"I acknowledge that accepted entries will be displayed publicly in Gallery B of The Architectural League of New York and grant exhibition display rights for the duration of the show."
My cursor pauses.
I click it.
The form activates the submit button. I move the cursor over. Click.
The screen refreshes.
Submission sent
I pick up my phone. Open a new message to Sam.
Type: "Just submitted —"
I stop.
What if she walks into that room and understands what these photos say about me?
That I celebrate roots. That despite living like a nomad, I celebrate other people who put down roots.
I delete the text. Put the phone face down on my desk.
My laptop chimes. A new email notification.
I open it. Automated submission receipt.
Thank you for your submission to Urban Identity and Grassroots Transformation. Accepted entries will be displayed in Gallery B. The jury will review all submissions and notify accepted artists by email.
Roots. Same venue same night.
I am really doing this.
Chapter forty-six
Sam
The bell chimes when I push the door open.
The framing shop is narrow—maybe twelve feet wide—with moldings lining the walls floor to ceiling. Mat boards stacked in tall vertical bins along one wall. A scarred wooden worktable sits in the middle.
The framer looks up from whatever he's working on. Late sixties, tape measure clipped to his belt, glasses low on his nose. He sets down his tools and gestures toward the table.
"Let's see them."
Tom pulls a small photo from an envelope. Four by six. Tucked carefully inside.
I frown before I can stop myself. "Tom, your work is beautiful. You should print it bigger. Show it off."
He looks at me, expression calm. "Not this one."
I tilt my head, curious, but he doesn't elaborate. Just hands the photo to the framer.
The framer looks at it. Studies it for a long second, lifting it slightly closer to the light. Then he looks up at me, the corner of his mouth shifting just slightly.
"This you?"
I blink. "What?"
