The Art of Second Chances

by Coleen Patrick

  I bumped my hip to his and glanced at his hair again. I wanted to run my hands over his head but not here in his dad’s coffee shop. I’d already embarrassed myself enough with my karate chop move.

  “You didn’t open it yet?”

  “I was waiting for you.” I’d been a part of so many of Zac’s highs, like the time he got the summer journalism thing after his freshman year, or when he became editor in chief by the end of sophomore year, and numerous other accolades. Zac was a driven guy. I wasn’t a slacker. I just didn’t exactly know the road to choose. My passion had never been clear. Sure, I loved to draw, but at what point was I supposed to know if art was my thing? The letter would be confirmation that I’d be spending a month at the university, honing my artistic skills. Finally, I could say my life had some sort of trajectory, other than the random.

  He grabbed my waist and drew me in for a kiss. Except we both kept smiling, making it impossible to keep our lips locked together.

  “Open your letter, Pinks,” he said on my mouth, calling me by the nickname he invented for me when we were kids (after I broke my pinky finger falling from the tree between our backyards).

  I stuck my finger inside the corner flap of the envelope and ripped along the seam. Butterflies launched in my middle.

  Then, in my peripheral vision, I noticed the tiny dandelion at the bottom of the mural, next to my name. It was now my signature for everything I created. Dandelions were always about wishes, but after last summer, they also reminded me of keeping a hold of what’s important.

  Why did I draw it so small? Was it because I lacked confidence in my dreams?

  Maybe. But now I wanted to celebrate. In a way, opening this envelope was the official start of my life as an artist. For me, it was a huge move. Kind of like Zac’s haircut.

  I pressed a finger to his lips. “Hang on.”

  I went to the mic, unfolded the paper, then cleared my throat. For a second, I considered doing some sort of a haiku, like Zac, Chloe, and I did for open mic night at Higher Grounds, and like the one Zac did for me last fall. But I couldn’t get my brain to cooperate. I was in nerve override. I didn’t even explain to the room what I was doing. I figured those who cared knew.

  “Dear Grace Callahan,” I said with a nervous, almost strangled, giggle. I shrugged. “That’s me.”

  Someone snickered. Maybe. Even though the volume had been lowered, I could hear the background music that was always playing in the coffee shop. Acoustic covers of pop songs. Someone singing about a girl who doesn’t know she’s beautiful. Repetitively.

  I squared my shoulders, and Piper raised her daily soy latte at me in cheers. I waved and looked back down at my acceptance letter, but not before I noticed Kong positioning himself in front of the stage, his camera aimed at me.

  “Okay.” I cleared my throat. “Thank you for your interest in Commonwealth University’s Summer Art Intensive. The selection committee has completed its evaluation of this year’s candidates, and I write with sincere regret to say that we are not able to offer you a place…”

  Kong lowered his camera.

  “Some. Horrific. Information. There,” he said quietly.

  I gulped, still staring at the paper. Ranked number one among public art schools, and admission is competitive jumped out at me, but mostly the words on the page of my it’s-not-actually-an-acceptance-letter letter swirled.

  “Pinks, I’m sorry.” Zac’s voice was low. I felt his hand press into my arm in support.

  “No. I’m fine. I shouldn’t have assumed.”

  My voice echoed out of the speakers. I retreated. Zac switched off the mic.

  The tiny crowd near the corner stage dispersed with a few mumbled sorries, some confused congratulations, probably wondering what me reading that letter had to do with the mural. Piper patted me on the arm before heading out the door and across the street to Zen.

  “Asshats,” Chloe said. “What do they know, right?”

  Number one art school. Yeah. What did they know?

  I half smiled. My cheek quivered at the effort. It was sinking in that all my summer plans, no my art plans, had disintegrated with one hit.

  I shoved the paper back into my pocket, staring into the distance. I couldn’t focus on anything anymore. I didn’t know what to do. I felt out of sorts, like that stupid yellow square in the middle of my mural. My vision blurred with unshed tears, but I needed everything to be clear. “I’ve got to go.”

  Zac steered me in the direction of the side door, the one that would take us to the alley and his truck. “I’ll drive you home.”

