A beat, then that smile in his voice. “Hey, you.”
I groaned internally. I was going to have to figure out a way to get out of this because I actually liked Tash. And currently, she was the only one pencilling in plans on my social calendar.
“Hey, so Saturday. I might swing by. Just at Tash’s apartment?”
“Yep. Watching a Halloween movie. I’ll save you a spot on the couch.”
I winced. “Kay. I might have something else, but hopefully I’ll see you then. Thanks for the invite.”
I hung up, already feeling a little nauseous. I couldn’t tell if it was from talking with Garrett or because I’d been so hopeful it would be Logan’s voice sounding from the speaker.
“Very convincing,” Jenna said.
I flipped her the bird as I walked back to my room.
_____
On Friday morning, the studio smelled like wet plaster. Sunlight filtered through the high windows, hitting the dust motes that always danced there in the morning. Someone’s Walkman hissed quietly on the table, the tinny sound of Alanis bleeding through one earpiece. I would’ve turned it off, but I never wanted to mess with a part of anyone’s creative process.
My table looked like a battlefield: wire spools, bent pliers, a half-formed armature that could’ve been a bird, a broken umbrella, or a paranormal creature. I’d been here since eight and it was nearly noon. Everything I’d made reminded me of Michelangelo’s half-formed carvings, except nobody was going to display my partial creations in Florence.
I twisted another length of wire, the metal biting into my thumb. I muttered a curse under my breath. This was supposed to be a piece about tension—about dichotomies and paradox—but right now it was really only about me wanting to throw things. I stepped back, squinted, tilted my head like that might help.
Nope. Still a sad coat hanger.
I scrapped it. Again.
Maybe I was just tired. Or maybe my looming graduation date with zero prospects and shitty social life was scraping out my proverbial creative bucket. I didn’t want to give credence to that thought. That would mean my well of inspiration was out of my control. For an artist, that idea was more terrifying than meeting a bear in the woods.
I ran a hand through my hair and caught on a strand of hardened plaster. For one ridiculous second, I pictured myself marching to the nearest salon and asking them to shave it all off. No more pink highlights or cute curtain bangs. Just a new beginning.
It was a fun thought experiment, but I wasn’t that brave, so I tied it up and grabbed more plaster strips.
Kyle strode in and picked up his Walkman, settled the headphones over his head, and picked up where he left off on his project across the room. It looked to be the size of a lawnmower. The sheer confidence was enviable.
Maybe that was all I needed. A little moreje ne c’est quoi. A bit of hubris, less identity crisis. Wasn’t that how everyone I knew landed their internships and assistant positions? I was already spinning fantasies in my head of meeting Norman Marcus if Logan followed up. What I would wear, what version of myself Norman would be interested in.
But the odds of Logan actually getting me an intro were slim to none. Especially after how I’d treated him at Co-op. Though he had brought it up at the checkout line.
No. I didn’t need to get my hopes up.
I slipped my fingers over the cool plaster, removing the excess from the strip and letting it drip onto the newspaper-covered tabletop. It wasn’t the end of the world. If I didn’t get some magical connection, grad school was the fallback.UBC, maybe. McGill, if I got brave. Master’s in Art History or Curatorial Studies. Two more years to figure this all out.
The plaster strip stiffened in my hand. I pressed it against the armature, watched it take shape. Maybe that’s just what artists did. We built ourselves like we built our art. Creating something fragile, over and over again, until something finally held.
_____
A half hour later, I rinsed my hands in the sink until the water ran clear, flakes of plaster circling the drain. I stacked my tools, wiped down the table, and took one last look at the half-finished sculpture. From this angle, it almost looked intentional. Almost.
Outside, the sky had dimmed to that flat grey that meant snow or rain or both. I shoved my hands into my coat pockets and headed toward the path that cut across campus. The cold bit at my nose.
“MacMillan!”
I turned to see Axel and Rory coming out of the North Centre. Both wore their Outlaws jackets, hockey bags slung over one shoulder. Behind them was another guy who was a little taller with darker hair, and?—
I sucked in a breath.
It took me a second to place him since it was so out of context, but that was number twelve. Jake. From the invitational last spring. When we’d returned our cafeteria trays after sledding, and made out by the dish return slot, right between the industrial sinks.
