I follow suit, rolling behind her. Sarah begins painting on the petals of a flower, and suddenly the side of the field house isn’t a wall anymore—it’s a blank canvas. “So I guess it will grow back as … moss?”
“I included some little wildflower seeds, too.” Sarah’s grin is wicked.
“They’ll just pressure-wash it off,” Iliana says. After a moment, she dips her own roller into the mixture. “If you’re going to commit a felony, it should at least be somewhat permanent.”
“It’s not a felony, grandma,” Sarah says, grinning.
Whatever is happening between them is over as soon as it starts.
Some people would just want to do dinner and a slice of birthday cake at Olexa’s Bakery, but not Sarah. She needs to do something bigger and more ridiculous.
“My dad and Principal Hoffman go to the same Masonic temple,” Sarah says. She turns to Iliana, frowning, and rests her hands on her hips. “He wouldn’t press charges; I’d just come wash it all off. Chill out, all right? You’re harshing my mellow.”
“Who says that?” Iliana snaps.
“I just did, obviously.”
Iliana sneers, and paints the illusion of a cat around the wide smile.
“We should make this Alice in Wonderland themed,” Iliana says. “Flowers growing out of the walls feels very Alice.”
It’s my turn to sneer.
Alice in Wonderland belongs to me.
My laptop is completely covered in Alice in Wonderland stickers—Tenniel’s original illustrations, and Disney’s Alice, and even Mia Wasikowska bearing the White Queen’s suit of armor.
Ever since I was little, the idea of being able to shrink down to the size of a thimble and enter an entirely different world—no matter how wild or wonderful it would be—has always been tantalizing. As a child, the stories meant escape—escaping my mother, escaping my problems, escaping myself. The thought of Wasikowska’s delicate, lovely Alice bearing the vorpal sword has always given me strength.
It was Wasikowska’s Alice that inspired my Alice in the fan comic I coauthor. Curious-in-Cheshire—my partner in crime—loves this version of Alice, too. She says she sees this version of Alice in me and reminds me almost daily that being brave simply means doing the hard thing—even if you’re terrified.
I don’t know if she’s right, but I want her to be.
All of this is a universe that Iliana doesn’t belong in—a wonderland of its own kind, with no tiny bottles of potion at hand to usher her in through its tiny doors. No one can stop her from enjoying it, but it doesn’t exist for her like it does for Cheshire and me.
No, Alice in Wonderland doesn’t exist for Iliana—not at all.
“No, I want to write something.” Sarah swipes through Iliana’s cat with one hand. “I don’t want it to be just a picture.”
“Guys! We don’t have time!” Iliana gestures to the board. When she turns back to face us, her words are for me. “We have, like, two minutes of play left.”
Iliana whirls on me. “Rhodes. Just draw something! Jesus!”
Draw something.
Draw something.
The easiest thing on the planet, right? Wrong.
I’ve been screaming at myself to just draw something for days. Weeks. Months.
The blankness of the wall itself is an assault, and the only kindness is that the sky is too dark for the burn in my cheeks to be known by anyone but me.
Draw something. Draw something. Draw something.
* * *
Just a week ago, I was standing in the back of the auditorium balcony, and the students crammed around the stage could be one hundred miles away. Like the rest of campus, it’s the sort of place built specifically to photograph incredibly for the school’s promotional literature with no actual consideration for basic human comfort: Everything is a variation of the color “oatmeal.” Beige walls; pops of an earthen green in the curtains and chair upholstery. Ugly backless benches under our bottoms and hardwood floors gleam under our feet.
“The Capstone exists as a stepping stone for the best and brightest in the Southeast,” June Baker said from the stage, a withered frame hidden under layers of pastel cashmere, “a rite of passage for young people who exhibit the kind of artistic excellence that has become synonymous with who we are as the Ocoee Arts Festival.”
June, who sent me a card and a sweet little painting for my eighteenth birthday, has been a juror for every Ocoee Arts Festival ribbon I’ve won since my first time in the show as a nervous thirteen-year-old. I know her money’s on me for the Capstone, and I know it’s something she’s focused her energy on because she considers my success a reflection on her insight as a mentor and a member of the board.
“As an extension of the Ocoee Arts Festival, the Capstone Foundation Award is more than a scholarship: It’s a yearlong seat on the board of directors, a guaranteed placement at Alabama College of Art and Design, and a yearlong fellowship with the Birmingham Museum of Art following graduation. It’s a bedrock for a résumé, and exposure. The first step of the rest of one fortunate student’s life as a career artist.”
The Capstone was supposed to be my birthright, but instead it’s the final nail in a coffin I never thought I’d build myself.
“The award season will take place in three parts, starting with an essay declaring intent, due November first. Those who are selected in the essay round will be invited to participate in a public project proposal on December seventh. Students whose projects are selected by jury will compete in a final show on December twentieth, where a winner will be awarded on-site.” June smiled and adjusted her glasses on the bridge of her nose. “The requirements are simple, as we do not wish to stand as a barrier for students in need: a grade point average of three-point-seven or higher and a record in good standing with your educational institution.”
Three-point-oh would be a reach. Three-point-five, a pipe dream.
Three-point-seven, a snowball’s chance in hell.
Besides, what would I do if I could make it in?
It’s not like I’ve painted or drawn anything new since the last Ocoee Arts Festival.
I don’t think I even know how to do that anymore.
* * *
Draw something. Draw something. Draw something.
I’m irreparably broken—my brain, my hands, my heart—and no one knows it.
Or maybe everyone knows it, and this is all some cruel machination for Iliana to make me feel like crap. Both are possible.
“Oh, give me a break.” Iliana’s grumbling is barely audible over the sound of the band warming up just off the field—the football game continues, but the percussion line sounds like a warning call that halftime is around the corner. She swipes a broad, arching vertical stroke upward. Then another, perfectly complementary, creating a long, rounded teardrop.
“Iliana!” Sarah claps her hand over her mouth.
“I don’t—” I cross my arms, red-faced again.
This time, it’s an inside joke I’m clearly not meant to understand.
Iliana adds a second shape inside the first that looks like a rosebud, with its petals pressed together. By now, the two girls are laughing riotously—loud enough to get us caught—and I feel like crying all over again. I drop my roller into one of the buckets.