“Grab lunch after?”
“Maybe.”
He grins, and it’s the full version this time, not the slow one. “Well, if your maybe turns into a yes, let me know.”
“Kay.”
He nods once, glances at Cinna with a polite half-wave, and keeps walking. I watch him go.
Cinna grabs my arm. “Oh my God.” She’s doing the girl-giggle thing, bouncing a little on her heels. “Who was that?”
My face is warm. “Just a guy in my watercolor class.”
“Just a guy, sure. He wants to take you to a botanical garden and buy you lunch. That’s a date.”
“It’s not a date. We have an assignment.”
She’s grinning so wide her eyes are almost shut; I think she lives for relationship drama. “You’re going, right?”
“Probably not. I don’t want to date anyone. I just like the flirty thing I have with Tyler. It’s innocent, you know?”
Cinna raises an eyebrow. “Hookups can be innocent.”
I laugh and swat her arm. “Stop.”
She laughs too and links her arm through mine, and we keep walking. I’m still smiling when we step inside our class building, but my attention shifts to the bulletin board near the entrance. I usually glance at it as I come and go, hoping for anything interesting. Today, I find it.
“Hold on.” I stop in front of the board because a large flyer has caught my eye. The flyer reads:The Alaria Annual Prize for Rising Artists.
The flyer is printed on heavy cream cardstock, the kind that costs money to produce, with the university’s seal embossed in gold at the top. I step closer to read the details.
Open to second-year students and above. Submit one original work in any medium. Entries due November 15th. All winners and honorable mentions will be featured in the spring exhibition. First prize: mentorship meeting with a visiting curator from the Museum of Modern Art and $5,000 cash. Second prize: featured placement in the spring exhibition and $2,500 cash. Third prize: materials scholarship for the following semester.
I knew the competition existed, obviously. Everyone in the art program knows about it. But seeing the flyer, reading the wordsMuseum of Modern Art, makes my breath catch.
I’m in my second year so I can finally enter.
“What is it?” Cinna appears at my elbow, reading over my shoulder. “Oh. Time for that again?”
“You act like it’s nothing.” I run my finger over the flyer. “First place gets a meeting with a MoMA curator.” I can hear the longing in my own voice and hate how obvious it sounds.
“Well, you should enter.” She says it so simply, like I can just grab any of my random pieces laying around at home and throw it at the judges for an award.
“Sophomores never win. It’s always juniors or seniors.”
“So? That doesn’t mean you can’t try.” She nudges me with her shoulder. “Your gallery piece alone could qualify I bet. Or you could make something new.”
Even though the desperation to prove myself is rising inside me, I know I don’t have arealchance at it. “Are you going to enter?”
She reads the flyer, her expression becoming neutral. If she’s excited about the prize, art, or any of the work she does, she doesn’t show it. She adjusts her hair again, that nervous habit she has. “No. I don’t do competitions.”
“Why not? Your work is good.”
“My work is just okay.” She shrugs and then starts picking at her fingernails like the competition is annoying her. “I don’t know. Entering my stuff into contests makes me feel weird. Like I’m asking people to rank me. Who wants that judgement?”
“That’s literally what art school is. Getting judged so you can get better.”
“Teachers already tell me my work is crap, so why would I sign up for more?” She turns away. “Seriously, though. You should go for it. You have an actual shot.”
