by Sarina Bowen
“It was a terrific portfolio,” Rod says, flipping through my shirts.
“But this isn’t just about learning now,” I argue. “It’s paying people to judge me.”
“That’s one take on it.” Rod laughs. “There’s a reason nobody uses that as a university slogan.”
“Am I a better person if I get a diploma on a piece of paper?”
“No.” Rod pulls a shirt from the closet. It’s white, with a conservative navy-blue check running through it. “If this fits you, wear this with dark jeans. And tuck it in.”
“Jeans?”
“This is Vermont. And nobody is trying to make you into someone you’re not, Kieran. The only point of this exercise is to get half price on courses that you already want to take.”
“I hate interviews,” I grumble, pulling on the shirt.
“You don’t say.” He snickers. “It isn’t a parole hearing, honey. Go in there and smile at the nice lady so she’ll give you money for art school.”
“Parole hearing.” I snort, reaching for my dark jeans. “You have first-hand experience with those?”
“No, but the day is young. Now quit whining and get out of here. You look hot in that shirt, by the way. Be a good boy, and I’ll take it off you later.”
That’s as good a motivation as any. So I go. Reluctantly.
Things start off pretty well with the interviewer. Dean Eloise Rubinstein is a comfortable-looking woman in her mid-sixties. Rod would probably compliment her earrings and chat her up about the art on the walls of her office. But I’m intimidated by the abstract art on the walls and the grand office overlooking the sculpture garden.
“So tell me, Kieran, why do you want to go to art school?”
I’ve been expecting this question. But that doesn’t mean I have a satisfying answer. “Well, that’s the thing. I never did apply to art school. You basically talked me into it.”
She laughs, which is a good sign, I guess. “Yet, here you are. So how exactly did we arrive here?”
“Right. Well, I’ve been taking online classes in design. I never tried to become the next great artist. That’s not how I look at my designs. But I enjoy making things, and I’d like to make better things. And—if it’s possible—I would like to find a way to make a living at it.”
She nods encouragingly.
The rest comes out in a rush. “So that’s why I thought I’d audit some classes. Because you guys know things that I don’t.”
“See, that’s actually a pretty good attitude for starting an art program. And there are more people than you can shake a stick at making a living from their art, either directly or indirectly.”
“That’s good news.”
“When did you first realize you cared about the visual arts?” she asks.
“Oh, I was just that kid who was always drawing,” I tell her. “Teachers liked it. They used to tell me I was creative and put my drawings in the middle of the bulletin board. But when I hit my teen years, I stopped drawing in public. I got the message that art wasn’t a cool thing for boys to do. And I didn’t take any art classes for a really long time.”
She flinches. “You’re not the first person to sit in this office who had that experience. I worry about all the boys—and girls—who are told not to express themselves this way. So what got you started again?”
“Farming,” I say with a chuckle. “My parents needed to list some products for sale from our website. My mother asked me if I could design something that looked professional. So I started noodling with designs. My younger cousin does the art for his family farm, too, and he introduced me to Photoshop. I liked it so much that I dove right in.”
“What did you like about it?”
“I liked how practical it was,” I admit. “If you make a mistake in paint, it can be hard to fix. But Photoshop lets you undo anything. Copy anything. Try anything. The result is a little less interesting than a painting or a drawing. But I guess I’m an awfully practical guy.”
She beams.
“And one day I wondered if I could make extra money doing this fun thing that I’d taken up as a hobby. So I typed ‘Photoshop’ into a jobs board. That’s how I lucked into a design-rendering job at an ad agency. They didn’t care that I have no formal training. They thought it was a plus, honestly, because they pay me almost nothing, and I’m still happy to show up every day.”
“Ah,” she says with a sad smile. “Many young artists are familiar with the problem.”
“Sure. So I’ve made a lot of digital art for them. But I also started painting at home when I have free time. Which is almost never, especially during the holidays. There’s no daylight when I’m home from the ad agency, and there’s been a lot of overtime in the last month. That’s why none of my paintings made it into the portfolio I sent you.”
“Okay. And the work in your portfolio was mostly done at the ad agency?” she asks.
“Exactly. I made a lot of notes so you could tell what was mine and what I’d been given to work with.” God, it’s probably the weirdest portfolio she’s ever received. But I only had ten days to pull something together.
“I read your notes,” she said slowly. “But maybe you can talk me through how you put one of your pieces together. I like to hear how artists think.”
“Well, I’ll try.” I let out a nervous laugh. I’m sweating, and I hope she can’t tell.
The dean opens my portfolio—which is really just a binder from Staples—to a poster I did for the Farmers’ Market Association. “This is my favorite piece. Can you tell me where you got the inspiration?”
“Well, sure.” I clear my throat. “As I wrote in my note, this was the one time they barely gave me any instructions. The boss basically said, ‘You come from a family of farmers. Just see what you can come up with.’”
She smiles. “Are you related to the Shipleys who make cider? That’s your family, too?”
My body flashes hot and then cold again, the way it often does when I get this question. “That’s one side of the family. They raise apples and dairy. We raise beef. So I’ve spent a lot of time at farmers’ markets.”
