“The awards ceremony will start at about eight, after the judges have deliberated,” she explains. “Then we’ll have a reception and refreshments.”
She hands us the program, which lists the divisions—Photography, Painting, Drawing, Sculpture, and Mixed Media.
A crowd is milling around in front of the closed gym doors. At precisely seven, the doors open, and everyone surges inside.
My stomach knots up. I suddenly hear echoes of all the horrible things kids used to say to me—you’re crazy, go kill yourself, you’re ugly, such a fucking loser.
I spent so long trying to hide, to deflect the arrows. I’d cut my skin open to let the bad feelings flow out with my blood. I’d marked my body to tell myself I was in control, that my scars would come from me, a symbol of strength.
I’d failed then. I might fail again now, but this time, it will be on my terms.
Maybe that means I can’t possibly fail, no matter what happens.
Large panels are arranged around the gym, with banners announcing the different divisions. The walls glow with oil paints, watercolors, photographs. Pedestals hold ceramic and metal sculptures, and the overhead lights are enhanced with spotlights. Several parents are setting up a long table for the awards reception.
“Nell!” Clover waves and makes her way through the crowd toward me, followed by Fern and Simon. All three of them look me up and down simultaneously.
“Whoa, you’re like…dressed up,” Simon remarks.
“You look beautiful, Nell,” Clover says.
“You certainly do.” Fern embraces me with a smile. “I love your hair.”
I thank her and introduce them all to my father. Even if he’s still not happy about my job at Comic Castle, he greets both Fern and Clover politely.
“You remind me of someone.” Fern tilts her head and studies him thoughtfully.
“Iron Man.” Clover indicates my father’s dark, neatly trimmed beard. “Or rather, Tony Stark.”
Fern laughs. “Exactly right.”
“Not that Mom and I pigeonhole everyone we meet into a comic book superhero,” Clover adds.
“Just the good ones.” Fern smiles.
“I’m Batman,” Simon announces.
Clover scoffs and rolls her eyes, then they exchange a quick, private smile.
“I consider it an honor to be compared to Tony Stark.” There’s a lightness to my father’s voice I haven’t heard in weeks, even if I’m pretty sure he has no idea who Tony Stark is.
He extends his hand and turns to Fern. “Have you seen the drawing exhibit yet?”
We make our way to the display panels. Several people glance at me. I can’t interpret their looks—if they’re based on curiosity or disgust.
“Sucks about Mr. Hawke, huh?” Simon’s brow furrows. “I heard he left already.”
“Life of a war photographer, I guess.” Clover nods toward Patrick O’Hare, who is talking to Ms. Meadows. “Everyone seems to like him, though.”
Fern laughs at something my father says. They’re chatting about the Asterix and Obelix comic books set during the Roman Empire.
“Hey, Nell like bell.”
Surprised, I turn at the sound of Jonah’s voice.
“We really have to stop meeting like this.” He jogs closer and gives me his chipped-tooth smile. “Or, you know. Not.”
I smile. Easily. “Hi, Jonah. I didn’t know you’d be here tonight.”
“Yeah, I stopped at Comic Castle this afternoon to see if you were working, and Fern told me you took the day off because of the competition.” He spreads his hands out. “So I figured I’d catch you here and check out the artwork.”
“That’s really nice of you.”
Admiration lights in his blue eyes. “You look great.”
“Thanks. You look nice too.” I introduce him to Clover and Simon, who both give me sidelong glances and nudge each other.
“Where’s yours?” Jonah gestures at the display panels. “I looked at the photography entries, but didn’t see anything with your name on it.”
“No. Mine is in the Mixed Media section.”
“Let’s go check it out.” Simon starts toward the other side of the gym. “Clover and I haven’t even seen it yet.”
I pull in a breath as my nerves tense up again.
Our little group walks to the Mixed Media display, with my father and Fern trailing behind us. A disproportionately large crowd is starting to gather around the large plywood board positioned near the exit sign. There’s whispering, headshaking, some nervous laughter.
Jonah comes to a stop. “Wow.”
Covering the full center of the board, a black-and-white photo of me gazes out at the crowd, my expression hard and defiant. I’m naked, though heavy streaks of black paint conceal my breasts and vulva, and my long hair falls in haphazard waves around my shoulders. The photographic image of me is breaking free from a torn, chaotic collage.
Behind the self-portrait, plastered with glue and paint, I’d arranged drawings of Winsome Swift, cutouts from newspapers—one of them a headline about Darius’s abduction—a typed sheet from my father’s book, a sketch of my mother, photos of Volkov Bay.
There’s a frayed rope tied into a noose, Darius’s Pulitzer Prize-winning photo, a Harbor View brochure. A copy of the only picture I have left of me and my mother. Pages from graphic novels. A dried wildflower, a sand dollar, children’s book covers, a photo of the newel post. Van Gogh’s The Starry Night and my own nocturne drawings. All connected through an intricate web of multicolored paint.
I’d put myself right in the middle, my hands out in front of me, painted shackles with a broken chain around my wrists. The scars on my thigh are bright red. It’s the only red in the whole image. Thick lines of oil paint like blood dripping down my leg, vivid and stark. Unmistakable.
I’d taken the photo just the other day when I’d been a kaleidoscope of anger and defiance. In the self-portrait, my stare reflects every emotion, as if I’m daring everyone to look at me and everything I am.
Beside the frame, a rectangular panel displays the title.
You came. I saw. We conquered.
Nell Fairchild
Senior
Voices rise around me, like the buzzing of a beehive. My spine straightens.
“What the…” My father stops, his eyes widening.
The noise fades. He shifts his gaze from the collage to me. Though it takes effort, I meet his eyes steadily.
“What the hell is that?” His voice is a low hiss.
Clover and Simon both glance at me.
My father turns and stalks away from the crowd to a more secluded corner of the gym. I follow, my insides twisting.
“Is this an attempt at revenge?” He spreads his arms out, his face shadowed. “You’re still mad I found your photos, so you decided to put one of them on public display?”
“No. I wanted to tell my story, not get back at you.”
“You needed to show everyone your trauma to tell your story?” He paces a few feet away, his hands flexing. “You had to dredge it up again?”
My spine tenses. “None of it is going away, Dad. It’s all part of me.”