by Marie Meyer
I concentrated on my breathing. In…out…in…out… Griffin’s husky voice filled my ears and I couldn’t help the smile that spread across my face. I remembered sitting through countless Mine Shaft rehearsals. Mine Shaft was Griffin’s baby. Adam, Thor, and Pauly may have been members, but Griffin was the boss. Since Griffin had started the band in high school, the guys looked to him as their artistic director, along with being the lead bassist, front man, and songwriter.
Griffin would record their songs and burn them onto CDs. He’d use the recordings to hear the band’s sound as a whole and fix the parts he wasn’t happy with. When he didn’t need the CDs anymore, I’d take them and download the music onto my iPod. Griffin hated that. He made me promise never to let anyone hear those shitty recordings. I always told him they weren’t shitty, but he never agreed. Along with all the other hats he wore, he was also their worst critic.
I wondered how his meeting was going. If something happened, he’d call. I increased the speed, hoping to outrun the little voice in the back of my head telling me that Erin was with him and he didn’t need me.
* * *
After my forty-minute workout, I went back to the dorm, showered, and got ready for class, taking care to put a few pink streaks of chalk in my long blond hair. I grabbed my backpack from the closet and glanced at Sarah still snuggled in her blankets. “Sarah?” I said, moving toward her bed. “Sarah.” I tapped her shoulder.
“Hmm?” she answered.
“Are you sure you’re not going to class today?”
She lifted her head off the pillow and looked at me. “Ugh,” she moaned. “What time is it?”
“It’s ten o’clock.”
Sarah sat up, wrapping her blanket around her shoulders. “I suppose it would be really bad if I didn’t go, huh?” A diffident smile spread across her face.
I nodded. “Yeah. What time is your class?”
“Eleven.”
“You can make it, then,” I added.
“All right,” she groaned. She threw her blankets off and got up. “Where are you headed?”
“I was on my way to the dining hall.”
Sarah frowned. “I’d love to go with you, but I don’t think I’ll have time.”
“That’s okay.” I smiled. “I’m sure we’ll have plenty of opportunities to eat at the dining hall together.”
“I’ll see you after class, okay?” she said.
“Yep.” I walked toward the door and stopped. Turning around, I said, “Thanks for last night.”
She pulled her hair through a ponytail holder and smiled. “Anytime.”
* * *
I pushed through the doors of Victor Hall and walked down the hill toward the dining hall. I had an hour to kill before my three-hour Design and Draw class, and Lucky Charms and coffee were calling my name.
The dining hall was crowded, but not like the fitness center. I picked up a tray and a bowl, found my cereal of choice, and went to sit down at one of the few open tables. Before I dug into my breakfast, I checked my phone, worried that I might have missed a call from Griffin.
No missed calls. No new texts.
I stared into the bowl and watched the dehydrated marshmallows soak up the half and half I’d substituted for milk. Pushing my spoon around, I gathered a sticky clump together and took a bite. While I chewed, I calculated how long Griffin had been in his meeting. If his meeting started at 7:30, surely he’d know something after two and a half hours, right?
He probably forgot to call because he and Erin are out celebrating some awesome news. The little voice in my head was getting pretty damn noisy. He’d call. He just couldn’t right now.
I ate fast and gathered my things. Keeping busy was the only way I could ignore all the potentially terrible reasons why he hadn’t called yet. I hoped class would serve as a distraction, too.
By the time I arrived at the studio, the western sky swirled with ominous storm clouds resembling giant bruises. The wind picked up and tossed my pink streaked hair into my face as I pulled the door open. Thunder rumbled in the distance.
The halls of the studio were busy, students hustling to get to their classes on time. I had twenty minutes until class started. I shuffled down the hallway, searching for lecture hall 104c. When I found it, I took a seat near the back, pulling my iPad from my bag. I connected the keyboard and sat back, waiting for class to start. Waiting for Griffin to call, my inner voice corrected.
I checked my phone again. Nothing.
The lecture hall filled up and Professor Vine walked in a few minutes before eleven.
