Chapter Six Sera
Chapter Six
Sera
It’s a giant metal sculpture of a ten-foot-tall daffodil with a honeybee sitting in its petals.
It’s not painted, but the metal was worked in such a way that the bee shines a deep metallic blue that shifts a little depending on the weather.
Today is a cloudless day, and the air is cool, but the sun is heating the metal, so even far away it shimmers like ocean water turned to glass.
Every year, our opening assignment was to make an homage to the complex’s namesake.
You could paint, sculpt, or reimagine the bee in whatever way you wanted.
One kid once did an interpretive dance and became a legend, so the bar was high.
Luke and I used to spend the months between camp messaging back and forth with ideas for our own projects.
Then we’d go dead quiet in the week leading up to camp so we could surprise each other and get the other’s honest opinion on our final piece.
I stop at the foot of the sculpture and place my palm on the warm stem of the flower, snatching my hand back before it burns me.
Camp always made art seem important, larger than life, serious yet fun at the same time.
With my future so up in the air, all I had last year was my painting, and so it’s a different kind of homecoming to be here again.
I park my bike by the side of the farmhouse and head to the littles’ studio, where I told Miss Iris I would meet her.
I take the path past the office, the cafeteria, and the theater building, toward the first of the three converted barns that house the studios.
The small patches of grass between the buildings are freshly mowed, so the air smells green, sharp, and acidic.
From here, you can’t see the ocean above the rise of the dunes, but you can catch the tops of sailboats scattered across the horizon.
There’s a groundskeeper shoveling new mulch shavings down on the walking paths, so I cut across the still-dewy grass.
I follow the familiar route around to the side of the first barn, where the garage doors are wide open.
Each barn is almost identical, though the littles’ is a bit smaller.
Light floods in from the outside and through the skylights above, making the space bright and airy.
The studio is separated into mediums, but not in such a strict way that you can’t mix it up if needed.
I walk through the paints section, looking through the available canvases and thinking about the last time I was here.
The summer when everything between Luke and me first changed.
We were in the studio alone while everyone else was up at lunch.
I was teasing him about his lack of color use, partly jealous of his talent, and partly because I liked to watch him defend his love of grayscale.
Wielding a paintbrush, I reached out and smeared a bright flash of purple across his cheek.
He picked up his own brush, dripping with black paint, and pointed it at my forehead.
“You better run, Watkins,” he said.
I squealed and sprinted across the room.
He followed and got me back with a glob of midnight black.
Soon we were racing around the room, tossing paint, laughing.
Luke caught me around the waist and we both toppled to the floor.
I wrestled my way on top of him, pinning his hips with mine.
Our eyes locked, and suddenly we both stopped laughing.
He went so still and just stared up at me, smiling as the heat in my cheeks spread down. I remember thinking how cute he was as he reached up and played with the ends of my hair.
“You’re really pretty, Sera,” he said. And I went liquid, mesmerized by his voice. Everything tilted sideways, and I felt myself lean down toward him. But just as I did, the door swung open behind us. Miss Iris burst in, arms full of supplies, and we scrambled up to help her.
I blink away the memory, the hope I felt then.
I’m feeling the soft tips of the brushes, wondering if I could assign my class to paint on shells collected from the beach, when I hear footsteps behind me.
“Hello?” I weave around the standing easels toward the entrance of the barn as a woman comes out of the washroom.
“Sera?”
“Miss Iris! Hi!” Miss Iris was always my favorite teacher, more lenient and inspiring than anyone else.
I saw her in February at a gallery in Boston after reading in the camp newsletter that some of her paintings were on display.
It was my first solo outing since I’d been declared stable in January, and I said yes immediately when she offered me the summer job.
She looks the same as always, in her giant earrings and linen pants paired with an oversized knit sweater.
Her dark hair is piled in a bun on top of her head.
