"Ramona, you're next."
I snapped out of my rehearsal fog and walked to the front of the lecture hall to plug in my flash drive. Elijah threw me a thumbs up on his way back to his seat, and I let out an anxious breath.
Somehow, I'd managed to submit my essay before midnight, print out the rest of my portfolio, and finalize my slides. It was one hell of a push, though, and I felt a bit delirious this morning, operating on nothing but caffeine, nerves, and four hours of sleep.
I dragged my presentation to the desktop and paid a quick glance at my classmates, a million butterflies looping through my ribcage. Normally, public speaking had Carl foaming at the mouth, but after Jay's funeral, I'd worked hard to keep that panicked feeling diluted and impotent. At the end of the day, this was a grade for an elective course, not a job interview.
Professor Fontaine nodded at me from the front row—an indicator that I should begin—and I proceeded to open up my PowerPoint.
A second later, "An Extra Pump of Sugar" popped up on the projection screen in giant, cursive letters.
Okay.
Here goes nothing...
"As we've seen here today, we carry numerous misconceptions with us. We all have preconceived notions about car brands, mental health, and what it takes to be a college student, and that's just scratching the surface," I said, using the introduction I'd memorized to smooth out the inflections in my voice. "For me, I used to think I had to live a perfect, extraordinary life to feel fulfilled. I thought I had to be someone, do something, or go somewhere remarkable to be happy. I thought I had to chase dreams and fairytales to have a story worth telling. But I was wrong."
I clicked through the next few slides describing my theme, watching my attentive audience skim the bullet points. Watching the hook snag, then reeling them in.
"Despite what the media says, subscribing to societal expectations, finding your soulmate, and achieving notoriety aren't the secrets to lifelong happiness. In fact, some of us may never obtain those things. Some of those paths might not even exist for us." My comment was met with a few weak smiles throughout the room, and my heart rate slowed a bit, calmed by their favorable reactions. "But we can all find joy in the ordinary. In the mundane. And in the people we surround ourselves with."
I launched the sequence of photographs in my portfolio, each slide detailing the compositional strategies and photography techniques I used.
First, I depicted Elijah sitting in a garage surrounded by tools and various car parts. Grease and oil painted his skin, but mental stimulation swam in his eyes and the upward tilt of his mouth.
Next was a photo of the homeless man, Arthur, and his dog, Hiccup, whom I passed every time I drove to the grocery store. The two were inseparable, and I knew there were nights when Hiccup was the only thing keeping Arthur in the fight.
After several other photographs, I paused on the image of my grandmother showing off her biblical salt and pepper shakers, and Fontaine chuckled into her hand.
"We can obtain happiness through life's simple pleasures," I said. "Some of them good for us..."
I showed a picture of Walker at his music studio, then one of Charlie painting at a Picasso and Wine class, her upturned nose crinkled with concentration. I also included a photo of Adora and Van sitting in the snow with their ski gear half-off, laughing together for once instead of chucking jibes.
I'd debated over keeping the following shot—a black-and-white photo of Theo playing guitar in a room devoid of belongings—but it fit my theme so well, I couldn't part with it. And of course, I had to add a Nevada sunset to the mix, the fading light leaving pink and purple bruises across the desert.
"And some of them...not so much."
Here, I presented an image of Baker cradling a bottle of vodka as she walked down the train tracks, as well as a portrait of my sick, grinning uncle with a cigarette in his hand.
"But if we can find those small sources of contentment—those little splashes of dopamine in our day-to-day lives—we can find happiness anywhere, anytime, regardless of what we achieve." I smiled at the handful of students who appeared to relate to my speech, wondering what expectations burdened them, which ideals they'd chased. "And for some of us, it's as simple as asking for an extra pump of sugar."
I ended the presentation with a picture of Grounds and my favorite latte in the foreground—a constant I'd come to rely on, and the corresponding insults I'd come to anticipate.
Done, Carl gasped, allowing my rigid posture to deflate. At last, I could dust my hands of this portfolio and my old ways of thinking. My old comforts of paralysis and stagnation.
My classmates applauded me, clearly impressed by my work and my cohesive concept, and I repressed a tired laugh. It was all luck, really, that a common theme tied these pieces together—and only just. Then again, there was obviously a piece of me that gravitated toward the expression of wholeness. And perhaps I'd been chasing that feeling all along, living vicariously through my models and muses. Sensing their confidence, their satisfaction, and recognizing how special it was to be grounded in the present moment.
But I'd finally tapped the keg of good enough, and I relished the taste.
At the end of the hour, Elijah swung his backpack over his shoulder and approached me with a nervous grin. "Hey. Nice presentation, Rivas."
"Thanks, you too."
He quirked an eyebrow. "Yeah? You enjoyed my analysis of different car brands?"
"I liked...your passion," I put carefully, and he bent his head and snickered.
I started packing my things, thrilled to be done for the semester, but he was still standing there, watching me, so I passed him a curious—and slightly impatient—look.
