Olivia nodded, a plume of defense rising in her chest. “It’s why I’m here.”
Ben scoffed. “Then sit.” His voice was angry.
“Excuse me?”
“Sit down with it, Olivia.” He paused. “Sit still, and contemplate it. Look at it. Run your hands over it. Your work will speak to you. But you have to sit still with it so you can listen.”
She waited, unsure of what to do. Olivia did not like being told what to do. But this was different; Ben was urging her. And she understood.
“Bah.” He shook his head in frustration and made his way to the door. She feared he might slam the door, but he paused. “I have reserved six spaces at the gallery,” he said gruffly. He jabbed his finger at his tarped sculpture in the center of the floor. “That is not ready.”
Olivia understood: he had only five sculptures to show.
She waited until the door creaked closed on its hinges. Until Ben’s footsteps on the gravel grew distant. From her position on the stairs, Olivia could see outside. The cottage was not on fire. There was no one crying for her attention or her help, at least not yet. She set the studio mail down on the bottom step. Quickly, before she could change her mind, she crossed the barn floor to her worktable and whisked the cover off her sculpture.
Olivia studied the clay length of the wrist she’d sculpted. It was narrow and long, both familiar and not at all a part of her. Much like her mother. Growing up seeing her mother’s pictures, she was always struck by the elegance of her long fingers and slender wrists. Holding a glass of wine. A cigarette. And in one rare picture of the two of them together, holding Olivia on her lap. Her father, Pierre, often said with a note of sadness, “You have her hands.” Now she placed her fingers gently on the sculpture and closed her eyes. The clay wrist was cold to the touch. But Olivia knew. All it would take was the warmth of her own hands. The strength of her fingertips. And it would yield in her desired direction.
Resigned, she reached for the canvas cover and draped it over the sculpture. If only her life could be shaped as such.
Emma
Her life was over. Not only was she a social pariah, but her parents were never going to let her out of their sight. Assuming they could stand to look at her to begin with.
The morning after Amanda Hastings’s party, she awoke with a pounding skull. Her mouth was a desert. Emma reached for the glass of water by her bed and gulped it down. The sunlight streaming in the window was blinding, and she winced, pulling the pillow over her head. But something else was causing her head to pound; something that gnawed at the edges of her memory.
In small flashes, the night came back to her. She and Alicia had gone to Amanda’s. As soon as they arrived, she’d felt uneasy. They’d stood, just the two of them, outside on the deck, sipping cans of beer. It got better when they went inside. Some of the other sophomore guys from her class were playing cards at the kitchen island. It was there Alicia had discovered margaritas. Boy, had she. At first Emma was glad, because Alicia was being such a bore.
After one margarita, she loosened up. After two, she got downright silly, and that’s when the party started to get interesting. Then Chet arrived. Emma wasn’t sure if her buzz came from the beer, or from Chet’s arrival and the moment Amanda walked in and saw him talking to Emma and Alicia in her living room. Finally, Emmahad some social credibility. And then, later, there was the moment, with Sully. Emma’s insides went fuzzy when she recalled sitting with him on the deck. How close he was. The way he looked at her under the floodlights. It was different, different in a way that felt right and good. Until Alicia threw up over the deck railing.
After that, Emma’s memory got disjointed. She remembered Sully had helped. Chet had not been happy, and at some point in the night he ended up picking Alicia up and carrying her to his car over his shoulder. Emma was embarrassed by the scene, but also invigorated. She was with Chet, a beloved graduate and college student. He would take care of Alicia. And handling it alongside him made it all seem okay.
But this was where things got dicey. Instead of going home with Chet and Alicia, Emma had decided to stay. That was where she had a feeling something went wrong.
After Chet and Alicia left, she’d headed back to the party. But it was winding down. She found Sully and Kyle with some of the others inside. The keg was kicked. Someone had broken out the hard alcohol from Mr. Hastings’s bar and they’d started a poker game. Strip poker.
Emma’s buzz had largely worn off at that point, and she knew she shouldn’t press her luck. She’d guzzled a glass of water and tried to eat some pretzels. But then Sully invited her to play. Next to him, on the couch. His hand on her knee.
And then someone passed a bottle of Jägermeister around the table. Everyone was drinking from it. Why not? she’d thought. Emma tipped it back, then wiped her mouth on the back of her hand. It tasted like crap, and she’d had to force the nasty licorice-tasting liquid down. But the hot buzz that followed came fast, and when the bottle came back around the table she found herself taking another swig. The rest was all a haze.
As she lay in bed, trying to remember how she got home and what time it had been, there was a knock at her bedroom door. Emma sat up. Too fast, and the bed started to spin. “What?” she managed. She really hoped she wouldn’t throw up.
Her mother poked her head in. “Hey, honey. It’s eleven thirty. You feeling okay?”
Emma lay back down, shielding her eyes. “Sorry. Slept in.”
Amelia pushed the door ajar and glanced around the room. She looked concerned. “What time did you get in last night?”
Emma closed her eyes. Was it lying if you really had no idea?
“Sorry, I think I was a little late.”
“What happened to Alicia staying over?”
Her stomach roiled and she rolled over to face the wall. “She was really tired and Chet was there, so she went home with him.”
“Oh.” This seemed to make her mother more concerned. “Did you two have a fight or something?”
“Mom. We’re fine.” Emma really wished her mom would stop asking questions. As it was, her head throbbed every time she had to speak. Lying, it turned out, hurt even more. “I’ll text her later,” she added for good measure.
