I dared not return to school the next day.
Arianna's voice offered me a small amount of comfort as I repeatedly copied a sentence onto lined paper with my left hand:
The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog.
"I'll let the school know that you'll be back next week. Perhaps we were too hasty."
She rubbed my back motherly, speaking calmly and warmly. I nodded. There was a morbid determination in my movements as I scratched out countless rows of the same letters. Arianna observed my labours with a soundlessly begrudging approval, sitting across me on the edge of my cluttered bed.
"You don't have to work so hard; I don't want you to tire yourself out." Arianna's words of caution were filed away in a brain cabinet and dutifully ignored. I was set on this task, and every wasted moment was longer I would struggle. My lines were wobbly, and two hours of copying only showed miniscule change. In order to regain my sanity, I knew that the key was to regain my art first. Arianna needed only to watch and wait.
Hours passed, and my wrist began to burn, a pain that slowly set in like a summer day without sunscreen. I let the pencil fall slack in my grip while looking over my work. Very little improvement.
Folding the fourth paper up and sliding it into my folder, I gazed over towards where Twilight stood sentry to my alarm clock. It was around noon.
I slunk over to the dark window and twitched the blinds open. The midday sun glared in my face, angry and scorching. Willing it to be more forgiving, I pulled up the blinds with a slow flourish; glowing light filled the room with a much gentler warmth. As I momentarily peered out the window, I managed to force a tiny smile. The life from outside was breathtakingly wonderful, and I wished to be able to capture and splash it across a canvas.
This thought managed to dampen my smile back to the standard grimace, and I splayed myself across my bed in apathy. Too sore to work, too down to talk, I found solace in the medium that had suddenly become my kind companion: literature. Arianna's collection of Ray Bradbury had made its way into my bedroom, and after devouring Dandelion Wine and The Martian Chronicles, I had set my sights on Fahrenheit 451. My appetite for novels had increased drastically since the accident that had shattered my old world, and I was very aware of my sheer lack of literary background.
Before now, I had rarely even read anything outside of fashion magazines and school assignments. Bradbury's rich vocabulary forced upon me repeated frustrations, but the way he painted words across the page gave me visions of a perfect written magic.
The rich phrases and gorgeous scenes may not have been visible to others, but they were drawn across my inner easel. For the rest of the week, I alternated between reading and writing: the two activities that would become my temporary lifeline.
✎
Monday came, and with it arrived a shimmering shard of hope. My week of hardcore writing hadn't truly gained me incredible skill, but I was confident in my ability to at least write my name and the due dates on the makeup work given to me.
The day was long and still boring in wait of my art class at its close. I tried to sketch circles and squares inside my notebook, ruefully herding my strokes into smooth curves and straight lines. When the time came to switch to sixth period, I unconsciously leapt out of my chair, showing more emotion that I had realised I felt.
I soared into art class on a wave of expectations, and although I lost some momentum by the end, I managed to create a messy likeness of Twilight under Mrs. Clairoux's guidance. The workmanship was a far from grand, but ah! It was progress, joyous progress, and the blackness of my heart momentarily recalled the meaning of colour. Letting frustration, expectation, and impatience go from my mind, I focused only on improving for someday.
When the bell rang, my muse was loathe to quit. Mrs. Clairoux was positively beaming, and exclamations of French rang in the air.
"Oh, ma petit bichette! You have made so much progress that I think that next Friday you can be in the auction! I kid, oui, but I am proud of you, ma minette. You work very hard, as you used to."
My smile was not forced this time.
As I gathered my belongings and left the art room grudgingly, a long-missed light sparkled in my eyes. Perhaps I would not gain the use of my right hand back, but perhaps I would; I resolved to keep the dark thoughts from my mind as much as possible. For now, I would train my left, for the sake of art and for myself. Bathed in a little inner serenity, the walk out to the parking lot seemed slightly less monotonous than before.
Arianna greeted me affectionately when I knocked on the door of her parked blue rental Buick (the Mini was out for repairs after becoming acquainted with a mailbox). To say I had a spring in my step would be an exaggeration, but she could read the light in my eyes. As we drove home, I even proffered some conversation about my art class and progress. I promised to show her the sketch when we reached home.
✎
The next few days began and ended swiftly, and with a few strokes of my pencil, a grin or two, and another few smatterings of French endearments, the next Friday swept down upon me. It was a teacher workday in preparation for third quarter progress reports. For Fine Arts students, it was also the night of the long-awaited semester art auction.
Around four in the afternoon, I attended my first physical therapy appointment, where I was given an evaluation and a list of strengthening exercises to do at home. Wasting no time, Arianna and I sped home to prepare for the auction. Having no piece to sell, I had volunteered to be an usher.
Arianna was kind enough to curl my hair, spinning the long locks into hot rollers dipped in a poison cloud of hairspray. She assisted me in the daunting task of one-handed makeup, and even found a silver shawl for me to drape over my bright white cast. Sporting a sleek navy cocktail dress that matched my sombre yet glittering eyes, I pinned star shards in my ears and watched them sparkle with satisfaction.
The self I saw in the mirror did not disappoint me. She was nowhere close to whole, but she was no longer broken. The colour grey was an accent, not the theme of her being. It would be a long time still until that reflection glowed with the light of the sun once more, but I had patience. When the time came to leave for the auction, I slid on my glass slippers and prepared to enjoy the ball.
Attendance was plentiful as always, and my time was spent hurriedly yet gracefully handing out catalogs and explaining auction procedures to guests. An elderly couple known for their constant patronage remarked upon my newfound elegance, and I thanked them shyly.