"Um...so I was wondering...since class is over now, maybe you'd want to go out sometime?" he asked, fiddling with his backpack strap. "Just the two of us?"
My heart dropped to my stomach, and my brain scrounged for an articulate reply. But all I could think about was Theo and the shit-eating grin he'd wear if he ever discovered he was right. I'd assumed I was Elijah's tutor and nothing more, but he'd been playing the long game this whole time. Just like Theo said.
Of course, I didn't hate Elijah's company. We'd become fairly close over the last two months, and I'd grown to enjoy his sense of humor and surface-level companionship.
Was there something here we could cultivate? Possibly. But I needed a break from boys, and I wasn't about to mess with someone's emotions when my heart was still beating for another. I'd seen what that mentality bred, and it wasn't pretty.
"I don't think I'm in the right place for something like that," I admitted, hoping no one could hear us amidst the chorus of backpack zippers and shuffling feet. "I'm sorry."
He retreated a step, attempting to shrug it off. "Oh, no, it's cool." His gaze flicked to mine once again, injured but not defeated. "I mean, we always keep it casual too, y'know? If that's something you're into."
I released a fond sigh. One heartbreak per year was enough for me, thank you. I didn't need this lesson reinforced just yet.
"Elijah, you're funny and sweet, and I think you could make some girl out there really happy...dirty nails and all," I said, hoping to convey my sincerity with my gentle gaze and tone. "But...it's just not going to be me."
He nodded, accepting my rejection with a maturity I wasn't accustomed to seeing among the male species.
For a moment, I worried I'd wounded him with that last line, but then he glanced up at me, and a cordial grin stretched across his face. "What about friendship? Did I fuck that up, or is a platonic duo still on the table?"
Relief washed over me, and I returned his smile. "Now friendship...that's something I'm in the market for."
A few days later, I received my final grades, including a perfect score on my photography assignment and a note from Fontaine to come see her as soon as possible.
Of course, her need to speak with me couldn't have been too serious if I'd passed her class, but that didn't stop Carl from fretting over a plagiarism accusation or an invasive interview about the subjects in my portraits. And it wasn't until I sat across from the beaming professor that my concerns finally evaporated.
"Ramona, thank you for coming," she said, brushing the stubborn bangs away from her face. "I wanted to commend you on your portfolio this semester. Your work stood out among my entire roster of introductory applicants, and quite frankly, you outperformed many of my advanced students as well. Which," she slid a brochure over the desk, "is why I want to nominate you for the student exhibit at the art museum this August."
My mouth fell open.
That was the last thing I expected her to say. I'd completely forgotten about the competitive nature of this project; all I'd wanted was to turn it in complete and coherent.
"Really?" I got out. "That's...I don't even know what to say."
My own exhibit? God. I never imagined showing off my artwork to anyone but friends and family. Grounds was the only place I ever considered submitting my photographs, and that was nothing compared to an actual showroom.
"Yes. I'll need to discuss it with my contacts at the museum, of course. But I think they'll agree that your pieces are worth promoting." She tilted her head at me, amused by my reaction. "Do you accept?"
"I...yes, I do." I wasn't exactly enthused by the idea of subjecting myself to public scrutiny, but I was beyond flattered. "You really think it's that good?"
Her smile was warm. "There's a personal journey here, Ramona. I think you have a real talent for this." She inspected my face for a few seconds. "What's your major, again?"
"Psychology," I answered. "But I've decided to tack on more photography, music, and visual art courses next year. I've...I've actually been looking into getting a master's in art therapy."
I'd thought about Charlie's comments on art and grief, then experienced the benefits firsthand, and I decided I may as well combine two of my strengths if I wanted to finish out this degree. But the more I looked into this new career path, the more confident I felt in my decision.
As an art therapist, I could improve someone's mental health while facilitating their discovery of artistic expression. I could show them simple ways to help themselves, without a third party, for the rest of their lives. And I could continue my pursuit of American Sign Language to properly assist any deaf or nonverbal clients.
It was the first occupation I'd come across that stirred something within me, and I decided to take Walker's advice and chase the wave.
Who knew where it might lead?
Pride swirled in the woman's sky-blue eyes, and her approval meant more to me than I realized. I had a feeling she didn't offer it to many students. "Well, it sounds like you realized where you were meant to be."
"I'm not sure about that," I said with a quiet laugh. "But I definitely figured out where I didn't belong."
And it wasn't just academia, either. I'd ruled out multiple facets of my life that didn't benefit me, and that list of unsuitable conditions was only growing.
"Process by elimination," she commended. "It's a false-proof method."
I smiled in response, but as we dove into the details of the art exhibit, her statement prickled. What happens when you introduce a human variable into the mix? I wondered. Is it still false-proof then?
Was poor timing a valid reason to start another trial? Or was that just an ember of my romanticism talking?
I supposed it didn't really matter if that variable couldn't be tested anymore. But it was a difficult thought to silence—and an even more difficult one to kill.