Page 93 of Dear Pink

I stare at the blank slate. I want to forget the day I presented my portfolio at the interview. Jack’s parents hired a fancy admissions specialist for his entrance essay and a consultant who helps art students organize their portfolios. She told Jack to include a variety of materials and styles. He said I should do the same, so I did.

Libby flings paint in my hair. “What happened to chicks before dicks?”

I fling green and white flecks at her. “He was helping me.”

“He was helping himself.”

“What? You don’t like Jack, now?” I ask, confused by her tone.

“His portfolio needed to be diverse because Jack’s not talented in one style or technique. Unlike you. Your black and white sketches are print-ready. You could have stolen the spot out from under him. You’re Neil Gaiman good.”

The rejection is still a fresh wound. I only applied to one art school, the Art Institute of Chicago. My parents forced me to apply to State as a safety school. No way did I imagine I would actually attend.

I continue painting, avoiding her gaze. “I’m less talented than you.”

Libby paints realistic portraits, which rival professionals. She’s been offered commissions for her work. One hangs in the courthouse. Libby got accepted into every art school she applied to, and Chicago gave her a full scholarship. I glance at her painting of Seneka. The depiction could be a photograph.

Libby puts her brush on the ground and takes my hand. “Hannah, look atyourart. The image resembles a pen and ink drawing. Who else has the skills to accomplish this magic with a paintbrush?”

I study my picture. I used black paint to recreate a brick background and sketched Jamal leaning with his head in his hand, his long bangs sweeping over his face. “You think Jamal will dig it?”

“For sure.” Libby hugs me, getting a red smudge on my shirt. “He’ll probably use this picture for his next book cover.”

***

“Hannah?” June rubs my shoulder, and my mind clears.

“I was rejected from art school,” I blurt. “The review committee disliked my entire portfolio. They said my art lacked authenticity. They were right. I didn’t include the best pieces in the collection. I didn't express my true self.” The weight lifts off my chest. It’s liberating to tell my story, to get the truth finally out.

Maude holds up her finger. “Oneart school rejected you? Didn’t you apply to more?”

“I had my heart set on the Chicago Art Institute, and when I heard their criticism, my dream didn't seem realistic anymore.”

“You forfeited your art because of someone else’s opinion?”

Geez, Maude really cuts to the point. “When you put it that way, my reasoning sounds ridiculous, but there were exterminating circumstances.”

They share a glance.

“I planned to attend with Libby and my stupid ex, Man-Whore-Jack,” I continue. “I got sidetracked along the way.”

“Who’s Jack?” June asks.

Maude rolls her eyes. “Don’t tell me a boy broke your heart, so you abandoned your passion?”

“Pile-O-Jack was my high school boyfriend.” I take a sip of my water.

“Oh, no,” June says. “Did he cheat on you with Libby?”

I choke on my water. “Never.”

“But he cheated, right?” Maude clicks her teeth.

“Yep. I caught him in the act. Ass up.”

June balls her fists like a boxer. “I hope you punched him in his tiny wiener.”

I laugh. “I threw a stapler at his dick.”

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