"You look so handsome," Mom smiles at me as I enter the living room. Dad insisted on buying me a new suit for the judging tonight. I highly suspect I'm going to be extremely overdressed, but I'm grateful for it nonetheless.
I wish I had had something this nice for my gallery show. I wish I had been able to appreciate my dad's presence at the gallery show. It's almost hard to remember a time before Dad coming back. It's almost difficult to remember that there was a time before we were all shiny and gilded in gold. I've almost forgotten there was a time when we weren't giants.
"Is Isaiah coming here or is he meeting us there?" Mom asks as she inspects Thomas's clothes. She wants to make sure everything is perfect for the evening. I just want to make sure I don't barf everywhere
"He and his dad are going to meet us there. And Cameron, too."
I'm grateful she doesn't ask about Kayla. I think my parents have figured out that Kayla and I aren't the friends we used to be. Mom's stopped asking me about Kayla. Even Thomas hasn't mentioned her lately. I'm sad about how things have played out, but not as sad as I expected to be if something ever happened between us.
"That'll be nice," Mom smiles. "Can you believe this, Cole? Our son is all grown up."
I see her eyes start to sparkle with tears. I wish she wouldn't cry; it always makes me feel so uncomfortable.
"He's going to graduate soon," she smiles an off-center smile. "And go to college and move away from us and grow into this amazing man."
"Mom, stop," I smile. "I'm not grown, yet. I can't even tie my tie."
I wave my neon green cast around to indicate to my dad that I need help. I'm almost embarrassed that I have to ask him for help. Almost.
"I've got this," Dad laughs, standing in front of me to tie my tie.
Looking at him is odd; it's like looking into a mirror, only aged. It's like seeing a paler, older version of myself, all furled brow and serious face. I make a mental note to draw my dad. The last time I drew him was years ago, a lifetime ago. The last time I drew him, I didn't understand shadows or tonal value. The last time I drew him, his face was disproportionate. And he framed it anyway. The last time I drew my dad, he still supported me. Just like tonight.
"Are you ready?" Mom asks, fastening her pearl earrings.
"No," I shake my head. I feel sick. I've spent so much time and energy trying not to hope, not to expect, not to dream about winning. Now that the night has come, I'm willing to admit to myself that I have a shot.
Even though my original portfolio burnt down, I have amazing things hanging at the school. I have two photorealistic drawings of my family. I have incredible flip books. I have lifelike charcoals of the man of my dreams. I've seen my competition. I know what other students turned in. I know that there are good pieces of art, but I'm confident that mine is one of the best portfolios.
We load ourselves into Mom's car—it's much bigger and more comfortable than Dad's Porsche, even if it is less flashy—and I try to keep my mind off of the show. I try to quell my uncomfortable excitement by thinking about school and graduation. I try to think about the past and all of the awful things I've gone through. I try to think about Betty Rosenthal and how much I hate her.
But I'm also grateful for her. Before things fell apart, she gave me my start. She gave me my first big break. She opened the doors to my future. I don't know if it was out of guilt for breaking up my family, or because she wanted Isaiah's friends to be successful, but either way, I'm grateful.
I try to think about Kayla and the way things started out and the way things ended up. She was the best friend I thought I'd ever have. She helped me through some of the roughest times in my life. And even if our friendship did end up one-sided at the end, it hadn't always been that way.
I try to think about Cameron and how our friendship has changed, too. I think about how ambivalent I had been of him at first, but how I've grown to love him. How he's grown to be closer to me than Kayla ever has been. And how he was so quick to accept the person that I am. That I love Isaiah.
Before I can try to think of anything else, we're in the school parking lot. People are flooding into the school in their nicest clothes. Isaiah is waiting outside in his nicest clothes, standing next to his Dad, his several-years-older twin. Isaiah looks so handsome, I can't stop myself from kissing him the moment I'm with him, even with our families around.
"Ew," Thomas cries exaggeratedly. Our families chuckle.
"You look amazing," Isaiah tells me softly, sliding his fingers between mine.
"Nothing compared to you," I squeeze his hand.
