Chapter Ten
Ten
OUR FIRST DAY IN STUDIO was all about introductions and various techniques, Deonne feeling us out to determine where we were skill-wise and what we were most comfortable with.
(The latter, I think, to ensure she never allows us to get too comfortable, which she says is the death of true expression.)
Second class, we dive right into our first project—a small sculpture of our own minds, which feels like the worst possible timing.
Considering the state of my life right now—the stress of the APM; the email I got from Jamie last night: Do you plan to finish what I sent you anytime soon?
; the phone calls from my mom that I’ve been avoiding—it’s a mess in here.
Not something I want to explore. Certainly not something I want people to see.
“Don’t think too hard,” Deonne says as she strolls around the room. “You’re molding your own mind here. This is your aura. There is no right or wrong. I want to see how you approach the blank canvas, so to speak. The virgin clay.”
Someone giggles, and Deonne’s grin widens.
I try not to look at the other artists, but it’s hard not to seek direction.
Of the ten of us, there are four older ladies who’ve taken sculpting on as a retirement hobby, two people somewhere in their late twenties, and two young high schoolers—Luca, a sophomore, and his sister, Alyssa, a freshman.
But no matter who you look at, everyone in class is taking their art seriously. I’m the only one who seems lost.
I understand now why people used to glance my way in class, searching for reassurance that they were doing the work correctly. When you’re given instructions in school, your task is usually straightforward. There are steps to follow to your end goal.
Sculpting isn’t like that when you have nothing to model your work on, and it’s becoming increasingly clear that my miniatures didn’t prepare me for this type of art. I know how to mimic, and I know how to do something fun, but I don’t think I know how to honestly express myself.
I glance at my neighbor—one of the retired ladies, Patrice. She’s rolling her clay into differently sized spheres, linking them together with dabs of water, and creating something like a string of pearls. On my other side, Luca is molding a cloud, carving out little lightning bolts.
“Let your feelings flow through you,” Deonne says. “We only learn to grow when we start. Don’t let yourself get trapped by the endless possibilities.”
Trapped. I pause, considering that. Then I wet my hands and begin to press my clay into something severe—straight lines, hard edges. I cut away at the excess, pushing it into an unused pile.
When I’ve finished, sealing up one side, everyone else is still working. Luca is carving flat sheets of rain while Patrice spirals her string of pearls into shapes on her station.
I sit back, wiping my hands on my rag. Deonne, who’s across the studio looking at someone’s rippling, foaming waves of water, takes notice and starts toward me. She tilts her head as she nears, studying my sculpture.
On my station is a plain box, sharp-edged and unadorned.
Deonne crouches, smiling. “Interesting.” She rests her arms on my station, my slab of excess clay at her elbow. “Is there anything inside?”
I pick up my knife and cut away the wall I sealed. It falls, revealing the hollow inside of my box and the small girl I sculpted, sitting in the center.
Deonne looks at her for a long time, studying the details. Then she nods, lifting her gaze to mine. “Is there anything you wish you could add for her?”
I seal the box again and pick up one of my tools, turn the box toward me, and begin to carve. Deonne waits.
When I show it to her now, I’ve only made one addition.
“A door,” Deonne says with a smile. Her gaze is soft when she looks at me, and she puts her hand over my excess clay. “Do you mind if I take this?”
“Of course not.”
She balls it in her hands and straightens, heading to another station.
I don’t think we were being tested—there are no grades in this class. But I somehow get the feeling I passed.
DnD night is in full swing when I arrive home, which I know because I can hear the usual suspects yelling at each other from the breezeway.
Even though I should walk straight into my bedroom without more than a hello—get right to work on the Cram Session code I’m woefully behind on so I can get Jamie off my back—their shouts are like a siren song, and I find myself drifting past my bedroom door like a possessed sailor on the way to my doom.
This will probably trip some booby trap Jamie has set to alert him when I’m slacking off.
We’ve barely spoken in the days since our last argument, our communication limited to concise emails about how behind I am on my work (him) and passive-aggressive sticky notes letting him know I got his emails (me).
But how am I supposed to resist when Andres yells, “Bee!” like he’s been waiting all day to see me?
“Hi,” I say with a furtive glance toward Jamie’s room. I don’t remember seeing his Jeep in the parking lot, but I wasn’t really checking. Whether he’s home or not is a toss-up.
“Come here, I’ll introduce everyone,” Andres says, getting to his feet.
