Chapter 2
CHAPTER 2
Hannah
M orning light filters through my thin curtains, casting patterns across my sketchbook left open on the floor. I stretch, my fingers reaching for the ceiling, joints popping in a satisfying way. Another day, another blank canvas. That's how I've always thought of mornings, full of possibility, waiting for me to make my mark. If I'd known what was coming, I might have stayed in bed forever, buried under quilts my grandmother made before I was born, preserved in that last moment of ignorance like an insect in amber .
But I don't know what's coming, so I swing my legs over the side of the bed, my toes curling against the cold wooden floor. My room is small but mine, walls covered in paintings and sketches, most my own work, some from artists I admire. A cluttered desk sits beneath the window, tubes of paint organized by color, brushes standing at attention in chipped mugs.
I grab my worn terrycloth robe from the hook on my door and pad down the hallway to the bathroom. My younger sister Emma has left a mess of makeup scattered across the counter. I sigh, sweeping it to one side so I can brush my teeth. Sometimes I think our bathroom is too small for a family of five, but then I remember that some people have no bathrooms at all, and I feel guilty for my momentary selfishness.
After a quick shower, I wrap my wet hair in a towel and return to my room to dress. I choose a pair of faded jeans and an oversized sweater with paint stains on the cuffs. Fashion has never been my priority. Comfort is what matters when you're hunched over a canvas for hours.
Downstairs, Mom is making pancakes, her hair pulled back in a messy bun. She looks tired, the lines around her eyes deeper than they were last year .
"Morning, sweetheart," she says, flipping a pancake with practiced ease. "Sleep well?"
"Like the dead," I reply, pouring myself a cup of coffee. It's cheap stuff, nothing like the fancy beans the coffee shops use, but it does the job. "Where's Dad?"
A shadow passes over Mom's face, quick but unmistakable. "He had an early meeting."
I nod, not pressing further. Dad's "meetings" have become more frequent lately, and they often coincide with unexplained absences from the family bank account. No one talks about it directly, but the tension hangs in the air like cigarette smoke.
My brother Tyler shuffles into the kitchen, his school uniform rumpled, his hair sticking up in the back. At fifteen, he's all limbs and attitude, a combination that makes him simultaneously endearing and infuriating.
"There's coffee?" he asks, reaching for my mug.
I slap his hand away. "Make your own. And fix your hair; you look like you stuck your finger in an electrical socket."
He sticks his tongue out but moves to the coffee pot.
Emma appears last, already dressed and made up for school. At seventeen, she's figured out what took me years to understand. Appearance matters in our small town. People judge, categorize, remember. I've always been content to fade into the background, but Emma craves attention like a plant needs sunlight.
"Hannah, can I borrow your blue scarf today?" she asks, already opening the drawer where I keep my accessories.
"Sure," I say, because what else can I say? Sharing is what families do, especially when money is tight.
Mom places a stack of pancakes in the center of the table, and we gather around. There's a vacant space where Dad should be, but we've grown accustomed to his empty chair.
"How's your project coming along?" Mom asks me as we eat.
"Almost finished," I say around a mouthful of pancake. "I'm working on the final touches today. Professor Wilkins says if it's good enough, I might have a chance at the scholarship."
The scholarship—my beacon of hope. Full tuition to complete my art degree and a chance to study in New York for a semester. It would change everything, open doors I can barely imagine.
"You'll get it," Emma says with surprising conviction. "You're the best artist in that whole school."
Her confidence warms me. "Thanks, Em."
After breakfast, I gather my supplies: sketchbook, charcoals, portfolio case. The university is only a twenty-minute walk from our house, one of the few perks of living in a small town. The morning air is crisp, carrying the scent of autumn leaves and woodsmoke. I breathe deeply, filling my lungs with possibility.
As I walk, I mentally review my project—a series of interconnected portraits representing family bonds. Not my actual family—that would be too obvious—but an idealized version, the kind of family where fathers stay for breakfast and mothers don't cry when they think no one is watching.
The campus is small by university standards, just a handful of buildings surrounding a central green space. I make my way to the art building, a repurposed warehouse with enormous windows and exposed brick walls. It smells of turpentine, clay, and coffee. Home, in other words.
Professor Wilkins is already in the studio, her gray hair escaping from a loose bun. She wears a paint-splattered apron over a simple black dress, her only concession to professional attire.
"Hannah," she greets me, peering over her round glasses. "Eager as always. Your workspace is ready."
My "workspace" is just a corner near the window, but it's mine for the semester. My half-finished project sits on an easel, covered with a cloth to protect it from dust and prying eyes. I remove the cloth carefully, revealing my work.
The central portrait—a mother figure with arms outstretched—is nearly complete. The surrounding smaller portraits need refinement, connections strengthened through color and line. I set my supplies down and lose myself in the work.
