get this down to my studio?
“And Sara—I want you to carry that bucket around until it’s empty. Everywhere you go.”
“What?”My mouth dropped open. “It’sreallyheavy, Professor Alden.” Did she know how weak I was? That I was on the verge of passing out, like, all the time?
“I know.” She smiled. “That’s the point. You can do this, Sara. Just get the paint onto a canvas. That’s it.” She went back to the papers she was grading as if she hadn’t just handed me a death sentence.
Now, the neck of my artistic career was stretched across the executioner’s block, and she seemed indifferent to the fact that I was incapable of moving my head—not before the axe dropped anyway.
The next morning, with my painting loaded up, Professor Alden drove us to the post office, and when we got there, it dawned on me I didn’t even have Carter’s address.
Shit.
“Is something wrong?” Professor Alden asked.
