Cliff wasn’t sure what had happened, but he knew he had to get out of there. He grabbed his backpack from behind the chair. It was surprisingly heavy.
Oh, right. A sweat-drenched stolen shirt weighed it down.
6
BRENNAN
“What. the. Fucking. Fuck.”
Brennan was not a morning person. Waking up was a process to him, like a butterfly emerging from a cocoon. He attributed his lackluster high school performance to the fact that the school day had the audacity to start at seven-thirty.
He did not take to bombshells lightly in the morning, and so he considered it a personal attack when two days later, his phone pinged at six-sixteen a.m. with an email from Paul.
Usually, I am loath to self-promotion, which I personally think is anathema to the act of creation. My agent says otherwise. That being said, I am tickled by this write-up on my latest showcase inArt Miami. (See link below) It’s a feeling like no other when someone gets your work and recognizes talent.
It wasn’t even to Brennan. He was BCC’d, which felt like its own separate slap in the face.
Brennan supposed he should appreciate being included, but he would require two cups of black coffee before he could take the high road.
Later that morning, and three cups of coffee in his system, Paul’s email continued to take up valuable real estate in Brennan’s mind. Paul knew that Brennan wasn’t a morning person; was this email purposefully sent at ass o’clock to fuck with him?
Brennan sat in the art studio nestled in the new wing of Gorman Hall. It was a cavernous workshop dotted with large tables, easels, and a bountiful collection of supplies. Art students had twenty-four hour access with their keycards, and for those living in cramped dorms and cramped off-campus apartments, the space was a godsend. Brennan was fortunate to have his loft, but it could feel too quiet at times.
In front of him was his latest project, only partially conceived. A few errant brush strokes and plastic forks glued onto the canvas. What sounded like a good idea in his head turned out to be abject shit in reality.
Hmm, he imagined Paul saying to him, as he had done whenever he showed him a new creation. His lips would purse like he was Meryl Streep inThe Devil Wears Prada. And from there, the criticisms would start.
And seeing that Paul got written up inArt Miami, he probably knew what he was talking about.
Brennan didn’t want to compare himself to Paul. He knew comparison was the killer of joy. He knew all of the platitudes he was supposed to say to himself. Too bad they didn’t work. Paul’s bullshit was a black cloud in his mind that blocked out the sun.
“All right, I’m intrigued.” His classmate Rachel sidled up to him. She had bushy brown hair and a Queen Bee-meets-Mother Hen aura about her. She nudged her chin at his mostly blank canvas. “What are you going for?”
“Oh, I’m still figuring that out.” The more he stared at his trainwreck of a canvas, the more frustrated he got with himself. “Something about waste and hunger.”
Themes he covered in past work. He was already repeating himself.
“Interesting.” Rachel nodded politely.
“It could be. It’s still a hot mess.”
“I have some weed if you need inspiration. Or Xanax. Or Lexipros. Or Adderall. It depends what direction you want to go in.”
He snorted. “Thanks.”
“Or maybe you just need to hop into bed with someone.” Her big eyes fixated on him while wearing a suggestive smile.
“I’m gay.”
“Oh. Huh. Usually my gaydar is better.” She threw wild tendrils of hair out of her face.
“I’m a late bloomer. Didn’t come out until college. So you weren’t totally off base.” Brennan appreciated the attention, and he hoped that made things more comfortable. The last thing he wanted was to make enemies in his new program.
Fortunately, Rachel laughed the whole thing off and covered part of her face with her hair. Brennan gave her props for being so forthright.
“My advice still stands, and it’s backed by medical research. My parents are sex therapists.”
Brennan was today years old when he learned that was an actual profession that people got paid for, and not something made up for movies.