He does quick introductions of the group—a loud pink-haired girl named Heather; Freddie, whose slicked-back black hair and heavy-lidded eyes give him a real vampiric air; another girl, Aisha, whose floral sundress is completely out of place among the wrinkled T-shirts and jeans at the table; Logan, a rumpled blond who is somehow taller than Andres and twice as wide, with eyes nearly obscured by his hair; and a lean guy with coke-bottle glasses and cornrows named Norris, who proceeds to addendum Andres’s introductions with everyone’s DnD character, class, and alignment, which does not go into my long-term storage.
“You wanna sit?” Andres offers. “We can show you how the game works if you want to be added in. We could use a cleric.”
That I’m not brave enough to do. I at least need to give the appearance of working on Cram Session, or Jamie might finally lose it and tell my brother out of spite.
Luckily, Norris and Heather look alarmed enough that I don’t feel bad saying, “Oh, thanks, but I don’t have time. I’m sorry. Will it bother you if I’m in the kitchen?”
“Of course not!” Heather says, so fast that it’s impossible not to hear the relief in her voice.
Without missing a beat, Logan, who I learn is the dungeon master, dives back into the quest narrative.
Despite looking like he’d play some kind of defensive position on a football team right on the field beside Andres, Logan does all the voices and accents of the background characters, giving it the feel of watching a one-man performance.
I pull a container of pasta from the fridge and pause as I try to remember when I made it. Because that’s the person I am now! Someone who loses track of how old her leftovers are.
Then as I’m in the process of googling how long does cooked fettuccine stay good in fridge, my phone buzzes with an incoming video call, and I accidentally hit the accept button.
Mom’s face fills the screen. “Hi, Blair!”
At the same time, Logan shouts, “YOU’VE ENTERED THE LAIR OF THE BEAST SPIDER! ROLL FOR INITIATIVE!”
Mom’s eyes widen. “Where are you right now?”
She asks this in the scandalized voice of someone who’s just discovered their daughter in a den of sin, not in a kitchen with a harmless tabletop game happening in the background.
Still, I nearly fumble my phone.
“Um. I’m. Um.” I turn my wild-eyed gaze to the table, catching Andres’s confused look, then Aisha’s concerned one. “I’m at—DnD night! With some friends from the APM!”
I drop the pasta container on the counter and rush around to the table, shoving myself half onto Heather’s chair.
She yelps, catching herself on the table, and shoots me a glare. “What the hell?”
But she’s in the seat closest to Logan, and I twist toward him, catching him in the screen. “This is Logan,” I say breathlessly, hitting him with Help me eyes. I have a feeling he’s the only one here who can improvise.
“Hi,” Logan says to Mom, taking my phone swiftly from my hand. “You’re Blair’s mom!”
“Hello, Logan,” Mom says, and I hear the wariness in her voice. “Did Blair just say… DnD night?”
“Yeah, Blair’s our cleric,” Logan says cheerfully. “A chaotic good halfling.” He glances toward the kitchen, his gaze landing on the fridge. “Whirligig… Andpool.”
I look from the Whirlpool label on the fridge to Logan. He gives me a winning smile.
“And whose place is this?” Mom asks mildly. I can tell she’s already clocked the carpet, the mismatched chairs, probably even the sectional and its sagging third cushion.
I look to Andres for help, and he jumps up from his seat. “Mine! Hi, Mrs. Milligan.”
At least there would be no reason for my new friends to know my mom’s last name is Reynolds. She doesn’t bother to correct Andres and instead says, “Are you all in the APM with Blair?”
“Sure,” Heather says brightly, and Norris barks out a laugh that’s so blatantly sarcastic, Mom frowns in confusion.
I give him a What the fuck look, and he winces apologetically.
“No,” I reply, taking the phone from Andres. “No, just… Logan and, um, Andres. I met everyone else through them.”
Mom seems to relax, her expression lightening. Not entirely pleased that I’m spending my time having fun, but at least satisfied that she doesn’t see Starr and Leni at the table. I know she’s hoping I’ll “branch out” in college. Meet more people “at my level.” Her exact words.
Then, just as I’ve finished introducing everyone else and we’re about to put the whole thing to rest, the worst possible thing happens.
The front door swings open, and Jamie walks in.
I throw myself out of my chair, pushing my phone at Logan once more while I careen into Jamie, shoving him straight through the nearest doorway—my bedroom. He’s spluttering in confusion when I hiss, “Stay,” and slam the door shut between us.