“And how did you choose this design?”
I look down at my drawing of a red, vintage pickup truck carrying produce. “Well, the first design I made had a purple beet filling the page, with stylized text stacked inside it. It was very bright and contemporary, and I loved it. But the boss said he wanted more variety. It can’t represent just one farmer, you know?”
“Sure,” she says mildly.
“My grandpa once drove a truck just like this one,” I say, pointing at the drawing. “His was black, but it had those curvy vintage wheel wells. I used to sit on the tailgate with him while my grandma sold apples. The truck had a lot of farmers’ market cred. And, in the drawing, the truck bed gave me a place to stack some more imagery.” There’s lots of produce in back, but the sizes aren’t true-to-life. There’s an enormous melon, a freakishly large ear of corn, an elephantine tomato, and a towering carrot. “I was thinking about those colorful French posters while I drew it. So I gave it a vintage text treatment, too.”
“Lovely,” she says. “And the logo? I like how the spade and the pitchfork are crossed, like a knife and fork.”
“Yeah, I like it too. But that’s not my work. I said so in my note.”
“Mmh,” she says. “So I have another question for you, and it’s a little difficult. But just bear with me a second, okay? I received another portfolio, with some overlapping elements.” She pulls out a leather folio and flips it open to a page that’s marked with a sticky note. Then she turns it toward me.
For a moment, I’m super confused. It’s a drawing of a hot-air balloon I did for a festival in Quechee last June. But someone added textured effects to each of the balloon segments. The result is hideous. “What the—?”
But even as the words are leaving my mouth, I realize that I already know who did this. And I’m so aggravated that I stand up suddenly, causing my cha
ir to jerk back a few inches. Feeling like a brute, I sit down just as quickly. Then I take a deep breath and try to speak through my anger. “I sure hope there was a note in that portfolio, too, explaining who drew the balloon before it was attacked by clipart patterns.”
Slowly, the dean shakes her head.
I tilt my head back and let out a heavy sigh. I can’t believe Deacon Pratt took that balloon, gave it a nasty makeover and submitted it as his own. I can’t believe he even wants to go to art school.
Working for the Pratts really is a dead-end job. And—insult to injury—this means my asshole father was right.
“Kieran,” the dean says. “Why don’t you tell me about the version in your portfolio.”
“Sure,” I say woodenly. “I drew the version in my portfolio. It’s in there because I wanted to include something I’d done in ink on paper. They wanted it to look handmade, so I freehanded it. But you can see it’s not the best.” I feel deflated, though. This woman is probably suspicious of everything coming out of the Pratt Agency now.
I hate my life.
“I liked your version better,” she says gently. “I suppose you can guess where this other one came from.”
“Sure.” My voice is flat. “There aren’t that many suspects.”
“Well, I’m sorry to have brought it up. But I needed to know why I received two very similar portfolios.”
I sit up a little straighter in my chair. “Are there more like this?”
She nabs the other portfolio off the table and sets it on the floor on her side of the desk. “Yes. But I’m not going to show you. It will only make you angry. It’s obvious who is coming up with the ideas, and who is just tarting them up.”
A wave of nausea rolls through me. “Crap. This isn’t how I wanted this interview to go,” I say in a rare burst of candidness.
“I bet. But take a deep breath, okay? You did a nice job explaining your process to me. And I’ve been admiring that farmers’ market poster for two years now.”
“Yeah?” I smile in spite of myself.
“Of course. It’s cheery. And now I’ve met the artist, so I like it even more.” She flips my portfolio closed, then hands it to me. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Kieran. In a couple of days, you’ll receive notification about your application. But if you’re accepted, your financial aid award won’t arrive for another couple of weeks, okay? I’m asking the financial aid office to squeeze in your application, even though it’s past the deadline. I hope that works.”
“Me too,” I say. “And thank you.” I stand up and shake her hand. I make all the right polite noises.
But if that financial aid doesn’t come through, this was a waste of time.
“How’d it go?” is how Roddy answers his phone.
“It went okay,” I say, staring up at an impossibly blue sky. “If they take me, I’m going to go.”
“Yaaaas!” he thunders into my ear. “This is so exciting.”
I smile, because his voice makes me happy. I still don’t know if art school is the right choice for me. But if I get to go home to him every night, it might not matter. “I have to swing through Montpelier on the way home,” I tell him now. “What should I pick up for dinner?”
“Let’s make a lasagna.”
“Sounds good.” Cooking anything with Roddy is always good.
“Bring home a couple pounds of ground meat, a box of those flat noodles, and... Got a pen? I have big ideas.”
“How about you text your big ideas to me while I drive to the store?”
“An excellent idea, hunk. This is going to be great.”
I already know it’s true.
Kieran
On Christmas morning I wake up alone. Music rises from downstairs, along with the beckoning scents of coffee and frying bacon. It’s only seven, and I don’t have to be anywhere for once in my life. I could roll over and go back to sleep.
Except bacon.
I get up, shuffle into the bathroom to brush my teeth, and then trundle downstairs. Roderick is making French toast and singing away to Jane’s Addiction.