“Just Iris now, since you’re officially a coworker.” She swoops in for a quick hug and leaves two little air kisses behind on either side of my face. Then she steps back and does that thing adults do where they exclaim how tall I am and how beautiful and I brush it off.
“So, where should we start?” I ask. “I’m definitely interested in learning how to wrangle the littles.”
Iris laughs, her blue eyes twinkling. “Oh, it’s impossible to wrangle them. Don’t even try. We’re here to guide, and inspire, and support.”
“Right.” I pause. “How?”
She laughs again. “Just keep them busy.” She gestures for me to follow her back to the painting area. “It’s really great to have you back. We missed you last year. Luke too. It wasn’t quite the same without you both here causing trouble,” she teases, and I feel myself blush.
“I’m happy to be back too.”
“You’re taking a gap year, right?” She opens the door to one of the supply closets, and I follow her into the cramped, overstocked space.
“Yup.”
“That will be good for you,” she says, scanning the shelves to find what she’s looking for. “No need to decide too quick if you’re not sure.”
“Exactly,” I say. “I’m not in a rush to get back to school.”
“I think you’ll thrive as a teacher.” She hands me a tray of empty paint containers, their white lids stained rainbow from years of use. “You were always so organized, and so delighted to be here and pitch in with the group projects.”
“Thanks.” I brace myself as she piles two more trays on top of the one I’m already holding. Then she picks up a couple big buckets of paint and gestures with her chin to one of the wide tables in the studio.
We repeat this process until the table is covered with trays.
Then we pour an even amount of color from each of the paint buckets into the containers.
Each kid will get their own small set of primary colors to keep in their cubby.
I always ran out of yellow first, and Luke was always stealing my black.
Iris explains her teaching plan while we work.
It sounds like I have flexibility to do basically whatever I want with my group of seven- to nine-year-olds, though she gives me a few examples of projects to start with.
“So, what’s this fellowship you’re doing?” I ask as we finish putting lids on the little jars.
“Oh, I’m so thrilled.” She blows a stray bit of hair out of her eyes and stretches her back after she rests the heavy blue paint bucket back on the ground.
“It’s six weeks in Paris. The cohort is small, only five other artists, and every week one person leads a group workshop about their particular craft as we work on individual projects on our own time.
There’s a small gallery funding it, and they run a show before we leave.
Galerie Jeanne Fontaine. We get free access to all the museums in the city, French lessons if we need them, and there’s even a cooking class, which I’m so excited for.
We’re all living in our own apartments in this beautiful old town house with a gorgeous garden, and have studios at an artists’ cooperative, so we meet local artists too.
” She pauses for a breath and then puts her hand to her forehead.
“Oh gosh, I’m so sorry, listen to me, just going on and on.
It seems even at fifty-six you can still get giddy over the things you love. ” She chuckles.
“Wow.” I’m a little stunned by how wonderful it sounds. “That’s amazing.”
“You know, you don’t need a degree to apply,” Iris says. “They hold a few spots for artists under twenty-five. You should apply for next year. You could probably get credit for it, too, if you do go to school afterward.”
“Really?” It sounds beyond wild, the idea of going off to Paris instead of taking summer classes so I can be “caught up” before I start college.
“Definitely! I’ll help you apply. What have you been working on these days? Your watercolor landscapes?”
“Mostly those, yes. Though I’ve been playing a little with portraits.”
“I love that. Show me!”
I pull out my phone and show her the art I’ve shared on Instagram.
She’s too nice, oohing and aahing over the painting of Abbi I’ve been working on, but it’s encouraging.
We talk for a little while longer about the work she’ll be doing in Paris and what my classmates were up to last year as I help Iris with another few tasks around the studio.
By the time we’re all set up, I feel comfortable in the room and know at least the first week of plans for what I’ll be picking up when Iris leaves.
“Think about the fellowship.” Iris nudges me as she locks up and hands me the spare keys. “You could submit a series of portraits—they just need to follow a specific theme.”
