don’t let her.
“Answer me.” I lean in. “Why?”
She avoids my eyes, then glances at me. I almost think I see regret, but that’s gone in a flash.
“Why didn’t you?” she asks.
I’m ready to yell, but her question catches me off guard.
“Don’t think I didn’t know you were up to something last night.” Her eyes shift back and forth, searching out my secret. “When I saw it, I knew it was you. It’s like the stuff in your sketchbooks you don’t let anyone see.”
“If you knew, then why take credit for it? I thought we were friends,” I challenge. A couple students slow on a path near us.
She watches me, pushing at her hair again. “You were too scared to.”
I want to tell her she’s wrong. But it won’t come out.
“I have to win,” she says. “And this piece will win.”
“What about me? You don’t think I want to win too?” I snap.
“Why didn’t you speak up then?” Her words are cold, but her eyes still need convincing. “You had your chance.”
“It’s not so simple,” I say. “I have a ton to lose.”
“Like I don’t?” The cold creeps into her eyes now.
“Though I bet there were no consequences for you, were there?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
Ryan says nothing at first. “It will be up for consideration.”
“Figures.” I want to smack the entitled look off her face. “I can’t believe you’re actually going to do this.”
Her back goes straight, like she’s made another decision. “Why?” She stares at me, almost as a challenge. “It says everything I need to say to win.” Ryan moves away, then looks back. “You don’t want it bad enough. I do.”
All I can do is watch her go, feeling more than betrayal, knowing she’s right. As much as I risked, I’m not sure I ever intended to confess. And now I don’t know what pisses me off more—my own cowardice or her audacity.
During my junior year, my aunt Gladys, who inspired my love of art, took me on a spring-break girls’ trip to Italy. And as my eyes devoured Michelangelo’s Cleopatra sketch in the Uffizi, she casually asked: How bad do you want this? And by the looks of things now, not bad enough. I stand motionless in the center of my room, taking in all the sketches and paintings I’ve done. The ones I’ve actually let others see.
I pull them down and spread them across my floor. This work captures moments in my life, but it’s not enough. I hesitate for just a second before pulling my sketchbooks off the shelf. The ones Ryan talked about. The ones no one was ever meant to see. They’re crammed with crinkled pages of self-portraits, snips of fabric from memories, photographs, movie tickets, gum wrappers with doodles, and torn slips of paper with images painted with watercolors. My thoughts and full life spill out of these books I’ve always kept contained and secured with wide green rubber bands. I remember when we were roommates, Ryan peeking over my shoulder once while I was working. She didn’t recognize the images were of me. And I’ve always wondered why. But now I think I know. It was the side of me I don’t let breathe. The side that doesn’t fit expectations. The side that’s free.
And she saw that on that wall.
I scan the self-portraits and photos into the computer and print page after page. I am beginning to understand my truth, which has always been staring back at me. And now I have less than twelve hours to speak it.
For Parents’ Weekend everything seems extra golden.
The chandeliers sparkle overhead in the dining room of Chatterley House, the on-campus inn, which should really be called legacy row. It’s booked years in advance for every special occasion families can attend. Even before my arrival freshman year, Mom and Dad had paid four years in advance for certain dates, like they had for Mya and Reese before me. Who, unlike me, followed in all of the family traditions without even a grumble, both studying law. My parents couldn’t have been prouder when Reese became a lobbyist and my sister a political analyst and law professor like Mom. These dark mahogany walls have been witness to many family conversations, good and bad.
“I had an interesting call from Councilwoman Myers’s husband yesterday,” Dad says, wiping a napkin at his lips. I fight the urge to roll my eyes at the mention of Councilwoman Myers’s husband, a dean at Dad’s alma mater. Can’t we have just one meal that doesn’t focus on my future? We’re seated around one of the immaculate white-cloth-covered tables in the inn’s dining room and my appetite is suddenly lost. “Mitch says he never saw your early-decision application come through admissions.”
It hasn’t escaped me that he’s waited for Mom to leave the table to chat with old friends before he starts his cross-examination. At least there’ll be a time limit to his storm. Though Mom has already told me where she stands. Go after what you want. She made it clear she isn’t battling the worst of the storm if I’m not willing to myself. I take a breath.
“I didn’t send it. I’m applying to art schools, general admission, instead.” I don’t dare tell him about my last-minute Jabec Beard submission.
Blood surges through a vein over his right eye, an impending eruption. “The answer is no.” The words a hiss through clenched teeth. His expression remains blank for the sake of appearance, but I know the storm is brewing. “I’m not funding that, nor have I funded four years here for you to think painting pictures is your future. We’ve already discussed this.”
“You talked. I didn’t,” I mumble before saying, “I really want to do this.”
“So did your aunt Gladys, and look where that got her.” The sapphire in his class ring catches the light as he smooths his hand over his close-cut beard. “My sister is a shell of who she once was. Too many doors slammed in her face, or never opened. People love brown on canvas—the bark of a tree, the shine of a saddle—but that same brown on her skin was rejected,” he says, his perfectly tailored suit giving off its own shine. “This is a truth you need to know, Nivia. In this world, the brown of your skin is rarely a shelter. Here at Caswell, color may fade—for a while anyway, except when it’s needed for brochures or diversity experiments—but out there, it’s front and center always. Don’t forget that. The law is where you can find a sturdy footing.”
I drop my gaze, part of me knowing he’s right. I’m surprised he doesn’t mention me squandering Grandpa’s legacy and his fight for equal consideration as one of Caswell’s first Black students. He’s sparing me that argument—this time.
He reaches for my hand. I don’t pull away. “Mitch assures me he’ll look out for your application during general admission. You can paint there in your free time. It’ll be hectic with a prelaw course load, but as long as it doesn’t hinder your priorities …”
“Such serious faces,” Mom says as she nears our table with Ryan’s mother. Mom’s cheeks lift as loose, highlighted curls swing around her pearl earrings when she smiles. Ryan’s mother reveals a perfect smile too. They look like they’ve sauntered out of a fashion spread.
