“I’m happy to be back too.”
“You’re taking a gap year, right?” She opens the door to one of the supply closets, and I follow her into the cramped, overstocked space.
“Yup.”
“That will be good for you,” she says, scanning the shelves to find what she’s looking for. “No need to decide too quick if you’re not sure.”
“Exactly,” I say. “I’m not in a rush to get back to school.”
“I think you’ll thrive as a teacher.” She hands me a tray of empty paint containers, their white lids stained rainbow from years of use. “You were always so organized, and so delighted to be here and pitch in with the group projects.”
“Thanks.” I brace myself as she piles two more trays on top of the one I’m already holding. Then she picks up a couple big buckets of paint and gestures with her chin to one of the wide tables in the studio.
We repeat this process until the table is covered with trays. Then we pour an even amount of color from each of the paint buckets into the containers. Each kid will get their own small set of primary colors to keep in their cubby. I always ran out of yellow first, and Luke was always stealing my black. Iris explains her teaching plan while we work. It sounds like I have flexibility to do basically whatever I want with my group of seven- to nine-year-olds, though she gives me a few examples of projects to start with.
“So, what’s this fellowship you’re doing?” I ask as we finish putting lids on the little jars.
“Oh, I’m so thrilled.” She blows a stray bit of hair out of hereyes and stretches her back after she rests the heavy blue paint bucket back on the ground. “It’s six weeks in Paris. The cohort is small, only five other artists, and every week one person leads a group workshop about their particular craft as we work on individual projects on our own time. There’s a small gallery funding it, and they run a show before we leave. Galerie Jeanne Fontaine. We get free access to all the museums in the city, French lessons if we need them, and there’s even a cooking class, which I’m so excited for. We’re all living in our own apartments in this beautiful old town house with a gorgeous garden, and have studios at an artists’ cooperative, so we meet local artists too.” She pauses for a breath and then puts her hand to her forehead. “Oh gosh, I’m so sorry, listen to me, just going on and on. It seems even at fifty-six you can still get giddy over the things you love.” She chuckles.
“Wow.” I’m a little stunned by how wonderful it sounds. “That’s amazing.”
“You know, you don’t need a degree to apply,” Iris says. “They hold a few spots for artists under twenty-five. You should apply for next year. You could probably get credit for it, too, if you do go to school afterward.”
“Really?” It sounds beyond wild, the idea of going off to Paris instead of taking summer classes so I can be “caught up” before I start college.
“Definitely! I’ll help you apply. What have you been working on these days? Your watercolor landscapes?”
“Mostly those, yes. Though I’ve been playing a little with portraits.”
“I love that. Show me!”
I pull out my phone and show her the art I’ve shared on Instagram. She’s too nice,oohing andaahing over the painting of Abbi I’ve been working on, but it’s encouraging. We talk for a little while longer about the work she’ll be doing in Paris and what my classmates were up to last year as I help Iris with another few tasks around the studio. By the time we’re all set up, I feel comfortable in the room and know at least the first week of plans for what I’ll be picking up when Iris leaves.
“Think about the fellowship.” Iris nudges me as she locks up and hands me the spare keys. “You could submit a series of portraits—they just need to follow a specific theme.”
“I will,” I promise.
We walk back along the path to the entrance together. Iris leaves me at my bike. It’s getting close to dinner, but I still have a little time before I need to be home to help. I turn back and take a photo of camp, the complex quiet and waiting for students. I want to text it to Luke—he’d understand how weird it is to see the place so vacant. I post it to my IG story instead. Before I can even put my phone away it pings, but it’s not Luke, it’s Jackson. He’s liked the story and sent a thumbs-up, and I can see that he’s typing.
Jackson
I’m going to the Northport drive-in movie thing next Wednesday night. See you there?
My stomach flips. I skipped his volleyball game yesterday to go to the beach with Maddy because I wasn’t sure he was really interested. But then I remember the way Jackson’s mouthquirked up as he looked at me, and my promise to myself that I’ll be open to something new. At least it’s not confusing. He wants to spend time with me, plus he’s hot, and I would like to see him again. Before I can second-guess myself any more, I send a response.
Sera
Yes! I’ll be there
*
That night, paint stained onto the tips of my fingers, I fill my family in on the idea of maybe applying for the fellowship. We’re cleaning up after dinner, and it seems like everyone is relaxed enough to have this conversation.
“I can work on my submission pieces after camp,” I say. “Iris said she could recommend me too. And if I get in, maybe I should wait a little longer before applying to college, like maybe another year? I could just focus on my art and staying healthy.”
I can feel them all looking at each other around me and I pretend not to notice as I take another wet plate from Abbi, dry it off. School is important to my parents. Abbi taking a semester off last fall was the worst-case scenario, and it was Dr.Lee’s idea to take a gap year, supported by my therapist and the school counselor. I haven’t been able to find a way to tell them that the idea of going back into some kind of formal classroom fills me with dread. Unlike other kids my age, I likely won’t be getting a job in four years; I could be preparing for a hearttransplant and the uncertainty and recovery that comes with that. I don’t really know how much time I have to just do what I want, and I don’t want to waste it.
I look over at Mom standing at the kitchen island. She swirls her wine and thinks it over. Dad’s wiping down the kitchen table. They look at each other, communicating something with their eyes.