Hours pass unnoticed. This is what I love about art. The way time loses meaning, the world narrowing to the space between my fingers and the canvas. Each stroke brings the image closer to the vision in my head, each blend of color a small victory.
"That's coming along beautifully," Professor Wilkins says, appearing at my shoulder. I jump slightly; I hadn't heard her approach.
"Thank you," I say, stepping back to assess my progress. "I'm trying to capture the way family members orbit each other, connected but separate."
She nods, understanding without need for further explanation. That's why she's my favorite professor—she sees what I'm trying to do, even when I can't fully articulate it.
"The scholarship committee will be impressed," she says. "But remember, technical skill is only part of what they're looking for. They want to see your unique perspective, your voice."
I nod, though anxiety flutters in my chest. My "unique perspective" feels mundane, ordinary. I'm just a girl from a small town, with small town problems and small town dreams. What could I possibly show the committee that they haven't seen before?
As if reading my thoughts, Professor Wilkins adds, "Don't underestimate your experiences, Hannah. They shape your art in ways you might not recognize yet."
The lunch bell rings, and students begin to pack up their supplies. I cover my project again, reluctant to leave it unfinished.
"Go eat," Professor Wilkins urges. "The work will wait."
The campus cafeteria offers limited options, none particularly appealing. I choose a sad-looking sandwich and an apple, finding a seat by the window. As I eat, I sketch idly in my notebook—random faces, hands, eyes. Drawing is as natural as breathing to me, a way of processing the world.
A strange feeling creeps up my spine—the sensation of being watched. I glance around, but no one is paying me any attention. The feeling persists, though, an itch between my shoulder blades that I can't quite reach.
After lunch, I have art history, a required course that I enjoy more than I expected to. Today we're studying the Renaissance, the professor's slides showing works by masters I've admired since childhood. I take detailed notes, drawing small copies of the paintings in the margins of my notebook.
When classes end for the day, I return to the studio to work on my project for another hour. The late afternoon light streaks through the windows, perfect for assessing color accuracy. I lose myself in the details, adding depth to the eyes of my subjects, refining the lines of connection between them.
By the time I pack up, the campus is quiet, most students already gone for the day. The walk home feels longer somehow, my portfolio case heavy against my side. That strange feeling returns, eyes on my back, watching, waiting. I quicken my pace, telling myself I'm being ridiculous.
Our house comes into view, a modest two-story with peeling paint and a slightly sagging porch. It's nothing special, but it's home. The lights are on in the kitchen, and I can see Mom moving about, preparing dinner.
Inside, the house smells of garlic and tomato sauce—spaghetti night, a family favorite. Dad is home, sitting at the kitchen table with a beer, his expression clouded. He brightens when he sees me.
"There's my artist," he says, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. "How was school?"
"Good," I reply, setting my case by the stairs. "My project's almost done."
"That scholarship's as good as yours," he says with forced confidence. "My girl's too talented to be stuck in this town forever."
I smile, though his words sting. This town isn't so bad. It's simple, yes, and sometimes stifling, but it's where I grew up. Where we grew up together as a family, before things started to change, before Dad's "meetings" and Mom's worried frowns.
Dinner is a strained affair. Tyler talks about soccer practice, Emma complains about a teacher, and Mom asks Dad about his day. His answers are vague, dismissive. I focus on my plate, twirling spaghetti around my fork, trying to ignore the undercurrent of tension.
After dinner, I help Mom with the dishes while Dad retreats to the living room, the sound of a baseball game filtering through the doorway .
"Everything okay?" I ask quietly, handing her a wet plate.
She takes it, wiping it dry with more force than necessary. "Fine, honey. Just fine."
But I can see it's not fine. There's worry etched into the lines of her face, a tightness around her mouth that wasn't there a year ago.
In my room, I sit at my desk and open my sketchbook. I begin to draw without thinking, lines flowing, shapes emerging. It's my father's face that appears on the page, not as he is now but as I remember him from childhood—eyes crinkled with laughter, mouth open in mid-story. I miss that version of him, the one who seemed invincible, untouchable by whatever demons now haunt him.
Before bed, I stand at my window, looking out at the quiet street. Our small town sleeps early, houses dark save for the occasional blue flicker of a television. The night is clear, stars visible despite the street lights.
That feeling returns—of being observed, evaluated. I scan the street, the shadows between houses, but see nothing unusual. Still, I close my curtains tightly before turning away.
As I slip beneath my covers, I think about tomorrow. Another day of classes, another chance to work on my project, another opportunity to edge closer to that scholarship. My future stretches before me, a path I've carefully planned: finish my degree, move to a city with a real art scene, build a career doing what I love.
Simple, straightforward, attainable.
I have no idea that someone else has already charted a different course for me, that my carefully planned future is about to be erased like chalk drawings in the rain.