Page 102 of Follow My Voice
Now everyone’s attention is on me, and I don’t know what to say.
“Wasn’t that the day we watchedQueen of Tears?” Ellie says. I’ve told her about that Korean drama several times. “We were so wrapped up in it that the time got away from us,” she lies effortlessly.
Diego is still looking at me, eyes narrowed.
“Yeah, I guess it slipped my mind,” I say, trying to sound convincing.
Perla looks at Ellie and then at me, but says nothing.
I know I have to tell them that I broke up with Kang, but this isn’t the right time.
“Here comes dessert!” Kamila saves me by showing up with the strawberry shortcake.
It looks beautiful, and, tasting it, it’s clear that my sister has inherited my mother’s baking skills. It’s delicious.
We toast and eat the cake that means so much to my sister, smiling and wishing each other a Merry Christmas, my heart overflowing with love.
43Paint Me
AFTER MANY CONVERSATIONSwith my friends, Kamila, and Andy, I decided to keep a similar schedule as the previous semester—one in-person class (ART-111 Art Appreciation) and one online (ENG-232 American Literature II). But going back to college for another semester after winter break is as hard as I thought it would be. Although I’ve been bored within the confines of my room, it was easy for me to fall back into a pattern, allowing myself to feel safe and protected by those four walls.
Back on campus, I constantly scan the halls for Kang. I haven’t heard from him since that Merry Christmas message and, while I appreciate his respect for the time I asked him to give me, part of me—the immature, hardcore romantic—wishes he would seek me out, fight for me a little like in the TV shows and Korean dramas I love so much.
I have an appointment with Ms. Romes as soon as classes are back in session. She greets me with a handshake and leads me out of her office into another hallway. We walk up a stairway and down another long corridor and I know where she’s taking me. We’re in the Arts wing.
Ms. Romes stops in front of a studio art classroom and checks the time on her phone. “The class starts in a few minutes, so Mann must be on her way if you’d like to meet her.”
“What are we doing here?”
She points to a sign by the door and smiles. “ART-240 Painting I.”
“No,” I instinctively say.
“Let’s just go inside, okay?” Ms. Romes suggests. “Just to take a look around.”
“But…” I pause for a second, thinking about it.
“I’ll be right here if you need me.”
“I need more time; I have to take it little by little.”
She nods. “Okay.”
So, the first day, I just stand in the doorway looking at the empty classroom for a few minutes before the instructor or students arrive. On Wednesday, I watch part of the class from the hallway. On Friday, I feel bold enough to sit in on an entire class beside the open doorway as the students work their magic. The next Monday, I walk by the studio art room but no class is in session. I open the door and stand there, motionless. Then I take a deep breath and enter. The first thing that hits me once again is the smell, the scent of fresh paint that I know so well.
I close my eyes and inhale.“You’re an amazing artist, baby!”The smell brings my mother’s voice straight back to me, like a stab to the heart.
I open my eyes and see all the canvases, the students’ works in progress, some still gleaming with fresh paint. The only light comes from the large windows on one of the walls, which frame the snow outside and a leafless tree, making it seem as if the art studio has been abandoned by the cold world. It’s almost dreamlike.
I walk among the paintings, some very simple and others very detailed. I run my finger across a blank canvas, admiring the texture. And I remember my art teacher from high school.
“Another portrait of your mother, Klara?”
From the moment I found out about my mother’s cancer, I became obsessed with immortalizing her face. I painted portraits of her nonstop, trying to get it right. My teacher didn’t know what was going on at home; I was becoming more and more closed off.
“Portraits were last month’s theme, Klara. You’re very talented, but I can’t put another portrait in the student exhibit.”
I say nothing.
