3. Birdie
3
BIRDIE
The room is too bright. Not in the literal sense—the lights are dim, the kind meant to flatter the artwork and the people milling around—but it feels like all eyes are burning straight through me. I adjust my posture, standing a little straighter, the polite smile on my face feeling more forced by the second.
I’ve done this before. Plenty of times, actually. Talking up my work to donors, explaining my artistic process like it’s some magical thing instead of hours spent covered in clay, cursing under my breath when the wheel gets away from me.
But tonight’s different. This time, it actually matters. It’s not just about making a good impression—it’s about landing the fellowship. Without it, my next year at Dayton will be rough. The tuition, the art supplies, the cost of living—it’s all riding on this. Without the fellowship, I’d be scrambling for commissions just to stay afloat.
Or worse, picking up more shifts at the bookstore, which would eat up the time I need to work on my pottery. Less time for pottery means fewer pieces to sell, and fewer sales mean more shifts. It’s a vicious cycle I can’t afford.
Which is why it’s a terrifying honor that David Donovan is gracing me with his presence now. I don’t have time to overthink or panic. The man is one of the biggest names in contemporary sculpture, with installations in galleries all over the world.
He’s a Dayton legend. The real fucking deal.
But he’s not just a famous (albeit out of touch) artist—he’s also a big part of the selection committee for the fellowship. And right now, he’s staring intently at my work.
My gaze drifts over to the collection of vases and bowls I’ve set up—delicate, earthy pieces that are supposed to show my growth as an artist. They feel so me. Raw, unpolished, and unapologetically honest. Pieces of me that tell a story I’m still learning how to articulate.
But standing here, surrounded by people dressed in clothes that cost more than my entire art studio’s supply budget, it seems like maybe “unpolished” isn’t what anyone wants tonight.
And if the slightly detached look on David Donovan’s face is any indication, I might already be losing him. “Mr. Donovan,” I say, “Thank you for giving me your time tonight.”
He glances up, giving me a polite nod. “This is your work?”
I nod quickly, my palms suddenly clammy. This is it. The moment I’ve been preparing for, and somehow, it still feels like I’m standing on shaky ground.
“Yes, they’re mine. Bridget Collins,” I tell him, extending a hand for him to shake. “I’ve been working on pieces that explore organic texture and form, keeping them raw and tactile. I want them to feel almost like something you could find in nature.”
He studies the vases for a too-long moment, and I try not to fidget, even though everything inside me is screaming to do something. Say more. Do more.
Be impressive, Birdie. This is the only thing you have going for you.
He narrows his eyes. “So, how do you know my son?”
I rear back. “Your ... son?”
“Yes,” he says, a touch of amusement in his voice. “The young man who ran out of here as soon as he saw me coming.”
I freeze and awkwardly clear my throat. “ Liam is your son?”
David chuckles. “Yes. Did he not mention that?”
No. Definitely not. The same Liam who waltzed into the ceramics studio, informed me about a broken window, and then flashed me that ridiculous grin of his? For whatever reason, he didn’t think it was worth mentioning that his father was a world-renowned artist and the head of the committee deciding my future.
I laugh nervously. “No, we er, we just recently met. He .. . well, he was chasing a rogue soccer ball into the ceramics studio.”
“That sounds a lot like my son,” David says with an amused smile. “Always a bit too energetic for his own good.”
My stomach twists. I’ve just thrown Liam under the bus, and now I’m scrambling to figure out how much worse I’ve made things.
“Anyway,” I say, attempting to steer the conversation back to safer ground. “I’m really passionate about exploring the connection between the imperfections of nature and how we view art. These pieces reflect that—trying to keep them as raw and real as possible.”
David nods, disinterested. “Is this your first exhibition?”
“My first of this size,” I say quickly. “It’s been a goal of mine since I entered the program. The fellowship would allow me to focus entirely on my work next year. Hopefully, I can enter a few showcases and make some larger-scale pieces like the ones you have at the Oriel.”
The Oriel is a prestigious gallery with gleaming white walls and polished floors. A cavernous space with sculptures so massive they feel like they might swallow you whole. It’s the kind of place most artists only dream about.
“That’s good,” he says. “It’s important to have lofty goals. And your work certainly has a ...unique perspective. That’s something we look for.”
I resist the urge to wince or ask for clarification. Unique, I think, might be better than “different,” as his son so helpfully pointed out, but still not quite the validation I was hoping for. “Thank you. I appreciate that.”
He gives a tight smile. “Well, good luck with the selection process, Miss Collins.”
He walks away before I can respond. Just like that. No further questions, no actual critique. But at least I didn’t have to endure a full deconstruction of my work.
As soon as he’s out of earshot, I slump my shoulders and exhale sharply. I’m sufficiently rattled, thoroughly drained.
I glance at my collection one last time, trying to remind myself that unique doesn’t mean bad. It’s just not the glowing praise I’d hoped for.
But this is fine. Really. Totally fine.
Right?
I shiver as I push open the door to Lucky’s. It’s an off-campus bar frequented by athletes, a bit cramped and loud for my style. But it’s better than the stiff, overpolished atmosphere of donor events. There’s no soft classical music here—just top forties and the warm, worn-in smell of beer and cheap liquor.
“Birdie!” a voice calls out from one of the high tables, and I spot Sena waving me over. She’s sitting with a few other theater majors, her usual crowd, a half-empty glass in front of her.
I smile as I make my way over, already feeling the tension start to melt away.
