“You should join us,” I say to Noah as we turn down my street.
“No, that’s okay,” he insists. “Spend some quality time with your family.”
“Are you sure?” I ask.
He nods, eyes glued to the road. “Yeah, as long as you call me immediately after your audition, even if I’m in class.”
I laugh, the sound light and airy as wind chimes. “I will. I promise.”
When we pull into the driveway, Dad comes stumbling out of the front door in house slippers to help me carry the painting inside. Once propped up against the base of the dining room wall, he and Mom gawk at it.
After several long beats, Mom says, “Maeve, it’s extraordinary.”
My eyes burn at the compliment, throat tight against my next words. “Thank you.”
“Have you always been this good?” Dad asks, a joking lilt to his voice.
“Definitely not,” I answer honestly, finding a Cheshire Cat grin upon his face. “I just put everything I had into this one.”
“It shows,” Mom notes, pride sparkling in her gaze as it lingers on the painting before swinging to me. “Come now, let’s eat.”
“What are we having?” I ask Dad.
“Vegetable pad thai.”
I whirl on him. “A vegetarian meal?”
He laughs merrily. “Yes. Not a single slice of meat in sight. Just for you.”
I hug him as tight as I can and silently thank every deity I’ve ever heard of, and those I haven’t.
I swallow against a tidal wave of nausea as I rub my palms together. Dad just dropped me off in front of one of the main academic buildings of Lizbeth College of the Arts. It was a long two-hour drive to get to the small, sleepy town of Rockrose, home to theprestigious arts college. I’d felt like puking the entire ride, especially after seeing how beautiful the campus was.
But this isn’t the time to be doubting myself.
The tall red brick building looming over me is daunting, yes, but I’ve been intimidated my entire life. I can do this. As I readjust my slickened grip on the two-wheeled tote cart carrying all of my painting supplies, I reach forward and push a set of heavy wooden doors open. I walk in as they whine on their hinges, my cart trailing behind me.
The main lobby is large and spacious, the décor simple. An abundance of flourishing potted plants pepper the room, and there’s a comfy-looking, neutral-toned study nook in the corner, but the lighting is mysteriously dark, the shadows long and reaching. It sends a sense of foreboding slithering down my spine, especially considering the tall, untinted windows that frame the space. Suppressing a shiver, I turn my gaze to the front desk.
“Hi,” I say to the receptionist in a high-pitched tone that couldn’t possibly be any further from my normal voice. Suddenly, my breaths are coming in too fast, so I do the only thing I can think of in the moment. I pinch my lips closed and breathe through my nose, forcing my lungs to slow down.I can do this.“I’m Maeve Johnson. I have an audition scheduled for noon.”
Despite my quivering chin, the receptionist smiles at me. “Ah, yes. Welcome Ms. Johnson,” she says as she stands and gestures to the hallway on her right. “Right this way.” I follow her through a slender, wood-paneled hallway until we come to a stop before a closed classroom door.
“Your audition will be proctored in this room. Would you like something while you wait?” she asks. “Water? Coffee? Tea?”
“Water would be lovely. Thank you,” I reply before gluing my lips back together.
Her eyes, warm and kind, soften further as she nods. “Of course, I’ll be right back.”
She saunters away, leaving me in the hallway alone. It dawns on me then. My anxiety is dangerously high, threatening to send me into a panic attack. I switch breathing techniques, forcing my breath in through my nose and out through my mouth to counts of ten, but it doesn’t help. Giving up, I try a different exercise, one to help ground me in the moment. I find five things I can see: wooden door, brass handle, flickering light bulb, ripped flyer, dusty window. Four things I can hear: birds chirping happily outside, the heavy, rhythmic footsteps of someone walking down the hall, the steady hum of electricity, and the shaky breath coming in and out of my lungs. Three things I can feel: the soft fabric of my sweater, the sweat drenching my underarms, and the stuffy air blowing from a vent to my left. Two things I can smell: lemony hardwood polish and the briny tang of stale paint.
The receptionist returns with a bottle of water just as I’m finishing the exercise. One thing I can taste: cool, refreshing water. I swallow a large gulp and note that I’m feeling slightly better now, more centered and in control of my body.
“Ms. Johnson,” a young man says as he approaches me. “I’ll be your audition proctor. I’m Daniel. It’s nice to meet you.” He’s tall and thin with shaggy strawberry-blond hair and an equally unkempt beard. His gaze is sharp as he appraises me.
“Please, call me Maeve.” I shake his hand, silently hoping he doesn’t notice how clammy mine is.
We enter the small classroom one after the other. It’s almost empty, apart from a handful of chairs and a small wooden table. Quickly, Daniel rearranges the table and chairs, placing the table in the middle of the room and moving all of the chairs to one corner. Out of his worn leather shoulder bag, he grabs a handful of fruit and a swath of silky blue fabric. He arranges the propsatop the table and motions for me to take the seat before it with an open hand.
