“Um…well, I figured I would tap into some profound, traumatic feeling and the art would just…happen. So I suppose we’re just waiting for that.” Liz’s expression doesn’t falter, but it deepens. I’m thankful for the lack of pity she shows, realizing she’s far too seasoned for that. It’s refreshing to open up, just a tiny bit, and be met with nothing but curiosity.
“I agree that sometimes, we need to take a step back and allow the emotion to surface,” Liz nods gently, “but we must also be mindful that we’re not simply procrastinating either. Is there something holding you back from chasing down that feeling yourself?” I shrug as if the answer to that is easy, that it doesn’t cause my throat to tighten and my eyes to remain glued to her face.
“Well, I’m not the artist.”
“What do you mean?” Liz tilts her head, that curiosity deepening further. Probing further. I dig deeper, finding myself wanting to give her a little more. This is more soul searching than any therapist has been able to get out of me. Looking out across the room, I see my canvas, white and painfully empty.
“You’ve asked for a piece on self-expression, but I’m not the artist. I’m the backdrop. I have no control over the emotions that surface. They’re controlled by the man who took me, who stole everything from me.”
A ripple of discomfort shifts through the room. I don’t care to see who flinches, only who doesn’t. Reid watches me closely now, his gaze piercing mine as I lick my lips.
“You believe your captor to be in control of you,” Liz comments evenly. She doesn’t ask for more or try to change my mind. I turn my head towards her.
“Of course. He defines me. His accomplishments are all the media talks about, the how and the why. They want the gory details and another headline to print. The students around here treat me as if I asked to be taken and tortured, as if I deserved it. It’s not like I wanted to know how beautifully I could bleed, but Harrison showed me anyway. I’ve been bleeding out ever since, just no one notices anymore. Survival isn’t interesting.”
A muscle jumps in my neck, my jaw aching with the resistance of bursting into tears. Inhaling deeply, I sink my gaze into the chipped groove of a nearby desk. A wash of numbness carries through me, my limbs becoming heavy once again.
The room is silent, no one daring to so much as cough. I stand there long enough to feel awkward, preparing to walk out of that door and never come back. I’ll have to drop art, and with it, resign myself to dropping out of the academy. I was a fool to think I could do this. Stupid to think I could survive him.
“I’m his creation now. I’m ingrained with the narrative he authored. I can’t express myself, and I can’t complete this task.”
“I agree,” Liz says. My head whips towards her face, a sharp inhale sounding that didn’t come from me. My pulse thrums in my ears, a weight sinking in my gut. “You can’t put a single paint stroke on that canvas because it won’t be you painting. I understand that now. We’re not going to give space to your demons until you have control over them.”
“So…what do I do now?” I ask quietly, almost forgetting a room full of people are watching my impromptu therapy session. I sense Reid though, my ears catching the idle tapping of fingers against the wood of his desk. If I weren’t hanging on Liz’s next words, I’d make a sarcastic quip about being sorry for boring him with my pain. Liz scratches her cheek in thought, the bangles on her wrist clinking together.
“You’re going to take back your story. Leave it with me.”
Happy with that, I nod and excuse myself back to the safety of my seat. On the way passed, I glimpse a look at Reid’s canvas, which has been turned slightly away from the room. As I knew it would be, given his usual art style, dark strokes have been splashed across the frame in deep blues and bruised purples, a pencil drawing taking place underneath. I can’t make it out, but it’ll be something unsettling no doubt.
As if disturbed by my lingering, Reid rolls his shoulders and cracks his neck. Seemingly waiting for me to take my seat, he stands unannounced, grabbing his bag and leaving the room. No one aside from me seems confused by his departure, and I bet, no one else takes it as a personal insult.
I just stood before him and poured my heart out. I just gave this studio more of me than anyone else, and he leaves? I huff irritably, but manage to talk myself down from taking off after him. Good riddance. Now I can brood in peace.