“Hey!” he says, flashing me a quick smile. “Do you have the timing or what? I’m making French toast. Want to help?” He’s wearing sweatpants, messy hair, and my oldest flannel shirt. “Have you made this before? It’s easy.” He glances at me over his shoulder.
“What? No. Show me.” I put my arms around his waist and look down at the counter. He’s got some bread soaking in a dish full of an eggy mixture.
“It’s a great way to use up stale bread. And it’s eggier than pancakes, so there’s more protein.”
“Nice,” I say, kissing the back of his neck. This must be why people like Christmas. I get it now.
“I use a little cinnamon in the custard. But that’s really it. If you start with good bread, the flavor takes care of itself.” He uses both hands to flip one soaked slice of bread into the skillet, where it sizzles. Then he turns his head to speak to me. “Your cuddle game has seriously improved. I’m so impressed. Top marks from the Russian judge.”
I laugh into his neck and kiss him again. “I have a Christmas present for you to unwrap.”
“Is it in your pants?” He nudges his ass against my crotch, and my body does not fail to take the hint. “I love opening presents,” he teases.
“No, it’s under the tree.”
“Okay, here’s what we’re going to do. You flip the French toast, and I’m going to grab your present out of my car.” He turns around in my arms, kisses me, then slides away to dart outside.
I tap my foot to his loud alt-rock and wonder how my life became so fantastic.
“Oh my God,” Roddy says a few minutes later as he drops to his knees in front of our Christmas tree. “Is that what I think it is?”
“Yeah. Some things just can’t be wrapped.” I take a big bite of French toast. It’s terrific—crunchy on the outside with a custardy center.
Meanwhile, Roddy pounces on the guitar case under the tree, untying the bow I lamely strung around one end. “I can’t believe you did this! Please tell me you got a good deal on a secondhand instrument.”
“I bought it new,” I confess. Secondhand for a gift just didn’t feel right. “I hope it’s the right style.”
He lifts the lid. “It’s awesome. God. So much nicer than my old one. You really shouldn’t have done this.”
“I wanted to,” I say before casually stuffing my face with more breakfast. The fact that he’s so excited does unusual things to my heart. He looks, as they say, like a kid on Christmas, as he lifts the guitar out of its case and runs a thumb across the strings.
The deep tones give me a shiver. It really does sound good. I’ve never been happier to spend four hundred dollars in my life.
Forgetting his breakfast, Roderick fusses with the tuning. And then he launches into a pretty riff, right there on the rug.
I give a low whistle. “I thought you said you weren’t very good?”
He shakes his head. “I’m not Nashville good. But I sure like to play. Kieran, seriously, this is just amazing.” He lets out a happy little sigh and then carefully tucks the guitar back into its case. “My present for you isn’t as fancy.”
“I don’t need anything at all,” I insist. And right that minute it’s true. “Eat your breakfast.”
“But it’s your turn.” He pinches a bite of bacon off his plate and pops it into his mouth before ducking out of the room. He returns with a wrapped box and hands it to me. It’s still cold from sitting outside in his car.
I rip the paper off and open the box. Inside I find two things: a flannel shirt in a cognac color and a hardcover cookbook by someone named Christopher Kimball. The cover is shiny and new, but there are already a bunch of those sticky flags jutting out of the pages. “Hey, thanks! Did you pick out some recipes for me? But what happened to, ‘You can’t learn to cook from a book’?”
“Hey—we’re still cooking together. But this way you can be in charge of the me
nu if you want. Christopher Kimball has some Vermont cred, by the way. I flagged a bunch of dishes that we’re set up to make. Like, I skipped anything that required a food processor or too much attention.”
I run my hand over the cover, imagining all the time we’ll spend together cooking. “Thank you. The shirt is nice, too.”
“Well, that was a selfish purchase. The flannel speaks to my lumberjack fetish. And that color will look great with your eyes.”
“Whatever you say.” I laugh, pulling it out of the box. “I just like the fabric.”
“Good.” He gets up and comes to sit next to me on the couch. “Thank you for that outrageous present. I love it so much.”
“I really liked giving it to you,” I say, feeling more than a little self-conscious. “Now let’s eat this food before it gets cold.
Rod picks up his plate. “I’m going to get some jam for my French toast.”
“Wait.” I say, pointing at the little jug of syrup I’d brought out here with me. “You like jam better than Vermont’s finest?”
Roderick shrugs without meeting my eyes. “Both are good.”
“But which do you like better?” I press.
“What does it matter?” he asks, biting another strip of bacon.
“It matters because you feed me all the time, but you won’t use the syrup I brought here for both of us.”
“I like feeding people. It’s my profession. And that stuff is expensive,” he says.
“It would be,” I concede, “except that Kyle and I made it.” I grab a piece of bacon and bite off the salty, wonderful end.
He blinks up at me. “Really? That’s neat. My lumberjack. Do you carry around an ax while you tap the trees?”
“You’re changing the subject.” And I am really terrible at working through something like this. But my breakfast smells really good and Roderick looks so right in my living room. I like having him here, and I need him to know it. “What if I like feeding you, too? Maybe it makes me happy to share groceries.”