I realize that this is the first time my Dad and Isaiah's Dad have been together, in this capacity, as the dads of boyfriends. At a big event. I wonder how uncomfortable they must be. I wonder if I'm the only person who's uncomfortable.
"Cole," Marcus Rosenthal says, extending his hand in a business-like gesture. "It's good to see you."
His tone isn't as formal as I would expect, considering the history between them and the circumstances surrounding things tonight.
"It's good to see you, too, Marcus," Dad smiles and pulls Mr. Rosenthal into a hug.
"Hey, can we talk real quick?" Isaiah pulls me away from our families as they catch up.
"My Dad told me," he says softly, wincing like he's in pain.
For a moment I don't know what he's talking about. And then I do.
"I'm sorry I kept it from you," I apologize immediately, hanging my head. "I didn't want to. I just. I didn't want to hurt you. I"
"No," he cuts me off. "I'm not mad."
I look into his honey-and-amber eyes.
"Thank you," he kisses my forehead. "I'm sorry you felt like you had to hold it in. I could have taken it. But I know you were just thinking about me."
Something in my neck loosens for the first time in millennia and my shoulders relax. I didn't realize I'd been carrying so much tension.
"In the future," he laughs. "You don't have to protect me. I can take it. Besides, I have to protect you. That's my job."
I don't argue with him. He has done an awful lot of protecting and saving me. Will he always be my knight in shining armor? I certainly hope so.
"Thank you," he says again, kissing my cheek. "You're the best."
I feel myself melt into a puddle. I run all over the ground, and glow with warmth and become lava. I synch with the turning of the earth. Being with him makes me this way. I hope it always will.
"Alright, you two," Dad jokes. "Break it up. Let's go inside."
I squeeze Isaiah's hand tightly and walk with him into the school. The hallways are buzzing with chatter and are packed with well-dressed families fawning over artwork. Other kids my age are presenting their portfolios to the families.
I see people proudly displaying their watercolor paintings, their charcoal portraits, their mixed media canvases. I see artists telling people about their oil paintings, their sculptures, their pastel works.
Everybody here is good. Everybody here is talented. Everybody at this show, like me, is the most gifted artist in their school. Everybody, like me, is proud of what they're done. Everybody, like me, is nervous about the outcome of their portfolios.
"Will you present your show to us?" Mom says delightedly. She's glowing. She looks so young and vibrant. She looks like the most beautiful piece of art at this show.
So, I lead my posse to my display, standing proudly amidst all of the amazing displays around me. I talk about every piece I created. I talk about the time and love I gave to every piece. I tell them about what was happening in my life whenever I created each piece. I tell them about watching Thomas sleep and his night terrors and how no night was too terrible for the angelic face in the picture to fix. I tell them about the stippled piece of my mom and how she gave me strength whenever I was weak. I tell them about how she was my rock through so many tough times. Mom cries as I talk about it.
I tell them about Isaiah in his multiple forms. About how before I knew I loved him, my art tried to show me that I loved him. I tell them about his inspiration and influence on my art. I try not to be too sappy.
As I talk, I notice a group of people forming around us. Some of the faces, like Cathy and Thad and Josiah, I recognize. I nearly ask them what they're doing here, but I know they're here to support me and to see my work. I feel bad that I don't have in Kintsukuroi Boys to show them; they'd have loved them.
Some of the faces, though, I don't recognize. Other artists are gathered around me with their families. Mr. Camplin joins them, along with a group of professional-looking men and women wearing judges' badges. I recognize one of the judges as Cynthia Reid, the dean of fine arts at Magnolia State. I expect nerves to come as I draw a crowd, but they never do. I'm in my element.
As I talk, I talk about the difficulties of each medium I work in. I talk about the complexities of developing your own style and about the hardships of watching your entire show burn down in a fire. Judging is over; I know this won't sway the judges' decisions.
I notice my flipbooks start to float around the crowd, people flip through them, looking impressed and surprised as they flip. I talk about animation as a lost art form. And before I know it, it feels like I'm giving a lecture. People are hanging on my every word. People are listening so intently, I feel empowered and encouraged.
