Slamming the cover of my sketchbook shut, I felt like I’d just been caught with my hand in the cookie jar.
“Oh, good morning, Professor Lowen. It was remarkable. Thank you again for allowing me to travel back and forth to complete this project,” I said, smiling awkwardly.
“I spoke with Mr. Lightheart. He had nothing but great things to say, praising you as a major asset and expressing the students' excitement for performing Sweeney Todd. That was… a bold choice for a high school musical.”
“Yes, it is bold. But if it gets the students to participate, then bold is the right choice,” I replied. Professor Lowen murmured in agreement as he descended the stairs to his lectern.
I spent the next ninety minutes taking notes on set and prop design—not my first choice, but following the guidance of my academic advisor. She helped me map out myroadmap to success,as she so poetically put it, and together we decided that set and prop design would be perfect preparation for the casket business. I don’t want to take it over, but even I know it’s inevitable. If I have to inherit it, I might as well be good at making things look beautiful before they’re buried.
Between learning design principles, materials, and techniques, creating scale models, fabrication, and studying the history of various periods and movements, I will significantly expand my knowledge. Help shape me into someone who can make better decisions, such as designing caskets and sourcing ethical materials.
Class is wrapping up, so I put my belongings into my bag and head out the door toward the local bakery to meet Ansel for our every-Monday chocolate croissant and coffee date.
Ansel is already sitting outside at our favorite table, the one that provides just the right amount of shade, but still allows usto gossip and watch people as they pass by. Today is gorgeously overcast, and the temperature is perfect.
“So how are things with Sir O’s-a-lot going? Have you asked about your relationship status?” She giggles like a little schoolgirl at her name for Donovan.
“Ansel, things have been wonderful. We talk and text all day long, and video chat before bed. I feel like I’m back in high school, and we can’t get enough of each other. You know, the whole ‘you hang up first, no, you hang up first.’” She dramatically rolls her eyes and giggles while making gagging noises.
“Oh, shut it, Ansel. Revenge is a dish best served cold. Just wait until you fall in love!” I throw the last bite of my croissant at her, hitting her in the chest, and it falls down her lap, under the table.
“Howdare you, Stella Lenore Carrington! That is croissant abuse punishable by the death penalty.” Ansel fakes a Southern belle accent while fanning herself off.
We pick up our trash and toss it. With our coffee in hand, we start walking towards the apartment. Our yapping doesn’t stop. She is telling me about her classes and how she might take a summer class or two to graduate a little early.
As we pass Velvet Nails, the salon around the corner from the house, Ansel perks up. “Hey, we should go get mani-pedis this weekend.” I grin into my coffee. “That actually sounds perfect. A little pampering never hurts anyone.” She bites back a smile, almost shy. “Could we go Friday evening? I have a date with Colin on Saturday, and pretty nails would make me feel downright dangerous.”
“Ooh, Ansel and Colin sitting in a tree, K.I.S.S.I.N.—umph.” I nearly fall backward as I knock into a girl walking into said nail salon.
“Oh my gosh, I am so sorry! I should not walk backward and actually pay attention to what I am doing!” I say in a panic. “Please tell me you’re okay.”
Her eyes flick up, but don’t hold mine. “Yes, ma’am, I’m okay.” She hugs her bag closer and slips inside without another glance. Ansel and I giggle in embarrassment as we finish our walk to the apartment.
When Tuesday evening comes, Donovan and I are video chatting while a baseball movie plays. It’s not really my thing, but it’s his favorite, and I love watching the way his eyes light up every time he gets pulled into it.
He tries to explain different aspects of baseball, discussing curveballs and stolen bases, even replaying a scene to demonstrate how the pitcher grips the ball. I just nod along, pretending to understand.
“Uh-huh, very impressive,” I say, fighting a smile. “So basically it’s just men playing with their balls?”
Donovan chokes on a laugh, shaking his head. “You’re impossible.”
“But adorable,” I shoot back, grinning when he rolls his eyes.
The credits are rolling on the movie, and Donovan says, “Star, I hate to do this, but I have a super early and busy day tomorrow. I need to head to bed.”
“Oh, yeah, no problem, I should go to bed too,” I say to him with disappointment lacing my voice. “Goodnight, baby girl. I love you, and I will see you soon.”
After the call ends, I plug my phone into the charger and roll onto my side, pulling the body pillow against me. I wrap my arms around it, hook a leg over it, and cling to it like it might ease the ache of missing Donovan.
Donovan
My interview with Coach Headstrom isn’t really an interview at all. He doesn’t ask a single question. Instead, we walk the field while he shouts corrections at his JV players, his whistle cutting through the air.
He talks about football like it’s still in his blood, like he could run the drills himself if his body hadn’t betrayed him. He tells me about the glory days, about his shot at the big leagues. I already know the story; everyone in football knows it. Hearing it from him, however, feels different. The Maryland Reapers. Three consecutive Super Bowl wins. A fourth was within reach until one wrong tackle ended it all. A spinal cord injury, a career gone in a single fall.
Headstrom doesn’t linger on the tragedy. His eyes light up when he talks about Virginia Bay Prep, about the boys he’s coached into scholarships and NFL contracts. This school is a pipeline to the pros, and he knows it.
Finally, he turns to me. “I don’t want an assistant,” he says. “I want someone I can train to take over. A few years out, but I see it in you.”
