Getting in was one part of the equation, but paying for it was the other. Even with financial aid, if I didn’t sign a fat contract she’d never be able to go.
“Sensible, practical options.”
“Honey, I know you’re putting a lot of weight on your shoulders right now. You always did.” Her voice got watery and my throat closed up.
Mom crying was in my top three worst sounds ever. There had been plenty of nights she’d do it behind closed doors when she thought everyone else was asleep when dad was sick. I’d heard and vowed there would only be happy tears from her once I got older. Older like I was right now.
“But I want you to know we’re proud of you no matter what happens. You’ll have graduated and played amazingly well all these years. You’ve been the rock long before your time, so I want you to promise me you’ll have some fun for yourself before you graduate.”
Flashes of fun blazed through my brain. Celebrating after a win. Nerf battles in the house. Marisa in my bed. I shook my head, trying to knock the last vision loose. Seven games left until playoffs. Keep it together.
“Don’t worry, Mom.”
Her lyrical laugh flooded the line. “It’s what moms do. Tell Marisa I said good luck on her presentation and I can’t wait to see her.”
“I will. Love you, Mom.”
“Love you too, honey. See you in two weeks, and have a great game on Saturday.”
Our call ended. There wasn’t time to heat my dinner up and get to Marisa’s presentation on time. I scarfed down my now-lukewarm food, grabbed my coat with the surprise tucked inside, and headed for the door.
The Franklin Building was in the older part of campus. It hadn’t yet been replaced by the steel-and-glass sleek renovations popping up from behind the construction barriers.
I followed the signs for the Art History Department and the sign taped on the door for the Guggenheim Fellowship presentations.
The door swung all the way open, banging into the chair of an older man sitting nearby. Inside the conference room, all heads turned in my direction.
“Sorry.” I cringed.
On the other side of the room, Marisa slapped her hand over her forehead before straightening back up and directing her attention back to the front where the first applicant had begun their presentation. Marisa’s gaze darted in my direction with a half-smothered smile twitching her lips.
Chairs were jammed into the conference room meant to hold eight people. The presentation screen up front was lit up with artwork Marisa had probably told me about twenty times, but I couldn’t remember the names.
I climbed over three people in the second row, squeezing myself into the one empty chair.
The guy presenting spoke so excitedly about the sculptures on his slides, all of which seemed to be studies of the female form. I wasn’t 100% sure this guy wouldn’t be hauled away for attempting to bang one.
“As you can see, the lines are magnificent.” There was an uncomfortable silence as he ran his finger along the curves of a sculpture of a headless woman. Not creepy at all.
“Thank you for that.” Marisa’s professor cleared her throat and stepped to the front of the room to slice through awkwardness so thick I was surprised we could still see each other. “Fascinating presentation. It’s always wonderful to see people genuinely excited by the art.”
So excited, he probably had a semi.
“Up next, we have Marisa Saunders. She spent this past summer at the museum and has focused her studies on preservation efforts with a dual degree in chemistry and art history. It’s quite a unique combination, though I know it’s a bit of home team bias on my part. Marisa.” The professor held out her hand to welcome Marisa to the front. She was in her museum gear: a blue button-down shirt I’d ironed for her yesterday and a grey tweed skirt. All she was missing were glasses and a blazer with elbow patches, and she’d match half the people in the room.
I kept my seat. Learned that one the hard way, when I got up and cheered during a gallery presentation her sophomore year. She hadn’t talked to me for a week afterward. The art crowd wasn’t used to rowdy sidelines support. Who didn’t love someone starting a chant spelling out each letter of their name? Apparently, art appreciators.
My fingers gripped the sides of my chair.
She didn’t look half as nervous as I felt. This was worse than standing inside the tunnel waiting to run out onto the field, but there were no walls to bang into or jumping around knocking into other guys’ helmets in this stuffy room.
Standing in front of a room of art buffs, she commanded everyone’s attention and launched into her plans for the summer. She came alive, animated in a way that didn’t signal she might start making out with an Andy Warhol or Kandinsky.
“Another community outreach project would be to get tour groups to work together to create their own Jackson Pollack. We could set the canvases out at the beginning of the tour. Smaller than Pollock’s. I don’t think many visitors would be able to find room for an eight-foot by twenty-foot painting in their luggage. Using quick drying water-based paints would allow the guide to provide them with the finished canvas at the end of their tour. There could be a designated photographer at the end to photograph them and provide them to the visitors to take as a keepsake.” When she’d first told me about this idea, I’d been blown away. Not only would it show everyone how hard the ‘easy’ art truly was, but getting people involved in the art would take it from stuff on a wall to things created by insanely talented people.
A mumble rippled through the crowd jammed into the room. Whispers of what a great idea it was and how some might want to try it in other museums circulated around the room.
Pride did an end zone dance in my chest.
Marisa wrapped up her presentation and there was polite applause—not the chest-bumping, face-painted screams of a touchdown there should have been.
After a few more remarks from her professor, the group was invited for coffee and snacks in the department hallway.
I let everyone else filter out of the room, including the shady statue guy.
Marisa bounded over to me, grinning like a maniac. “What did you think?” Her eyes glinted with a championship win light.
“You nailed it.” I held up my hand and she did a jumping high five. Leaning in, I pulled her closer than I needed, but I’d take what I could get. “Was the first guy as creepy as the statue sicko?”
She wide-eyed whispered back. “That was seriously weird, right? I was wondering if it was just me.”
“I hope no one breaks out a black light on any of the artwork he’s been near.”
Her face contorted with dread and disgust. “Gross, L.”
I laughed, not even trying to hide it.
“No, the first guy was so dull, I had to jam my pencil into my hand to keep myself awake.” She held up her hand.
Taking it, I traced my thumb over the barely-there indents between her thumb and pointer finger. Her skin was smooth and soft and it had been too long since I’d had an excuse to touch her like this.
“You really did kill that presentation.” I offered up a watered-down lemonade of a smile. As proud as I was, a part of me didn’t want her to be so passionate and excited about this trip. On the fifty yard line wearing the number one jersey, we have me, the total asshole. That I wanted them to—even in a small part of my mind—choose boring guy or way-too-into-art guy showed me how much of an ass I was.