“Good morning,” she said, setting her briefcase on the desk. She opened it and pulled out a large stack of paper. “This is your syllabus for the semester. Please don’t lose it; important dates and information regarding the Spring Showcase are detailed inside.” Professor Vine handed the stack to a girl that sat in the front row.
While the syllabi circulated through the room, Professor Vine’s lecture commenced with a laundry list of projects that would need to be completed for finals in December and then for the Spring Showcase in May. When the stack got to me, I took one and passed the rest. My eyes glazed over as I paged through the nine-page catalog of assignments. Was I cut out for this? I glanced around the room, trying to gauge the reactions of my classmates as they leafed through the syllabus. From where I sat, none of them looked as daunted as I felt.
The pretty girl next to me dutifully took notes and appeared to be highlighting key words and phrases as Professor Vine spoke. Seriously? Damn, she wielded a highlighter like Thor swung his hammer. I looked at my stark white syllabus and rubbed my temples, feeling very overwhelmed.
Professor Vine continued to address our small group. “If you have any questions regarding the information in your syllabus, please don’t hesitate to schedule a meeting with me. I also have a couple of TAs who would be more than willing to help, should a problem arise. For the remainder of our time, I’d like to see what kind of talent I’ll be working with this year. Please take out a sketch pad and pencils.”
When I leaned over to pull out my vellum sketch pad, a loud crack of thunder rattled the windows and the lights flickered. I looked to the windows, at the storm raging outside. I hoped it would pass before class ended since I’d left my umbrella in my room.
“I’d like you to sketch some female figures, each depicting styles from different eras. I’ll be walking around the room observing your progress,” Professor Vine said.
I went to work drawing my pencil across the empty page. In no time at all I had the beginnings of an eighteenth-century woman I envisioned wearing a layered gown with Juliette sleeves.
When it came time for me to add the sleeve, I started at the curve of the shoulder and tapered the sleeve as it came down the figure’s arm.
A shadow fell over my paper and I looked up. Professor Vine stood beside my chair. “May I see your progress?” she asked, holding out her hand.
“Sure.” I handed her my sketch pad.
She peered over her glasses, looking at me. “And what is your name?”
“Jillian Lawson.”
“Well, Jillian, this part here,” she pointed to my sketch. “It isn’t proportional.” She tilted the pad toward me and slid her finger to the shoulder area. “You need to tighten up your design and try again.” She handed the sketch pad back to me and pushed her glasses up.
“Okay.” I erased my sorry attempt while Professor Vine went on to praise the girl next to me. When Professor Vine asked the girl her name, she said it was Chandra. I didn’t know Chandra, but from the sketches I saw, I could tell she was talented. Apparently Professor Vine thought so, too.
Turning my attention back to my offensive sleeve, I set the eraser down and gave it another try.
Geez, what is my problem? This design is shit. Each freshly drawn line of the full shoulders and narrow forearms ended in sleeves that resembled balloons. People generally didn’t want to wear balloons on their shoulders. Maybe I was bette
r suited to designing costumes for the circus.
Out of the corner of my eye, I glanced at Chandra’s sketch. The contents of her mind flowed fluidly from her brain to her pencil’s tip. Her pencil scarred the vellum with each flick of her wrist. I watched, mesmerized, as her pencil bled beautiful marks onto the page. I wondered why I couldn’t make my pencil bleed that way. Chandra looked up from her drawing and smiled at me. Embarrassed that I’d gotten caught staring, I returned her smile and went back to drawing my crap. According to Professor Vine, Chandra’s scars were beautiful…mine were just disfiguring. Professor Vine had no idea how much truth her statement actually held.
Two and a half hours into class, Professor Vine grew tired of her lazy circuit around the room and perched herself on a stool behind her desk. I purged as much creativity from my pencil as humanly possible, but ended with more trash than usable designs.
“Class dismissed,” Professor Vine announced. A collective sigh traveled through the entire room, as if the walls had been holding their breath for the last three hours. Pens and pencils clicked and paper crumpled as my fellow classmates packed away their belongings. I placed my mediocre creations into an accordion folder and stuffed my pencils into their case.
