What happens when the star baseball player hits a home run into the art studio window?
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All Sadie Lane Garner needed to make herself happy was a canvas and paintbrush.
With copious projects due and little studio time, she volunteers to clean t...
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THE SCREAMING OUTSIDE of the window sounded like nails on a chalkboard.
Absolutely agonizing.
I increased my headphones' volume until my skull rattled with Bon Iver's voice, then smeared my white-covered palette knife into the cerulean blue, mixing until the colors were evenly blended. I brought my coated brush to the canvas and didn't think twice before dragging it over the bare cotton.
I loved the way the bristles sounded on the fabric—a soft scratching. If you listened close enough, it sounded like static. Like a radio that never found a channel to settle on. Most of the time, I painted in silence so I could listen to the cracking. But today, I didn't have the luxury.
The art building—which I practically lived in—was beside the baseball field. Because I volunteered to clean the studio on Fridays for the use of their art supplies, I was graced with an evening baseball game. It might have annoyed me, but at least I didn't have to pay for tickets.
Brushing stray hairs from my face with the back of my hand, I dipped my brush in the paint again.
The stadium lights beamed into the studio, casting dilapidated shadows on the walls as the announcer called over the speaker, "And his foot reaches home base!"
Cheers erupted from the bleachers.
Turning my attention at the field where the boys stood, I wondered if they could see me sitting here, alone. The window towered from the floor to the ceiling. It was built to give art majors the best lighting possible in the day. But at night, it was like a magnifying glass, and whoever sat inside was put on display like an animal.
After steadily painting a nose, I stepped back to look at the painting as a whole. Painting portraits was not my forte, but this project was worth a large portion of my grade and I couldn't fail or else I wouldn't pass this studio class. Nobody graded harsher than art teachers, especially here at Trembullen University.
My music quieted when a text illuminated my phone—
[Reva: Are you coming out tonight?]
My best friend asked. I set my paintbrush down to reply.
The chanting grew louder, despite having my music up the entire way.
[Me: Haven't decided yet, I'm still at the studio.]
I sent the message, then resumed painting.
I didn't have any intentions of going to the party, despite Reva practically begging on her knees earlier. While I was fine with staying back now, I knew when I returned to our apartment with only a bowl of popcorn and the movie Titanic to comfort me, I'd be a heaping mess.