Perhaps I was not a graceful dancer or a beautiful model, but my love of art had inspired me to work twice as hard tonight. When the room had filled and the doors had closed, I took my seat in the front and admired Mrs. Clairoux's speech.
"...Such is the nature of art, that it allows us to express what words cannot describe, and that it brings feelings to life through colours and shapes that would normally have no meaning. The pieces we have today are the feelings and souls of all of the students in our Fine Arts department, and your generous purchases help keep this dream of artistic freedom alive."
A tear broke through my guard as she bowed to the crowd before allowing the student auctioneer to take the podium. I listened, dreamlike, as each work of art by the Art III and IV students was displayed and sold. When the intermission came and the silent auction for the rest of the items began, I wandered over to the donation table.
Every year, parents and other supporters donated art supplies and other related items to be used by the department. I smiled over boxes of rich colouring pencils, books of beautiful stationery, and a stack of canvases. A pile of watercolour paints peeked out at me from a cardboard box, as well as the edge of a barely visible square... something. I sauntered over to investigate, but was pulled aside by a guest.
"Do you happen to know when the silent auction ends? I was caught up in traffic, and arrived late..."
I put on my professional smile, forgetting the strange object as I guided the pretty thirty-something towards the sign-up table and information sheet. The woman thanked me heartily, and I moved to find Arianna.
She was examining an ornate Japanese-style fan crafted by one of the Art II's when I came upon her. Jokingly, she fluttered it in front of her face and cooed,
"You may approach."
I could do nothing but shake my head as if scolding a toddler away from chewing on store merchandise. You don't play with artwork, Arianna! Under my kindly scathing eyes, she melted and placed the fan back where it belonged, scribbling her bid on the slip below it. She's actually buying something? I don't ever remember her bidding on anything that wasn't made by me.
"What is it, my gorgeous little Nannette? You're prettier than all the art laying around." Her flattery was shameless and wholly embarrassing, but I managed to overlook it through a tinge of blush.
"I was just wondering how everything was going."
"There is a fantastic still life painting by an Art I this year." Every few years, a prodigy or two would pop up, spicing up the freshmen's gallery with a widely-desired piece. I had been one of such prodigies in my first year, and my charcoal drawing of a water lily is the most expensive piece of artwork in the house– bought for almost two hundred and fifty dollars.
As I was about to ask her to lead me to the painting, the two minute alarm bell chimed, and a crowd guests quickly hurried to place final bids. I gave up working my way through the masses, instead bringing Arianna back to sit at one of the refreshment tables.
"I'm having a great time. I'm remembering how fun these auctions are." My happiness was evident from my tone, even with my nonchalant posture. Arianna gladly nodded and remarked,
"You haven't been this sparkling since... well, since your accident. I'm so happy for you."
After that, the final bell rang, and I rose to guide the guests back to their seats. The winners of the silent auction items were called up one by one in ascending order of top bid. I was terribly shocked to find Arianna's fan to be dead last on the list, with an outrageous bid of...
Three hundred dollars.
I choked audibly when I heard that bid, but quickly reined it in and joined the clapping. I attacked Arianna with my gaze as she returned to our chair, demanding an explanation with my eyes. She winked and whispered,
"In a bit." Can you even afford that?!
Mrs. Clairoux took the stage, a swish of fabric and tightly curled blonde hair. She delivered a closing speech thanking each visitor and student for his/her time and support. As the room began to clear out, the student ushers set to work folding chairs and clearing up the concert hall. I, opting out of the physical labour, returned to the donation table with my sister to sort the supplies. On the way, she simply stated,
"I liked the fan. Plus, you didn't sell a piece this quarter." She allowed no further debate of the subject.
I was intercepted by Mrs. Clairoux on my trip to the table, who gave me a hug immediately.
"You look wonderful tonight, ma bichette. That glow of yours, it is like the moon." I smiled as she travelled with Arianna and I towards the donation table.
Upon it rested the gifts from earlier as well as many new additions. I was shocked to see a box of expensive clay hiding under the right half of the table, a treasure trove of artistic possibility lurking in the shadows. Under the left side lay the box from earlier. Mrs. Clairoux carefully stepped in front of me before I could glance inside.
"This year, I make my own donation to the department."
She unearthed the mysterious object I had taken notice of before, and held it out to me.
It was an exquisite sketchpad, the cover black moleskin. Mrs. Clairoux offered it forward, and I lifted my left arm to feel its smooth face. She coaxed it open to show me the pages, which were the crisp white of a pure, clean slate.
"This is..." Tears welled in my eyes, but sorrow was not alive in them– only joy. Arianna glittered with an air of happiness as she took the sketchbook from my art instructor.
"For when you will draw again, Annette." Mrs. Clairoux's wide grin offset her kind voice, and I jumped to hug her once more.
After organising the many art supplies with my two companions, I surveyed the rest of the room. Cleanup was proceeding nicely, and it seemed I was free to leave for the night. Arianna handed me the sketchbook, and I clung to it with my free arm. She pushed open the back doors of the concert hall, letting the moonlight and cold air swirl into the wide space.
We stepped out together as Mrs. Clairoux waved to us, making our way to where the Mini was parked in the back. As I walked, Arianna awkwardly hummed a familiar pop tune, and I scolded her gently for her lack of pitch. She sheepishly grinned as she unlocked the door of the car. Draping my shawl across the back seat, I took a breath of the still night breeze into the car with me for safekeeping. As she backed out of the parking space, driving towards the exit, she nudged me and pointed towards the sky.
"Look!" Her finger guided me towards the vast sea of stars, twinkling and floating in the ocean of night. A single piece of lost memory from the day of my accident came back to me, and I bathed in the irony.
There were countless stars in the sky on the night that my world began anew.