“Jillian?” I jumped, startled by the tap on my shoulder. Professor Vine stood behind me.
“Um…yes?” I replied.
“From the work I’ve seen you produce today, it seems that you’re struggling with some of the simpler drawing techniques. Since the semester has just started, you might want to get a tutor to help you brush up on your technique.”
A tutor? Really? I could draw. I just didn’t have my best stuff today. She must have really thought I sucked. “I’m sorry. I’ll keep practicing. Today was just an off day.”
She smiled, but it wasn’t warm. “Several faculty members spoke very highly of your portfolio when they saw it last spring. I hope that’s all it is.”
“Just a bad day.” I gave her a reassuring smile, but inside I wasn’t smiling. My stomach was in knots.
She pushed her thick Prada frames up on her nose and walked back to the front of the room.
Wanting to avoid any other cuts to my ego, I grabbed my bag and ran for the door. This year was not off to a great start. There seemed to be a slow leak in my creativity pool and I couldn’t figure out how to fit the plug back into place and stop the drainage.
Standing at the door to the studio building, I watched the rain fall down in torrents. I pushed the door open and stepped into the storm.
Chapter Eight
I ran as fast as I could through the rain. By the time I got back to the dorm, I looked like I’d gone through a washing machine’s spin cycle. I shook the water from my arms and wrung out my hair, making a pink puddle on the floor courtesy of my hair chalk.
My shoes squished and squeaked on the tile floor as I walked down the hall to my room. Unlocking the door, I noticed Sarah had left a message on the dry-erase board attached to our door: “With B. Be back later.”
Great. Being alone wasn’t really what I wanted…or needed right now.
I sighed and pushed the door open. Retrieving my phone from my drenched book bag, I went to lie down. Holding my phone up, I stared at the dark screen. He knew I was in class. That’s why he hadn’t called. Yeah, that’s why, the voice whispered.
Screw the voice. I pressed the home button and the picture of Griffin giving me a piggyback ride brightened the dark room. I slid my finger across the bottom and went to my favorites. His was the only name on my list. I tapped it and waited for him to answer, listening to his ringback tone. Matt Berninger of The National sang to me until Griffin’s voice told me to leave a message.
“Hey, Griff, it’s me.” I wanted to cry. This day had sucked even worse than yesterday and I’d only officially been in college for a grand total of two days. “I was wondering what happened with the producer this morning. Call me.”
I clicked end and sat the phone down. A trickle of hot tears fell from the corners of my eyes, slid past my ears, and collected on my pillow. If I opened my eyes all the way, a gush of salt water would slide down my cheeks. My heart weighed a hundred pounds and the old self-inflicted scars on my skin tingled, reminding me that I couldn’t escape my past.
With no other classes on Thursday afternoon, I pulled myself off the bed, dried my tears with my hands, and decided to do some laundry and work on my sketches. And wait for Griffin to call.
I traded my damp clothes for a pair of sweats and gathered the rest of my dirty laundry and a roll of quarters for the machines.
I dragged the sack down my hallway, a few flights of stairs, and into the basement. Pulling open the heavy steel door, scents of flowers, mountain springs, and ocean breezes assaulted my nostrils. The door slammed shut behind me with a loud thud.
The newest-looking washers and dryers were hidden in the back of the room—that’s where I headed. I bent down and gave the bag a good heave and lifted it onto a washer, filling the one beside it with damp towels. I tossed in a detergent pod, closed the lid, fed the greedy machine a handful of quarters, and set the dial.
What else can I do to keep my mind off Griffin?
The pile of tissues from last night still littered my floor. I marched back up to my room and tidied up the mess. That took all of five minutes. Now what?
Who was I kidding? It was killing me that I hadn’t heard from him.
With tears in my eyes, I dug my iPod, sketchbook, and a set of pencils from my backpack and sat down on my bed. Cranking up the volume on the classical music I liked to draw to, I let my fingers go to work smearing and rubbing, trying to bring the images in my head to life.
