We Were Giants

Chapter 32

"What time do you have to have all of your stuff turned in?" Dad asks cryptically as I get ready to leave for school.

"Mr. Camplin has to have it all by 1:00," I feel frantic and rushed. I spent all day yesterday tweaking my portfolio, trying to find some way to create cohesion. I was able to get the charcoals of Isaiah from Mr. Rosenthal and I'm feeling better about things. But not great. I can't help feeling I could have a true shot at winning if I had the portrait of Thomas that I sold in my art show. I wish I could get back the stippled piece of my mom. Regret fills me, and I think back to my mother's fear that I would regret selling my art. I don't want to admit that she's right, but she's right. Mom is always right.

"You'll make it," he smiles kindly and I'm thankful for his support. "And the show starts Friday?"

I nod, shoving things into my backpack.

"The show runs all weekend," I explain, but the judges will give their statements and placings Friday evening at the reception.

I sigh in frustration, trying to load my backpack with one arm. Breaking my arm for the last two months of the school year is quite possibly the dumbest thing I've ever done. It's made everything more complicated. It's hard to get dressed in the mornings. It's hard to shower. It's hard to drive. It's hard to hold Isaiah's hand and do literally anything else. This is miserable.

"Would you like some help?" Dada laughs, offering his hand.

"No," I huff. "I've got this."

I struggle a little more before zipping my bag shut and throwing it carelessly onto my shoulder. Dad tries his hardest to hide a smirk, but I laugh with him. I'm sure I must look ridiculous. I feel ridiculous.

"Do you ever stop and just remember that you're 18 years old and you broke your arm on a swing?" He laughs so hard I think he'll pull a muscle.

"Ha-ha," I deadpan. "Hilarious."

"I'm sorry," I apologize quickly. "I'm really stressed."

It's Wednesday. Two days from now, I will know whether I'm going to the art institute or not. Two days from now, I will know if I'm really as good as I believe that I am. Two days from now, my future will be revealed. And I'm not prepared for it.

"I understand," Dad puts his hand on my shoulders, forcing me to look into his eyes. "Relax, okay? Things will be okay. This isn't your only path to your future. Don't give it that much power."

I smile and shake my head. I want to tell him he doesn't understand. But he does. And he doesn't. I can't tell him I'm scared of him leaving again. I can't tell him I have to put all my eggs in this basket because I don't have anything else.

"Thanks, Dad," I smile, trying to play it cool. "I've just got a lot on my plate."

"Besides," Dad smiles. "There's nobody better than you. There's no way you'll lose."

I roll my eyes. I don't need his false reassurances. I don't need to get my hopes up. My Kintsukuroi Boy is gone, leaving only ash in its wake. I've no hope of winning, now, and I don't know what I'm going to do for college.

Mr. Camplin greets me when I get to school with a broad smile. If it were any other teacher, I'd think I must be in trouble, but not with him. He always lets us know what he's feeling. Mr. Camplin is transparent and trustworthy.

"Cade, I have good news," he leads me into his classroom. I wait for him to tell me what this great news is, but instead, he motions toward a stack of frames on a table in the corner of the room.

I answer his gesture with a confused look, but I cross the room to inspect it. As I get closer, I feel excitement bubble up in me. My entire show sits here in beautiful frames. Glass gleams in front of my work. Something about framing everything makes it all seem so professional. Everything looks fresh and new, even my dad's subpar pastel. It all looks worthy of hanging in a state art show.