A hand goes into the air, unexpectedly, and I'm briefly stunned.
"Um, yes?" I ask confused. "Do you have a question."
"Yeah," says a girl with dark hair pulled back into an intricate braid. "Would you say it's harder to work in your photorealistic style or in this animation style in your books?"
I consider this; it's something I've never really thought about.
"I don't know that any one style is harder," I say after thinking about it. "I think they all have different skill sets. Photo-realism takes a lot of patience and meticulous review of your reference. But animation takes bringing things from your imagination to life. It takes thinking about physics and the way things move in the real world. They're both a challenge. Just like impressionism makes you think beyond what you see and translate what you're feeling into a visual medium."
"Mr. Swanson," Cynthia Reid asks next. "What medium is your favorite? If you could only work in one medium for the rest of your life, what would it be?"
"Graphite," I respond without hesitation. "You always have a pencil with you. You can create art anywhere with it. There were a few years in my life that I couldn't afford any other medium. I think that's what caused me to work so hard to be good at my graphite work. I was always able to afford a pack of #2 pencils."
I see a few members of the crowd nodding their heads in understanding or agreement.
I answer a few more questions from the crowd, feeling awkward and powerful. I am a giant. I own this realm. I can't help but notice Isaiah and Cameron's impressed looks. I can't help but notice Mr. Camplin's approving nod. I can't help but see my parents looking at me with pride and respect and love. I can't help but beam as the judges are beaming at me.
"May I have your attention please," Cynthia Reid says into the quiet crowd. "If you'll follow me to the auditorium, we'll begin the awards presentation for the night."
We file into the auditorium. The air is charged with electricity and anticipation and nerves. Thomas is glued to me, chattering excitedly and nervously. Is is stroking my hand with his thumb, comforting me.
We say nothing. My parents say nothing. Marcus and Cameron say nothing. Only Thomas is steadily telling me how proud he is of me and how he knows I'm going to win and how I'm going to be a famous artist like the "Pictasso" guy and how he hopes we can go out for dessert when this is over and he can't wait to tell all of his friends that I won and that he's going to miss me when I'm in college and I can't for the life of me figure out how he can talk so much without breathing.
"Good evening everybody," Mr. Camplin says into the microphone. "Welcome to Riverside High School. We are so happy to be able to host this event tonight. And we are so honored that so many of you brought in such tremendous artwork. As you all brought in your portfolios, all I could think was how grateful I am that I'm not judging. I don't know that I'd be able to pick just one winner."
The audience applauds respectfully. Mr. Camplin is nervous and comes across flat and flustered onstage. The stage lights make him look pale and sickly.
"I'm happy to introduce Dr. Cynthia Reid, the dean of the College of Fine Arts at Magnolia State University. She will be announcing tonight's judges and tonight's winners."
Another round of polite applause as Dr. Reid appears onstage.
"Cade, wasn't she at your show at Kimball?" Mom whispers as she takes the mic. I nod slowly, I don't want to miss a thing Dr. Reid says.
"Good evening," Dr. Reid smiles broadly. "I have had the pleasure tonight of judging with some of the most gifted artists and art educators I have ever met. Let me introduce them to you first."
Dr. Reid introduces an oil painter whose work has been displayed at galleries in Paris. She introduces a sculptor who teaches at a college on the other side of the state. She introduces a watercolorist whose work is actually featured in the textbook Mr. Camplin teaches from. She concludes by introducing the dean of the Art Institute.
"Mr. Camplin was not lying when he said our jobs were tough tonight," Dr. Reid smiles kindly. "Many years we have gotten together to judge this art show and there is one portfolio that stands out far above the others. Those years, our work is practically done for us."
The parents in the audience laugh politely. The students don't. We're all on edge.
"This year, that was not the case," she continues, adjusting her thin-framed glasses. "This year, there were so many good portfolios. We've spent hours deliberating and trying to pick a clear winner. Our decisions were split. We each found something amazing in every portfolio. This year, we had to narrow it down to five. And then three. And got stuck between two. It was unprecedented."
