Page 35 of Make Me Scream

No, I can’t. Now I have to go ahead, in fact. I owe it to her. This is partly my fault.

“Unfortunately, I’m not surprised,” I say after a beat. “Rush believes in strict adherence to the fine arts. He didn’t open this academy to support artists who want to carve ice sculptures or design Rube Goldberg devices. He’s barely willing to have classes on illustration and graphic design. I doubt he appreciated your intent to draw graphic novels, even if you are good at it. The last thing he wants is the next Alistair Rat coming out of his school.”

Gwen steps close to me, driving her stare into mine.

“Can you get him to back down?”

That’s a good question.

“I don’t know,” I answer, truthfully. “He’s not often open to persuasion when it comes to Mundell Academy. Maybe if your work was garnering enough praise he’d be tempted to take credit, but-”

“It’s not good enough,” she finishes. “Is it?”

I motion for Gwen to follow me to one of my computer workstations, a high-end desktop with three extra-wide monitors. When I bump the mouse, they wake up, displaying her video from the subway, the online comments and the piece I’ve written.

“You’re a good artist,” I say as she sits down to read. “You’re addressing difficult subject matters, and the public response is generally positive. That’s something to be proud of.”

“Thanks,” she says, allowing a thin smile.

“The problem is, you’re young. The talent is there, but you need time to develop your voice and to better understand your audience.”

She nods.

“So, you’re saying I need to get better? With more experience?”

“Yeah,” I sigh, already knowing where this is going.

“But I can’t get more experience, because I’ll lose my scholarship. Do I have that right?”

“Probably,” I admit. “There are some possible workarounds, though you may not like them.”

Then again, maybe she will if she’s really such a fan of Alistair Rat.

“Why can’t you just talk to Mundell? You’re friends, right?”

There’s an opening here for me to pump the brakes on where this is going — to buy some time to forge a new path. Except, the idea of pressing on as planned doesn’t fill me with dread and uncertainty, the way it has in the past. Now it’s exciting. I want Gwen to know. Maybe I’m a fool, thinking with my cock and not my brain, but a good artist knows when to follow their instinct.

“I’d be lying if I told you it would help,” I say. “I don’t believe he’d listen. This isn’t the first time he’s held a student hostage through their scholarship.”

“He can’t do that.”

“It’s his school and his money, so, yes, he can.”

Gwen works her jaw, shaking her head in disbelief. I don’t blame her for being mad — it’s repugnant behavior. No one criticizes Rush on it publicly for fear of landing on his shit list.

“This is bullshit,” she growls, curling and uncurling a fist. “I shouldn’t have to give up my art.”

“I agree. It isn’t fair.”

“You mentioned… workarounds? What does that mean?”

“Nothing you’re going to like,” I say, getting up. “Come with me.”

We head into a small kitchen area, little more than a fridge, sink and microwave. I open the fridge, as well as the cabinet above it, for Gwen.

“Want anything?”

There are jugs of tea and filtered water, cans of beer and energy drinks, vodka, dark rum, blocks of cheese, apples, bananas, bread and jelly. In the cabinet I have peanut butter, Triscuits, pretzels and rice cakes.

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