by Aimee Ferris
“Nope, but that looks like the pack of judges.” I pointed to a stern-faced group.
“They’re not wolves, Quigley,” Anne said.
I shot her a smile, but I wasn’t so sure. They had a lot of power traveling together like that. I assumed it would be a secret-ballot arrangement, which somehow seemed more comforting. This was like the real world.
I soon found out just how much like the real world this was.
“Wait. That’s not mine.” I pointed at a fairly decent photograph of a row of classic cars lit by a fading sun, with my school’s name across it.
“What do you mean?” Anne asked.
“That’s our slot, but that’s not mine.” I walked close enough to see the tiny crown in the corner. “David.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Zander said.
The judges were just two easels away, jotting down notes and discussing in whispers. Zander walked up, waiting for them to finish.
“Excuse me. There’s seems to be a problem with my friend’s entry.”
I held my breath as David approached the judges from the other side. He must have been lying in wait, like the snake he was.
“I don’t think so. I’m sorry he’s bothering you all,” David butted in. “He doesn’t even attend the school in question. I’m sure you all saw in the news about our little ‘situation’? See, there’s one of the girls involved.” He pointed at Anne. “I’m sure you’ve seen the reports. Well, sadly, the original piece chosen for the show was damaged in all the chaos, so as the rules state, we defaulted to the runner-up.”
“That doesn’t even make sense! The gym where they found all of the stolen signs and the cop’s light bar is on the other side of the school from the art studio!” I said. “He’s lying. Where’s my photograph?”
“I’m sorry, Quigley, as I said, it was damaged, so I went ahead and disposed of it for you.”
At this, even the judges gasped. A petite woman with severely pulled-back hair eyed David shrewdly. “You disposed of someone else’s artwork without asking?” The infamous gravely voice of Foster Neuwirth could bring anyone to his knees. David never stood a chance.
“Well, y-yes,” he stammered. “There was water damage and I didn’t want anything else being ruined. It was basically destroyed anyway.” His voice had turned into a whine as streaks of desperation bled through.
“That’s what he said about my entire classes’ prints, including the negatives. Those he burned and then claimed I was smoking in the darkroom.”
The judges grumbled. Art was sacred.
“Your piece is gone, Quigley. Get over it,” David spat. “Would you rather have nothing from our school shown?”
“Wait! Quigley made me a copy. I’ll be right back.” Zander sprinted toward the car.
The commotion attracted the notice of Mrs. Albertt, who had just arrived. The judges now looked so put out, I figured there was no hope—regardless, they wouldn’t be judging anything attached to this nonsense without hating it.
Foster Neuwirth looked over David’s print with a sniff of disdain. “And just what school are you planning to attend, young man?”
David puffed up. “Well, the Art Institute of Chicago or Michigan State; I’m not decided on which way to go yet.”
“Well, you are now,” said Neuwirth, and plucked the car print from the easel and dropped it into his hands. “Go, Sparty.”
Mrs. Albertt stepped forward. “If he’s lucky. I think we’ll have to have a little investigation into recent events on the campus before those final college reports head out. One of my colleagues pointed out that it appears we may have more of an issue with vandalism than we originally thought. I’m sorry for having doubted your word, Quigley. Consider your ‘teacher’s assistant’ position reinstated.”
Zander gasped for breath as he reached us, holding my print and his birthday portfolio. Foster placed the sketching couple on the easel and took a step back, saying something under her breath to the others that brought a relieved chuckle to the crowd.
“Passion, a unique technical touch. But the feeling overwhelms. I daresay, this is an emotion you’ve experienced.” She raised her eyebrows, waiting for confirmation.
I glanced at Zander and blushed. Foster nodded with a knowing smile. “Though I don’t know that old McCarthy would approve of the use of cameras in his gallery, this particular bench was always a favorite of mine.”
She flipped open the portfolio, and her eyes widened the tiniest bit. She squinted down and then leaned back and gave me the once-over. “Vogue would love you for sketches and illustration,” she murmured, and passed the portfolio to the others, holding the one featuring my prom dress up alongside me. “The designer?”
“Um, for the dress? The dresses? Zander,” I pointed to my savior.
“Vogue would love you, too, young man,” Foster said with a smile. “Ah, young love, full of talent—that will be an interesting story to watch. My ballot is cast in this battle, but the greater war is just beginning. What are your plans for further education, Miss Johnson?”
“Well, I had always thought I’d like to go to the Art Institute—”
“But she’s still undecided, right, Miss Johnson? Taking that second measure?” A demure young woman with a kind smile stepped forward. “Mrs. Richards, Admissions, Rhode Island School of Design. I attended the banquet on Thursday. It is no surprise to see the passion, courage, and honesty expressed in your speech now reflected in your art.”
Zander put his arm around my shoulder for a supportive squeeze. I decided this was a good thing in case my knees suddenly buckled.
“We don’t like to lose our local talent. I’m prepared to offer you a full ride—room, board, and stipend—if you’d join us this fall. As I said, we were very impressed by your speech.”
“I won?”
Anne grabbed my other arm and jumped up and down.
“I shouldn’t talk out of turn, but yes … and no. The vote was unanimous. But when we referenced your written submission and realized an entirely different speech had been given, we had to award the prize to our second choice. Regulations. However, we at RISD appreciate nothing more than creativity. We’d love to add your out-of-the-box artistic spirit to our student population.”
“Well, it certainly seems to be your day, Miss Johnson,” Foster Neuwirth said. “I hope you realize the Art Institute would happily match any offer made by RISD. I see great potential, whichever path you follow. The choice is left to you, now.”
I nodded, terrified for a moment, until the answer came from my heart. A sense of calm passed over me as I realized what I really wanted. “I can’t say what this opportunity means, Ms. Neuwirth. But I think I’ve already found my perfect fit, right here at home.”
Acknowledgments
Many thanks to George Nicholson, Regina Griffin, Erica Silverman, Alison S. Weiss, Mary Albi, and Nico Medina; to creative inspirations Nakoa Zuger, Janene Mascarella, Maggie and Don Ferris; to my dad for schlepping me to the Art Institute of Chicago with my sketch pad and charcoals; and my mom, who made every one of my prom dresses … and only sewed me in once.
