Page 92 of SNOB

“There’s a chance you’ll never play again.”

Despite the hole from that bullet, there’s another hole from that day that's more excruciating.

“Are you consuming art like I asked?” Janine asks as she packs her things into her brown leather bag. “Did you find anything that inspires you?”

Don’t say it. Don’t say it. Don’t say it.

“Em—no.”

Janine smiles, her head tilted as if she knows I’m hiding something. “Well, what you’ve done today reminds me of some work I’ve seen on SBU campus. We’re all a product of our environment and the people around us. Don’t hesitate to let that influence you.”

My head slowly moves to my art therapist.

Does she know? Does she know that all that’s been on my mind is her?

If I'm honest with Janine, I’d tell her the only art I’ve looked at in the last couple of weeks is whatever I could find from Ember. Janine’s instructions were to find art that makes me feel something. And fuck, her work is the only thing that makes me feel anything.

POW!

That sound makes my shoulders rise, but I hide it, gripping the brush in my hand as the pain in my body presents itself. A rush of a stinging burn scorches through my back all the way down to my toes.

“Malcolm!” My dad barks my name, the front door coming to a close.

“That’s my cue,” Janine sighs, way too soft to deal with my father.

“Thank you, Janine,” I say, putting my brush into the water, watching as the red colours the glass. I try to flip the canvas around, glancing at the clock on the wall. He’s early.

A chuckle follows behind me. “What are you, queer?” My father scoffs at my work, proving I’m too late to hide it. “It’s a good thing you’re not the one curating your own work. How is that going by the way?”

He already knows the answer.

Without Ember, I’ve no way to take a step back from what he wants me to do. And now, I don’t have hockey to fill that space either. Or her.

“I’ll remind you,” he says. “You weren’t able to deliver. You weren’t able to walk down your own path. So, be a good boy and follow the one I’ve made for you, you ungrateful bastard.” He’s been harsher than ever. But his words don’t sting as much as that bullet. “I’ll see you on Sunday for the Leaders’ Brunch.”

As I clean up the work around me, I don’t look at him as I respond. “I have therapy.”

“They call this therapy?” he chuckles. “Don’t let the world make you soft, Malcolm. Have you learned nothing from your silly dreams? They’re dead. As much as I hope that girl is too.” His words pierce me, my jaw clenching. “Do what you’re meant to do: follow my path.”

I wait until he leaves to let my fist punch through my canvas, right in the middle of the red. The canvas breaks, just like my dreams and hell, maybe Father is right. This is karma.

I pulled that trigger first.

Putting the broken canvas with the rest of them piling up, I come across the art piece Ember’s mom left behind.

Maybe I’m not meant to make my dreams come true but it doesn’t have to mean the same for her. I’m trapped in this life but this life still gives me the upper hand. I still have the better end of the stick.

A smirk comes to my face. I’m about to level the playing field.

TWENTY-EIGHT

EMBER

“Hello again, McKinsley.”

His face stares back at me, painted onto the brick wall.

Once again, Mac is the subject of my imagination. Taking a step back, those iron eyes cover the work of my enemy.

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