  A puny voice inside my head said, okay, at the same time as I shook my head. “No. I want to walk.”

  “But it’s raining,” he said, now behind me, as I’d extracted my arm from his, and headed in the opposite direction, to the front door. “Pinks, come on. Let me drive you.”

  I stopped, turned, and kissed Zac on the cheek. “I’ll call you later.”

  Then I stepped into the icy cold, February rain.

  I’d forgotten my umbrella in the coffee shop. By the time I got to my front porch, my hair was stuck to my face, and my shoes and jacket were heavy with water. It seemed I carried home all the puddles with me.

  Throughout the entire walk, I’d been trying out Kong’s quirky acronym thing.

  “Forgot…Umbrella,” I said aloud to the empty foyer. “Crazy… Kid?”

  I forced a laugh and kicked off my shoes. They squeaked as if in response.

  “Forgot, no failed. Failed. Ultimately? No, utterly. ’Cause …” Taking the stairs two at a time, I considered words that start with K. “Killer, klutzy…Karma.”

  I shook my head, feeling strands of sopping hair detach from my cheek. Whatever. Me not getting into the program had nothing to do with karma.

  I stood next to my desk and opened my laptop, clicking on the link for the summer program that I’d optimistically bookmarked. I reread the requirements.

  Students must be serious about improving their artistic abilities. Okay. I’d made sure to mention in my essay how much I wanted to improve my skills. Had I been too needy? Did I make myself look as if I had no talent and needed to be taught everything? My art teacher had been confident I’d get into the program. Several times, she said I’d be a perfect fit. If anyone would have known, it would have been her. She’d gotten her own art degree from CU.

  I clicked over to the “about” tab.

  Our program is an opportunity to explore.

  That was one of the things that stood out to me. I’d been hoping for the exploration, to see where my particular brand of creativity and art skills could take me. But now, their site confused me. On one hand, it seemed all about discovery, and on the other, you’d better know what the hell you wanted to do.

  Obviously, I’d focused too much on exploration. They needed students who were more certain. Confident. Secure. Someone who knew the path they wanted to travel.

  I thought I knew. I liked art, and my teacher said I had a talent for it. I figured I would study something art related in college. But in all honesty, I didn’t know what I would do with it. Graphic design? Fine arts? Did I want to make ads, teach, be a happy but starving artist?

  I didn’t actually know. Maybe that was the problem. Maybe the admissions committee could tell from my essay that I really didn’t know where I wanted to go with art. After all, I couldn’t even come up with a title for my mural, let alone the name for my personal art movement project. Maybe my plans weren’t really plans. Did they see something I didn’t? Did they know I didn’t fit?

  The rejection stung. I felt so embarrassed. I wanted to forget I ever applied. Ever cared. I wanted the sick feeling in my gut, in my mind, to go away.

  I made the wrong choice. And I needed to get over it.

  I closed my laptop. Not so difficult to get closure, when they didn’t want me.

  End of discussion.

  Chapter 2

  Smoke Signals (or Donuts) on an Empty Beach, Et
ching

  Three weeks later, the only thing on my mind was spending spring break in the Outer Banks of North Carolina with my boyfriend.

  “I can’t wait.” I kissed Zac’s jawline, thinking of our upcoming trip. We were reclined, hip to hip, on the lumpy, brown couch in his family room, tangled and kissing, our typical Saturday night activity. Which was awesome, but sometimes, I still couldn’t believe Zac and I were in this place. The love place. What once started as feeling like a leap off a cliff in a hang glider (I imagined) became a heart thrumming, soaring, takes your breath away and makes you want to defy gravity and stay right there forever kind of feeling.

  Except I was beginning to wonder why we never did anything else. Like actual leave the house and do the typical things people did in relationships, go to the movies, or out to eat. Or out anywhere. For the last two months, we’d watched movies in his family room and ordered in from Mexico Palace. Zac was too busy with school to do anything else. Busier than me anyway. As a sophomore, I was still almost a year away from the college prep starting gate that Zac seemed to sprint out of this semester. He wouldn’t start applying to the universities until the fall, but he was already overloaded. So, I couldn’t wait for spring break and our trip to the beach. We’d have time to spend together, just the two of us, with no school to get in the way.