Chapter Twenty Five
“Okay, I’m caving.” I lean against the lockers and sigh into my phone. “I don’t really know what to say. I don’t know what I can say that will take back everything I said the other night. I was drunk, and stupid, and wrong. I didn’t mean any of it. I just…I miss you, Thi. I miss having you on my side. Everything is going to shit over here, but that’s not why I’m calling. I know I’ve fucked it all up between us. I know I’ve hurt you, and I need you to know that you’re a good guy. You’re better than good. You’re compassionate, smart, far too hot for a nerd. I was lucky to have known you.”
The beep cuts my voicemail short and a lump forms in my throat. I’ve been thinking of what to say to Thiago all day, shouldhe answer my call. I knew he wouldn’t. I wouldn’t have picked up either. Pacing the narrow strip of tile, I slip my phone into my locker and take a moment to sink onto the wooden bench in the center of the room.
It’s been a whirlwind of emotion since leaving the art room. Liz offered me acceptance and patience, two things that have been sorely lacking amongst everyone else I’ve encountered between the cafeteria and the stadium. Even without the scorns, the guilt bubbles up in random intervals, my mind constantly wondering if Laura is suffering. I’ve toyed with retreating to my room many times, but what good would that do? It’s not like everyone on this campus didn’t carry on with their lives when I went missing.
Alas, there’s only so long I can stall by staring at my cleats, so I dig up my resolve, push upright and stride out onto the field, braced for impact. Although, instead of whispers and side glances, I’m met with the team already jogging laps, sticks in hand. I stand and watch, shocked that the women are mixed amongst the men, a light sense of camaraderie filtering between them. Upon spotting me, the group slows to a stop, seeming to be watching for my instruction. That’s when I notice what’s missing.
“Where’s Everest?”
“He has a family commitment,” Claire pipes up from further back. I probably shouldn’t be petty, but when Samson speaks, I direct my attention to him instead. I’ll take blockhead jock over backstabbing ex-friend any day.
“We’re under strict instruction to behave. So, what should we do first, Captain?” He steps forward and hands me Everest’s whistle. For a moment, I just stand there, the whistle hanging uselessly between my fingers, staring at the twenty-odd faces waiting for my command. Is this a test? A figure shifts in myperipheral vision, Coach Collingwood hovering in the stands and watching on. Yes, this is definitely a test.
I’d prepared myself to argue with him today, to snarl through drills and pretend we weren’t both stubborn enough to burn the whole team down just to win a disagreement. Instead, there’s only open turf and expectation stretching out in front of me. The wind lifts the loose strands of my ponytail, carrying the faint smell of cut grass, and I realize they’re all still waiting.
“Warm-ups are done?” I ask, mostly to buy myself another second to gather my thoughts. A few nods ripple through the group, sticks tapping idly against thighs. They’re behaving alright, but they’re quickly growing bored. Okay, let’s see how this goes.
“Start with some offensive transition drills. Two lines on the fifty, clean passes between rotations. I’m going to be looking at your skillsets to start picking out positions, starting with the midfielders.” Lifting the whistle to my lips, its shrill sound pierces the air and the team breaks apart instantly, falling into formation with a speed that surprises me. There’s no argument, no sarcastic commentary about my authority. They simply move.
For the first few runs, I hang back near the sideline, watching the pace unfold. Sticks flash in the afternoon light as the ball zips between players, arcs of white tape and muscle colliding in quick bursts of movement. I’ll give them a B+ for effort, but they still aren’t working as a team. They’re going head to head as individuals, each pass a little too fast and far too aggressive. We’re not going to make it to our first match without half the team sitting out due to broken bones at this rate. Whistling again, I bark orders, my voice carrying across the pitch.
“Mitchell! You’re not headlining a one-man show! Use your damn teammates!” Mitchell gives me a side glance and rubs the back of his neck instead of flipping me off like I know hewants to. Resetting the lines, they start again. The same pattern emerges within minutes. Samson dodges the ball when a pass would be smarter. Danny lunges for a dramatic interception instead of holding his formation.
