“Hannah Meadows also mentioned several liberal arts colleges.” He lifts his gaze to me speculatively.
Anxiety suddenly flickers through me. I curl my hands around the arms of the chair.
“She said you had expressed interest in applying to art programs.” My father studies a printed-out sheet of paper. “Needless to say, this was news to me.”
“We talked about it when I was supposed to schedule the college planning session with the counselor,” I explain. “I told her I was going to Evergreen, and she said they had budget cuts recently and don’t have a strong arts program.”
“That doesn’t matter much where electives are concerned.”
“Well, I’d still like to take art classes, even if I’m not majoring in art.”
“Your teacher seems to think an art major is an option, if her email is any indication.” He squints at the letter. “These colleges have wonderful art programs, and Nell’s work is so strong that she really should apply. She has an excellent chance of receiving a scholarship.”
I blink, torn between outright happiness at the praise and wariness over my father’s obvious disapproval.
He comes around to where I’m sitting and leans back against the desk. “I’m very pleased you’ve found a hobby that you like. But I don’t want you to think art or photography can ever lead to a viable career.”
Rebellion stiffens my spine. “It did for Darius.”
“Darius is different.” My father crosses his arms, his forehead creasing. “And let’s not forget how many times he came close to losing his life. Or the fact of his horrible imprisonment. I’m sure you don’t want a career that entails that level of risk.”
He’s right, but I still don’t like the implication that photography or art can only be just a hobby.
“I know you’re not interested in history or academics,” my father continues. “And that’s fine. It’s not for everyone. But you need to keep both practicalities and your temperament in mind.”
Everything inside me clenches and locks down. He does not often make implications about my mother’s illness or my own stay at the institution, but when he does my entire body goes into defensive mode.
“Nell.” He leans forward, gentleness softening his eyes. “I don’t mean that the way you think. It’s just that you’re not suited for a volatile or uncertain career, which is rather the definition of a career in the arts. Library sciences, on the other hand, offers multiple steady opportunities in many different kinds of institutions. I don’t want you to stray from the path of a practical career just because your teacher is encouraging you to.”
But she’s encouraging me because I’m good.
“I’m not,” I assure him. “Ms. Meadows is just trying to be helpful. I’m not about to risk my admission to Evergreen by applying to other colleges that I probably wouldn’t get into anyway.”
My father nods. “That’s solid thinking.”
Obedient daughter.
An ache pushes at my chest. I try to ignore it, even as the questions pop into my mind all over again.
Do I really have a chance at getting into an arts program? What would I do? Where would I go? How does an arts program even work? What if I were awarded a scholarship?
I shake my head. My father is right, though it hurts to admit that. I like photography, but I can’t imagine hustling for work like Darius did. And as much as I love drawing and telling stories, I could never make a living as an artist.
“Actually, I came here to ask if I could have some money and borrow the car.” I get to my feet, rubbing my palms on my jeans. “I wanted to go downtown and look for a few new clothes.”
“Sure.” He takes his wallet out of a desk drawer and hands over three hundred-dollar bills. “Is that enough?”
“More than enough, thanks.” I tuck the bills into the side pocket of my book bag.
“Are you meeting a friend?”
I know what he wants to hear, so I skirt the issue. “A couple of girls from school said they’d be at the diner, so I might meet up with them.”
“Great. Have a good time.” He sits back down, turning his attention to his books.
After leaving the house, I drive to Main Street and wander in and out of a few shops. Though the prices are more than what I’d pay at the mall, I find a nice pair of jeans and three new loose-fitting, button-down shirts.
As I’m leaving a boutique, a stretchy, cobalt-blue dress catches my eye. It has a scooped neckline and bell sleeves. The skirt would fall midthigh, which probably isn’t that short for other girls, but for me it would be like wearing a micro miniskirt. The fabric looks as if it’s meant to adhere to a woman’s body.
“Can I help you?” A young saleswoman approaches with a friendly smile.
“I was just looking.” I touch the soft material. I’ve never worn a dress like this. Never even considered that I could. Since getting out of the institution, I’ve used clothes as an armor to hide my body, not show it off. I’ve never wanted to draw people’s attention to myself.
“This dress would be great with your coloring.” She takes one off the rack and holds it up. “Why don’t you try it on?”
“If I do, would you mind giving me your opinion on how it fits?”
“I’d be happy to.”
I closet myself in a dressing room, strip off my jeans, and tug the dress over my head. There’s no zipper, as the material is so stretchy and fine. After smoothing it over my hips, I turn to study my reflection. Surprisingly, it looks good. It’s not super fitted, but I think it’s what they call a sheath.
“What do you think?” the salesgirl asks.
I open the door. She looks me up and down and shakes her head.
“Too big. You need a size smaller.”
“Smaller?”
“Hold on.” She hurries out to the floor, then returns with the dress in the next size down. “Try this one.”
Though I’m convinced she’s joking, I put on the new size and open the door. She assesses me with a smile.
“Beautiful. Perfect for your figure. Turn around.”
I do, catching another glimpse of myself in the mirror. If I was surprised before, I’m astonished now. I don’t look like myself—or rather, that doesn’t look like my body.
The fabric clings to my figure, hugging my breasts before skimming over my hips and rear. The scooped neckline reveals an expanse of skin, even narrowing to show some cleavage, and the bell sleeves are pretty and feminine. The skirt falls smoothly to a few inches above my knees, making my legs appear longer. I look slender and womanly at the same time.
Though I have no idea where I would ever wear the dress, I decide to buy it. I feel a little guilty for spending money on a frivolous item I’m probably not going to need anytime soon, but it’ll be nice to have in the event of…something.
I stash my purchases in the trunk and make one more stop at a Chinese grocery store for oyster sauce and lo mein noodles to make a stir-fry. On the way home, I pass the dry creek bed and railroad bridge where Darius and I have stopped on our runs.
I pull over to the side of the road and take my camera out of my bag. I hear his deep voice in my head as I climb down the slope and take a few pictures—try different shutter speeds, tell a story, expand the depth of field, adjust the aperture.