Dr. Reid opens a sheet of paper and starts to look over it.
"In fact, it was so unprecedented, that we've evoked a rule we haven't used in years to create individual awards, aside from the overall portfolio award. Each of these individual awards will also be given a monetary award to help defray some of the expenses of university living."
I want her to shut up already and start reading the names. I want her to stop talking and just tell us who won. I just want to know what my next step in life is.
Dr. Reid begins reading the categories and announcing the winners. There is an award for best mixed media piece, which goes to an artist who used reclaimed wood to create a three-dimensional painting of a forest on a large canvas. The digital media award goes to someone who recreated iconic posters throughout the years with modern-day political figures. The acrylic award goes to the artist who created fairy and mermaid landscapes whose work I noticed when she brought it in. Her work is amazing; I won't be surprised if she wins the entire competition.
I'm shocked beyond words when I receive the animation and graphite awards. I finger the $500 worth of checks in my hand as I await the end of the individual awards.
"Now's the time you've been waiting for," Dr. Reid says gently once the applause has dies down from the final individual awards.
"I am happy to announce our top five portfolio finalists. As I call your name, please make your way to the stage."
"In fifth place, receiving a $500 scholarship to any state school is Ana Marsden from Richland Heights High School," Dr. Reid announces.
As Ana takes her place on the stage, she's beaming. She's not upset about getting fifth place. She's joyous that she's placed.
Her portfolio consisted almost entirely of pet portraits done in different styles of great artists. They were brilliant, actually. Funny and charming and personal.
"Fourth place, with a $1000 scholarship to any state school is Drake Thomas from West High," Dr. Reid announces.
Drake's family shouts in excitement as he takes the stage. Drake was the artist who used the reclaimed wood. All of his work had an industrial feel; sometimes incorporating used screws and bolts to create dimensionality in his art. His family is so proud, he can't help but smile broadly.
"In third place, receiving a $2,500 scholarship is Helen Prescott."
Helen Prescott takes the stage. Her art is the fantasy art with the realistic fairies and mermaids. She uses colors reminiscent of Thomas Kinkade's and is skillful with a palette knife in ways that I never will be. I'm surprised she didn't win.
I squeeze Isaiah's hand hard. I'm nervous. What if I didn't place at all? All of the artists were amazing. I found myself longing to create art like everybody there. Everybody has their own statements and their own voices and their own styles. I wanted to be as talented as everybody in the room with me.
"Don't worry," Isaiah whispers softly. "Yours is the best here. Just chill out."
"You have to say that," I whisper softly. "You're my boyfriend."
"I don't have to say anything," he laughs.
"In second place," Dr. Reid says once the applause stops. "Is one of the most amazing portfolios I've ever had the privilege of seeing."
My heart stops. My stomach drops. I know it's not me. My portfolio was good. It wasn't amazing. I didn't place.
"Cade Swanson of Riverside High School."
I applaud politely, looking around for the artist she just called. Why is nobody standing up?
"Cade," Isaiah laughs, pushing me. "That's you."
As I climb the steps, my parents are on their feet, whooping and cheering. Isaiah, Thomas, Cameron, and Marcus follow them. They're clapping so proudly and cheering so loudly, I can't help but be overtaken by joy. I'm smiling as broadly as if I'd won. I'm smiling more broadly than if I'd won. Something in me tells me I did win. I may not be first place, but I did it. I won. Bright green cast and all, I am a giant. I won.
As I stand at the front of the stage, people in the audience begin to stand until eventually everybody is up. They're on their feet clapping loudly for me. A standing ovation? I don't even know how to accept that. I feel tears stream down my face. I'm crying in front of 500 people, all standing to acknowledge me. I'm in a green cast and I'm glittering with gold and I'm a giant. And they're applauding me. They're clapping for me as if I'm the winner. And I'm not.
"Our final award tonight is the overall portfolio award," Dr. Reid announces, trying to get the crowd under control again. "This artist had a wonderfully cohesive portfolio. Every piece fit with each other. Every piece felt like a natural flow from the one before it. It was impressive and an honor to get to see. Let's hear it for Ayah Haddad from Lincoln High."