  “You can’t…um, what?” Zac threaded his fingers into my hair and tugged until my face was in front of his, his eyes focused on mine. “Are you serious?”

  I intertwined my sock feet around his, thinking of all the stuff I already planned. Zac’s mom had won a week at a beach house in the Outer Banks at a silent auction, and she invited my mom and me. From the start, I pictured Zac and me swimming, walking on the sand, and taking a boat ride at sunset. I even researched hang gliding (naturally, considering my head was always in the clouds when it came to Zac). It didn’t matter to me that both of our moms and his little sister would be there, because the house was big enough for us to get lost in together. Together. That was all that mattered.

  “Of course I’m serious, silly.” My smile descended onto his lips.

  “Really? Wow. I don’t know,” he said between kisses, pulling me closer. Underneath us, the old couch creaked. “I think my mom and Lily are going to be home soon.”

  I stopped, my lips hovering above his. What did his mom and little sister coming home have to do with anything? “What?”

  “Don’t get me wrong,” he said. His hands moved from my waist and slipped into the back pockets of my jeans. “I really, really want to.”

  I scrambled off Zac, missing the edge of the couch and falling to the floor, inadvertently dragging him down with me.

  Zac wasn’t referring to the anticipation of spring break in the Outer Banks.

  “Are you okay? What’s wrong?” Zac untangled himself from me and rested one hand on my thigh.

  Sitting side by side on the nubby Berber carpet, our backs now against the couch, I glanced at his hand, blushing at what he’d thought I said. The thing he thought I couldn’t wait for. The thing we apparently didn’t have quite enough time for, because um, his mom would be home soon. Not a movie. Not dinner at Mexico Palace. Not the seven days until we left for Nags Head, North Carolina.

  I blinked.

  “Um, I didn’t mean that.” I could barely think the word, let alone say it aloud. So many complicated edges. Sure, I’d wanted to shake things up in our relationship, but I was thinking more along the lines of getting out of the house and going out to dinner, not irrevocably changing our relationship. I was still getting used to the idea that Zac was my boyfriend.

  “Oh.” Zac nodded as he stared at the coffee table in front of us. I followed his gaze and counted the strands of leftover licorice. Seven and a half, not including the two Zac shaped into a heart on the surface of the table.

  Then silence. Except for the drumming sound in my ears as I gulped.

  “I’m sorry, Pinks. I don’t want to . . . I mean I want to.”

  Something tugged inside my middle, and I focused on the coffee table, the water rings, the numerous scratches.

  “What I’m trying to say is I don’t want to pressure you. At all.”

  “No, it’s okay.” I chewed my lip, still not quite ready to face him. Instead, I zeroed in on the hole in his jeans, and the dark, crinkly hair on his knee that poked through. “We, I guess…um, we haven’t talked about this, although . . . I’ve thought about … it.”

  It? Smooth, real smooth. How old are you? Thinking about and contemplating my first time with my boyfriend of almost six months—our first time—and calling that awesome, amazing (presumably) moment it?

  I waved my hand as if I could erase what I’d said.

  “What I’m trying to say is, you know how I want to travel. Like I’ve always dreamed of going to Fiji, right?” The words fell out faster than I could think them. “Fiji is so pretty in pictures. The tropical water, those thatched huts, the white sand… It makes me want to go there…um, someday. So yeah, someday, I’d like to go to…Fiji. Just um, not right this second.”

  I peeked at Zac. He raised an eyebrow.

  Heat rolled up my neck, plastering a wave of fresh fire over my skin. Fiji? Yeah. Take away my shiny new maturity card, if you can find it.

  Ugh. I dropped my head into my hands. Would the D in my DNA always stand for dork?

  “Hey.” Zac took one of my hands and laced his fingers with mine. “I understand. Completely.”