I flipped to my eighteenth-century figure from earlier and tried to improve upon that. It didn’t take too long before I got lost in my music, letting it guide my pencil as opposed to my brain.
After several hours of drawing and running down to the laundry room, I’d lost track of time, but it felt good to turn off my head for a while and do completely mindless tasks. I’d heard from Sarah a few times; she was out with Brandon and his group of friends. She’d asked me if I wanted to come out with them, but I politely declined. I didn’t feel like being around people at the moment. And if Griffin did decide to call me, I wanted to be able to actually talk to him.
Once my laundry was folded and put away, I laid my sketchbook and pencils on the desk and flopped onto my bed. Plugging my earbuds back in, I traded Mozart for Mine Shaft. If I couldn’t get ahold of Griffin to talk to him, at least I could press play and listen to him sing. The smooth, deep tones of his voice resonated through my whole body, and I relaxed. I closed my eyes and tried to picture what he was doing right at this moment when the voice in my head whispered, nothing that concerns you.
* * *
I sat up with a start. A flash lit up the room, followed immediately by a loud crack of thunder, scaring me from a nightmare I’d already forgotten. The only reason I suspected it was a nightmare was because my heart was racing and a thin layer of sweat made my clothes stick to my skin. Because of my antidepressant, I rarely remembered my dreams. That was probably a good thing—that meant I couldn’t remember my nightmares either.
I rolled off the bed and went to check my phone. I had missed two calls from Griffin and I had one new voicemail. Damn it! I’d waited all day to hear from him and when he’d finally called, I’d missed him. Shit!
I pressed play on the message. “Hey, Bean. Sorry I didn’t call earlier. So much crazy shit happened today, I can’t even begin to tell you over voicemail. Call me.” According to the time stamp on the message, he’d called just a half hour ago, at 9:30 p.m.
Without a moment’s hesitation, I called him back. Once again, I was greeted by the deep, bedroom voice of The National’s lead singer. Halfway through the song “Graceless”, Griffin’s voicemail message clicked on.
I hated playing phone tag. “Hi, Griff. I got your message. I can’t wait to hear what happened today. Please call me b
ack.” I was just about to hang up, but for some reason I couldn’t. Even though it was just his voicemail, it still made me feel closer to him somehow. “I miss you.” My voice wavered and I hit end.
To salvage the rest of my evening, I worked on some preliminary Spring Showcase sketches that Professor Vine outlined in her syllabus. However, as I sketched, I couldn’t escape Professor Vine’s disapproving words. Actually, I couldn’t escape any of the voices whispering in my head. I recognized each distinctive voice: Professor Vine’s, Jennifer’s…and mine.
When I was little, Jennifer’s voice had sounded the loudest. As I got older, her voice became backup vocals to my own.
My mind raced through the coping strategies Dr. Hoffman had taught me: Draw. Be creative. Live in your heart…not your head.
Talk to someone you trust.
Coping mechanism numbers one and two: Draw and be creative. That’s what I would do.
I sifted through fashion magazines, determined to make a collage. I avoided pictures of actual clothing, but instead focused on peculiar pictures with unique visual qualities.
I cut a hot pink chameleon from a paint advertisement, shaping it into a handbag. The chameleon made a fabulous accessory to the metallic Keurig miniskirt I’d already glued to the pages of my sketchbook.
Creating collages was one of my favorite designing techniques. I loved the abstract quality of the figures I created when I glued a collage together. I held the creative license. Proportions and perfection didn’t matter and no one could tell me I was wrong.
By the time I looked up from my nearly finished collage, the clock blinked midnight. I appraised my project and for the first time in a while, something I created made me happy. And the voices shut up.
Thank God. And my therapist.
I admired my abstract model outfitted in a metallic silver, asymmetrical miniskirt with a watermelon-colored blouse (complete with disproportionate Juliette sleeves the color of the sky). I glued the last piece of the ensemble to the paper, a hot pink handbag.