I clap proudly for Ayah as she approaches the stage. Her portfolio was amazing. She had a lifelike sculpture of a woman in a hijab running. She had an oil painting of the hijab-clad woman lying with her face on a mat in the middle of the desert, sand blowing furiously around her. There was a watercolor piece of the same woman hiding in the dark, a baby in her arms. Her entire portfolio told the story of a woman running and hiding and surviving and fighting. It was beautiful. It had brought tears to my eyes. If I'm being honest, though, everything brings tears to my eyes.
"Congratulations," I tell her, offering her my hand.
"And you as well," she's smiling broadly.
In a blur, we're off the stage and smiling for pictures beside our portfolios. We stand beside each other, all five of us wearing the same proud, victorious smile. We all feel like winners. We are all giants. We are all champions.
"Cade, can I speak with you and your parents when you get a moment?" Dr. Reid asks once things have calmed down.
I search through the crowd and find my parents and Thomas and Isaiah and Marcus and Cameron and Thad and Cathy and Josiah. I'm swallowed in hugs and praise and congratulations. I'm high-fived and my hand is shaken and my cheeks are kissed.
"Will you hang on just a moment?" I ask everybody. "I want to celebrate with you, but Dr. Reid wants to talk to my parents."
I lead my parents to Dr. Reid where awaits with a very business-like look on her face.
"I wanted to congratulate you," Dr. Reid smiles at me. "And your parents for raising such a successful, well-spoken, and talented son."
We accept her congratulations and praise. My parents are glowing, both in love and in pride. They look like kids on their first date.
"I didn't announce it on stage, and it was on purpose and for my own self-serving reasons," Dr. Reid smiles kindly. "But your award is a $10,000 scholarship to any state school."
I choke on nothing. $10,000? I can't even imagine what $10,000 in scholarships looks like. That's an entire car. That's almost what I paid for my car, and that was after saving for months.
"And you're more than welcome to accept it and attend any school," she continues. "But I'm willing to offer something better to get you at Magnolia State University."
I feel myself shaking with excitement. More than $10,000? What is going on? I cannot believe this is happening to me.
"I want you so badly at our school, that I'm willing to offer you a full scholarship," she continues. "We will cover your books and living expenses and classes. We will cover anything. I think you will be a good asset to our program."
"What's the catch?" I ask, dubious. "Why would you give me all this money?"
"You're probably the first person who's been suspicious of a scholarship," she laughs kindly. "One day, Mr. Swanson, you're going to be a successful artist. You already are. One day you will be an animator or a fine artist or an art teacher. And people will want to go where you've gone and do the things that you've done. Quite simply, Mr. Swanson, you're an investment. But I believe you are the right investment. And I'm willing to bet as much money as it takes to make sure we get to invest in you."
I consider this for a long time before saying anything.
"Can I call you later this week?" I ask finally. I can't make this decision tonight. I've got too much on my mind as it is.
"Of course," Dr. Reid laughs. "Take your time. But please call me and let me know no matter what you've decided."
"I will," I nod once. "Thank you."
"Your portfolio really is one of the best I've ever seen. I was wowed at your show at Kimball Art and I'm wowed now. You've got a gift, Mr. Swanson. I know you've worked hard at it, nobody knows that better than I. But what you've got is also a gift. And I'm so happy to see you're using it and sharing it."
The night ends in a blur of hugs and a congratulatory dinner. My dad and Marcus Rosenthal agree to pay for everybody, including Thad and Cathy and Josiah. They buy us expensive steaks and crème brûlée. I look around me at the people who are here to support me, to celebrate me. These people are my family. These people are in my life for a reason.
Sculptors say that their sculpture is inside the clay all the time, Mr. Camplin once told us as we learned to work with clay. It's their job to reach into the clay and pull out all the extra and all the unwanted stuff and what's left is their art, their beautiful finished thing.
If you were to reach into this crazy year and pull out all the extra stuff, all the unwanted stuff, this is what you'd be left with. These people, this moment, my life is the beautiful finished thing.