“I will,” I promise.
We walk back along the path to the entrance together.
Iris leaves me at my bike. It’s getting close to dinner, but I still have a little time before I need to be home to help.
I turn back and take a photo of camp, the complex quiet and waiting for students.
I want to text it to Luke—he’d understand how weird it is to see the place so vacant.
I post it to my IG story instead. Before I can even put my phone away it pings, but it’s not Luke, it’s Jackson.
He’s liked the story and sent a thumbs-up, and I can see that he’s typing.
Jackson
I’m going to the Northport drive-in movie thing next Wednesday night. See you there?
My stomach flips. I skipped his volleyball game yesterday to go to the beach with Maddy because I wasn’t sure he was really interested.
But then I remember the way Jackson’s mouth quirked up as he looked at me, and my promise to myself that I’ll be open to something new.
At least it’s not confusing. He wants to spend time with me, plus he’s hot, and I would like to see him again.
Before I can second-guess myself any more, I send a response.
Sera
Yes! I’ll be there
*
That night, paint stained onto the tips of my fingers, I fill my family in on the idea of maybe applying for the fellowship. We’re cleaning up after dinner, and it seems like everyone is relaxed enough to have this conversation.
“I can work on my submission pieces after camp,” I say. “Iris said she could recommend me too. And if I get in, maybe I should wait a little longer before applying to college, like maybe another year? I could just focus on my art and staying healthy.”
I can feel them all looking at each other around me and I pretend not to notice as I take another wet plate from Abbi, dry it off.
School is important to my parents. Abbi taking a semester off last fall was the worst-case scenario, and it was Dr. Lee’s idea to take a gap year, supported by my therapist and the school counselor.
I haven’t been able to find a way to tell them that the idea of going back into some kind of formal classroom fills me with dread.
Unlike other kids my age, I likely won’t be getting a job in four years; I could be preparing for a heart transplant and the uncertainty and recovery that comes with that.
I don’t really know how much time I have to just do what I want, and I don’t want to waste it.
I look over at Mom standing at the kitchen island. She swirls her wine and thinks it over. Dad’s wiping down the kitchen table. They look at each other, communicating something with their eyes.
“Okay,” Mom finally says. “I’m happy you’re thinking about the future, Sera.
It sounds like the start of a good plan, but let’s not cut school applications out entirely yet.
” Dad nods in agreement. I drop my dish towel and hug them both quickly, then disappear up to my room before they can change their minds.
I flop onto my bed with my laptop and look up the fellowship.
As I flick through the photos of the house, and the studio, and a group of artists painting on easels by the Seine, I feel something swelling in my chest that has nothing to do with my heart, physical or emotional.
Hope. Purpose. I open the application, read through the requirements, and clock the deadline for next year.
August 11. I set a reminder in my phone for August 1.
I’ve never been out of the country, and I wonder what Paris is like.
Cafés for breakfast and picnics by the Eiffel Tower for lunch.
Maybe I’d meet a cute French boy and we could tour the city on his moped, drink wine, and talk art and books.
I click through a map of the city, looking for the gallery Iris mentioned.
I’m thinking about croissants versus pain au chocolat and downloading a language-learning app on my phone when I get a text from Luke. I deleted his contact info two years ago, but I still know his number by heart.
Jumped universes today without you. Wasn’t the same!
There’s a rush in my ears and an old familiar feeling of excitement and anticipation that I thought was long dead.
I think about the way he looked in the sun.
He was practically glowing. I think about how hard it was to keep my eyes off the places on his skin I wanted to touch.
I hover my finger over the text. Then I remember what happened two summers ago and the pain is so sharp, my breath catches.
Maybe we’re friends again, but I need to keep my distance.
I quickly close out of his message and go back to the fellowship’s website.
I click through the photos again, stopping to watch the mixed-media artists from last year present their pieces.
I imagine what I would paint in Paris and wonder if the city really does glimmer with lights.