  I stared at our hands. I felt strangely shy, as if Zac wasn’t the guy I played stopwatch races or made mud pies with in the backyard a decade ago. He seemed different. Three weeks ago, I would have said it was his haircut. Without his boyishly cute hair, he exuded older, sexy, and even the tiniest bit dangerous. Especially when you factored in the silvery, white scar at the top corner of his forehead. Without his bangs, it was prominent, and it added to his new mystery man air. The scar practically glinted. Even now, I had to remind myself it wasn’t some war wound. I’d given him the scar almost seven years ago, when I landed on his head, sneaker first, after falling from the old tree between our backyards (the same fall that broke my pinky finger).

  And, apparently, Zac was ready to go to Fiji on barely a moment’s notice. That was new to me, too.

  “No worries, Pinks.” Zac wrapped an arm around me and squeezed. “Remember, what we have is special. It’s L-U-V. And donuts, of course. Because donuts make you feel good, right?”

  “You did not just say that.” I pushed him on his shoulder and laughed, expelling a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. But I was suddenly so glad he made a joke (even if it was in reference to me hearing donuts as part of the lyrics in Slow Take’s one hit wonder, “True Luv, Don’t It Make You Feel Good?”). It was this kind of silly but happy moment that erased the overwhelming—and okay, a little scary—parts of being in love, and made me believe being friends first was the best kind of jumping off point to have.

  “I did. I can admit it. My love for you and donuts knows no boundaries.” Zac scooted closer to me and kissed my cheek. “Stairway to Donuts.”

  “What?”

  “Donut Rhapsody. Drop It Like It’s Donuts. Donuts Don’t Lie.”

  Zac’s mouth was close to my ear. I shivered. “Donuts Don’t Lie? Are you just putting donut in song titles?”

  Zac kissed my neck. “I’m Bringing Donuts Back.”

  Then we were kissing again, and all I could think about was how much I liked it when he pressed his hands to my cheeks, my neck, and the small curve at the bottom of my back.

  His hands made me feel attractive, wanted, and completely cured of my dorkiness.

  It was good to be wanted.

  Not that wanting to be wanted meant I’d been thinking about Fiji. Not this time anyway. My mind had honestly been on the spring break trip. Ever since my mom and his mom announced the trip to the beach, I’d put all my energy on planning our itinerary, hardly focusing on school, or anything else. Because Zac had be
en so busy and I missed him.

  He pulled back. “Wait, so what were you talking about?”

  “Um, spring break?”

  “Mm. Hmm.”

  His fingers were in my hair, twirling, massaging, making it difficult to concentrate. “Because we’ve got the whole week to not think about school. We’ll be less busy, and I can’t wait to go and hang out with you on the beach. It’s kind of funny, because I was thinking we’ll probably have plenty of alone time. Even though that’s not what I meant. You could say that Fiji crossed my mind.”

  Awkward. I stopped talking, but my nervous system continued on without me, unleashing fireworks, and unfurling rainbows. I pressed a palm to my middle. The feeling went beyond butterflies.

  “Crap.” Zac rolled his head back.

  That wasn’t the reaction I expected when I admitted I’d thought about Fiji.

  “Pinks, I was going to tell you last night, and I don’t know what happened. There was so much BS to wrap up, then… I completely forgot. When I see you, all logic flies out of my head.”

  I wanted to dwell on his compliment, the idea that I could make him speechless, brainless, or the part before that, the idea that Zac wanted me, but I was too worried about what news he had to tell me and what it might or might not have to do with the subject of our vacation.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I can’t go, Pinks.”

  I folded my arms over my chest. “What? Why?”

  “It’s the Freeman Journalism Scholarship. I need to decide what clips to put in my portfolio. Remember I told you Jenny Oliver won a Freeman scholarship last year? She’s gonna be in town next week and said she can help me put it all together.”

  “Your portfolio? But I thought that wasn’t due until the fall?” I was confused. I knew that even though he wasn’t a senior yet, college was weighing heavy on him. I got that. Except he had time. He couldn’t possibly be saying he wasn’t going to the beach house for something that wasn’t due for months. Was he ever going to take a break? He’d been working so hard lately, at the paper and for school. I’d hardly seen him the last couple of months. If it hadn’t been for our weekly movie night, I would have questioned whether or not I even had a boyfriend.