“Hey,” I say, sliding into the booth beside her. “How was your night?”
“Great! And yours?” Sena raises an eyebrow, offering me a sympathetic look. “Let me guess—full of pretentious compliments and not-so-subtle critiques?”
I laugh and rub the back of my neck. “Pretty much. How’d you know?”
“Because that’s every arts event ever.” She lifts her glass in a mock salute. “The glamorous world of struggling creatives.”
I grab the drink that’s already waiting for me—a whiskey sour. Sena knows me well enough by now, and she must’ve guessed I’d need this tonight. “Here’s to the good life,” I say, clinking my glass against hers before taking a long sip.
Sena snorts. “Yeah, I’ve got lines I still haven’t memorized for next week’s performance. I’m running on fumes here.”
Sena will always say she’s falling behind but then kind of pull a miracle out of her ass at the last minute. It’s that effortless, easy-breezy confidence she has, the kind I could only dream of.
“Which is why it only makes sense that you’re out drinking at a bar.”
“Hey!” She swats me on the arm. “I needed a break from the stress.”
“Same,” I admit, pulling a stray piece of clay from under my nail and flicking it onto a napkin. “I think we both earned it. But, in my defense, at least you didn’t have the son of a major donor show up and pretend to care about your art.”
Her eyebrows shoot up. “Wait, who are we talking about?”
I briefly relay the details about Liam—how he waltzed over to me, acting all aloof and clumsily charming, and how his famous dad showed up right afterward. I keep it short, brushing past the parts that don’t matter.
I don’t need to blabber on about Liam and his rich daddy. Not here, not now. Not when I’m surrounded by people who actually care about art and expression, not status or money. It’s all Sena’s people here, theater majors, the kind who live for performance and lights.
So, instead, I ask her friends about their upcoming show, and they dive into animated chatter, bouncing off each other like a well-rehearsed scene. I like the way they feed off each other’s energy, their passion spilling out like a shared secret.
Hanging out with them has been easy lately. They’re self-involved in the best way—totally absorbed in their own worlds, their own stories. And I don’t need to explain myself or prove anything to them.
“Let’s go dance!” Sena takes my hand and attempts to drag me out with the rest of them.
It’s tempting, the idea of losing myself in the music and the movement. I used to love dancing, used to get caught up in the energy of it, the freedom. But lately, I just can’t bring myself to move like that anymore. It feels too vulnerable, like exposing a part of me I’ve been keeping locked away.
I smile but shake my head. “You guys go ahead. I’ll hold down the fort here.”
Sena’s face twists into a playful pout, but she doesn’t push. Even though we’ve only been friends and roommates for a few months, she’s already figured out when I’m not in the mood.
“Suit yourself,” she says, giving a little wave before disappearing into the crowd.
I take another sip of my drink, watching them blend into the sea of bodies on the dance floor. Their carefree energy fills the space, and something sharp clenches inside my chest. I shouldn’t be here, should I? Laughing and drinking, pretending like everything’s fine.
Living, moving forward, while Emily’s just ... gone.
I blink, the sudden weight of the thought making it harder to swallow my drink. The accident plays in my mind like an old film reel—the screech of tires, the crunch of metal, the way time slowed to nothing in those few terrible moments. Four broken ribs, a shattered collarbone, and a head injury that left me unconscious for days.
I made it. The other driver didn’t.
I was home for winter break, heading back from a friend’s house, and her car came out of nowhere. T-boned the passenger side of my old Toyota. The force of the impact spun us into oncoming traffic. By the time all the noise stopped and I could finally make sense of what had happened, it was too late.
I was injured, but she was gone.
They said it wasn’t my fault. That the other driver was speeding. She ran a red light and lost control. But it doesn’t matter, does it? It still haunts me just the same.
I met her parents after the accident. She was a senior in high school, they said, Dayton-bound like me. A bright-eyed girl with her whole life ahead of her.
They were afraid I’d sue, like I had any energy to think about lawyers or lawsuits when I was still trying to wrap my head around the fact that I survived, and she didn’t.
I hadn’t even known her name until I read it in the accident report—Emily Matthis. What a sweet name for a girl who barely had the chance to live. She was a stranger, but she shouldn’t be dead. And I shouldn’t be here, pretending like everything’s okay.
But it’s not just the guilt of being here, of still having a life to live when hers is gone. It’s the fact that I don’t know how to move forward, even though I have to. It eats at me, slowly but surely, until I wonder if I even deserve to be moving forward at all.
A year ago, nobody expected I’d come back to school. Not with the way I reacted. Not with the way I shut everyone out and let myself spiral.
My old friends quickly lost hope of me bouncing back. They were confused as to why I couldn’t be the same vapid, carefree Birdie they used to know. They wanted me to be more self-absorbed, I guess. Shallower. More oblivious. To care about parties and boys and fitting in the way I did before.
But after the accident, I stopped caring about anything other than my dad and my art. And pushing forward with ceramics was really more about surviving. About doing the one thing I know how to do in a world that feels so far out of my control.
Now, nine months later, seated on a rickety barstool at Lucky’s, I take another long sip of my drink. The cool, sour liquid does nothing to ease the tightness in my chest. I glance up at the dance floor, at the blur of moving bodies, and the familiar pull of isolation tugs at me.
I should be grateful. I should feel lucky. I made it out alive. But all I can think is that Emily Matthis didn’t. So no, I’m not in the mood to dance tonight. Maybe next week. Next month. Maybe never, if the guilt and uncertainty keep clinging to me like this.