Page 40 of There Are No Saints

But maybe this one time . . . it might be true.

* * *

By Wednesday,all my supplies have been cleaned out of Joanna’s studio, transported with the greatest care to the new studio on Clay Street.

My roommates are so jealous that they can hardly stand it, except for Peter, who says, “That’s great Mara,” bringing us up to a grand total of fifteen words of conversation.

“Cole Blackwell owns the place?” Erin moans. “You’ll probably see him all the time.”

“You wanna fuck him, too?” Heinrich teases her. “Trying to get a Monopoly on slutty artists?”

“He’s a complete dick,” Joanna says. “Not friendly at all.”

“Gorgeous, though,” Frank adds.

“Oh, wow,” I laugh. “That’s really something coming from you, Frank. You’re picky as hell.”

“Not that picky,” Joanna says. “He used to date Heinrich, after all.”

“Get fucked,” Heinrich scowls.

I’m floating on cloud nine all through my work shifts, dying to get over to the studio so I can work on my collage. I stay late every night, working longer hours than I ever have in my life. I finish the piece and jump right into a new composition, even more layered and detailed. I’m experimenting with different materials—not just acrylic, but lacquer and corrective fluid and sharpie and spray paint.

The studios are separate and soundproof, and no one seems to mind when I play my music loud. The nighttime streets seem distant, glittering like a jeweled cloth laid out below me.

For the first time in a long time I feel hopeful, and maybe even happy.

This feeling intensifies tenfold when Sonia taps on my door on Friday afternoon, informing me that I’ve been shortlisted for a grant from the SF Artists Guild.

“Are you serious?” I squeak.

“The panel would like to come see your work on Monday. If they like what they see . . . they’re awarding two thousand dollars to each recipient, and showcasing one piece at New Voices next month.”

I feel like I’m about to pass out.

“What do they want to see?” I ask eagerly. “I just finished a collage. And I started this new piece, but I haven’t done much yet . . .”

“Just show them whatever you’ve got,” Sonia says. “It doesn’t need to be complete.”

Elation and sickening terror surge through me. I want this so fucking bad. The money would be great, but a spot in New Voices is even better. It’s by invite only, and all the biggest brokers will be there. Getting a piece in the show could really boost me up the ladder.

I look at my work in progress. It’s fucking cool, I’m proud of it.

But I had another idea percolating in my mind . . .

I’ve got a fresh canvas stretched and ready, leaned up against the wall. It’s massive—eight feet high, ten feet long. It would be the largest painting I’d ever done.

I wonder if I should start working on it. Sonia said my painting didn’t need to be complete to show the panel . . . this would be more ambitious.

Maybe too ambitious. It could be a fucking disaster.

I shift back and forth, gazing between my collage and the blank canvas.

Finally, I turn back to the easel. Starting something new would be a huge risk. I’ve practiced the collage technique—that’s what I should stick with for now.

I’m a nervous wreck over the weekend. Any minute that I’m not at work, I’m laboring feverishly on the new collage, trying to get as much done as possible before the panel comes to see it.

Monday morning I spend an hour rifling through my closet, flinging clothes around like that will magically transform them into something wearable.

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