Don't Give up on Me

With the holidays completely over, the intensity that January always brought fell onto me. The hectic routine of competition season had fallen upon my fellow art students and I, and the pressure was sorely felt this year. While most of them were mainly worried about creating pieces to take to the regional competition, I had to worry about choosing which two I had already created during the school year. I would never be ungrateful for the unlimited use of the studio, but I was starting to regret making fifteen different pieces in an 18 week period. Each one had their own unique qualities, which made it so much harder to only pick two.

I sought out Mrs. Jackson's advice, but she only shook her head and told me that this was a "one woman decision" and left it at that. Over the course of a week, I had it narrowed down to six, but the end of January had arrived, and the deadline was twelve hours away.

"Maybe you should do a theme," Zacky suggested after school, the day before the deadline. "Like, this one has black and gray, with that red heart, and then this other one has black and gray, too. See what I'm saying?"

I nodded. He had a valid point. "I'm just not sure if I'd get a deduction for how similar they are. I mean, one is a skull with a rose, and the other is a skeleton's hand holding a heart. They're both dark pieces and the medium's are the same, too."

"What did you use to make these, anyways?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. "They look so real, so sick."

"Oil sticks," I shrugged, taking them off of the two easels I had set up and putting them down onto the table nearby. "This one was made with chalk pastels and the other with acrylic paint."

My pastel piece was a self-portrait, taken from a photo on Charlotte's camera that I had taken of myself when she wasn't looking. I was very proud of this piece, as it had taken nearly three weeks to complete, and it honestly was probably my best portrait, if I do say so myself. I did it in full color, right down to the ten thousand different shades that my hair was due to the shadows and highlights within. Every little freckle, every chain link on my necklace, and even each eyelash was accounted for.

"Andi..." he said after a few moments of silence. "You have to take this."

"You really think so?" I asked. I may have been proud of this piece, but that didn't mean that I wasn't uncertain about it in the slightest. An artist sees their artwork differently than others; they see the flaws that your eyes naturally skip over, they see the sharp lines that your eyes don't register, and they especially see that their neck is a bit too dark compared to the rest of the piece. It wasn't necessarily a bad thing, but having such a critical eye could seriously hold you back from believing in yourself.

Which is why I called him in here in the first place. "Yeah, I definitely think so."

"Okay," I finally said after a few more moments of internal debate. "One piece down, one to go."

We ended up agreeing that the oil painting of the skull should be my second piece, and the day after, I signed off on it and that was that.

That was exactly a month ago. Now, it was mid-February, the day before the competion, and I was working to the bone to help prepare for the regional competition tomorrow. Since I'd competed in art competitions similar to this since the seventh grade, and I had also participated with Cara last year at this school, I was put in charge as Mrs. Jackson's assistant. Meaning, I got to cut the mats, or frames, to go around each piece and then help put backings on them so our artist's statement sheets wouldn't damage the piece itself. The only redeeming factor about working all day was that I didn't go to any other classes. Instead, I stayed in the art room with all of the other participants as they put final touches on their works and did the same things I did.

I needed a pick-me-up, though. It was around two thirty, and I had been on my feet working since seven this morning. I hadn't eaten anything since then, either, and I felt the fatigue threatening to strike quickly. Many of the other seniors had gone out to lunch, but I stayed behind, wanting to get as much done as possible so I could get home before midnight for once. I was starting to regret that decision, and so was my protesting stomach.

"Andi?" I heard a voice call out to me. I looked up and saw a blurred outline, unable to recognize who the voice belonged to.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, let's get you away from the sharp knife and get you somewhere safer. We don't need you to lose a finger," a girl's voice said, and I recognized it as Rachel's. I complied and let her guide me in a different direction. "Are you alright?" she asked, looking very concerned.

"I'm fine," I said stubbornly. I wasn't about to wimp out right before one of the biggest days of my school year. This could make or break me when it comes to college acceptance into an art program. If I don't do well here, I won't get accepted into hardly anything. I had a lot riding on this, and a little bit of fatigue wasn't about to get in my way. "I just need some air, or a break."

"I've seen you working for hours, so, why not both?" she said with a small smile. "You gonna be alright?"

"Yeah," I replied. "Thanks, though."

"No problem."

I pushed open the door that lead into the hallway and then towards the doors that led outside, overlooking the practice fields. I sat against the warm bricks and closed my eyes, regaining my composure and trying to calm my nerves.

I wasn't sure exactly how long I had been sitting like that, but I do remember being startled by the sound of voices echoing towards me. My eyes snapped open and I saw Serena and Violet walking over, giggling at a joke I was too far away to hear. I looked at my watch and noticed that it was about the right time for 8th period to start, which made sense as to why they were coming over, since our study hall period was located in this building.

"Hey, we missed you in English today," Serena says when they reach me. "Green went on a rant about how he doesn't think art is a an extracurricular worth missing classes over."

"We defended you, though," Violet added, smiling. "Especially Baker. I never knew how protective he is over you until then."

"Where is he, by the way?" I couldn't help but ask.

"He's about to leave for his baseball game, remember?" Serena reminded me. "Well, it's a scrimmage, but it's basically the same thing."

I fought the urge to sigh. I really needed some sleep. "Right, right."

"What are you doing out here, anyways? You look pale, are you alright?" Serena asks, taking her Oakley sunglasses off to give me a better look.

"I'm just tired. I've been working all day, and it's really drained me," I replied with honesty, putting my guard down around the two of them.

"I understand. Let me know if you guys need any help after school. We both know I'm not looking forward to spending a 'family Friday' with your dad."

"God, he brought those back? He hasn't done one of those since I was in middle school. Christ..."

The late bell rings, and they both briefly say goodbye before rushing off to Study hall before Mrs. Ashton locked the door.

I finally eased myself off the ground and went back into the art room, mentally preparing myself for another round of making mats.
I noticed that two thirds of the art students had left because they had early dismissal instead of an 8th period, and honestly felt a little pissed off that there were only a handful left of us when we had at least five hours of hard work left to do, not including the paperwork. It looked like I wasn't the only one, though; Rachel, Mrs. Jackson, and a sophomore named Tate also shared my annoyed expression. The others that had stayed started going into overdrive, and I felt myself about to do the same.

However, Rachel had other plans for me. "There are only ten pieces left to be matted, and there are plenty of pre-cut mats for those. You should go sort the statements  so we can get out of here faster."

She also hands me a bottle of Gatorade. "This'll hold you over until we figure out how long we'll be here."

"Thanks," I told her before I started on the stack of artist statements. I sorted them by class level and went from there, knowing that alphabetizing them would be a nightmare.

"Oh, shit..." I heard Tate mutter a half hour later. I turned to see his face bright red and his hand on the back of his neck-- a sign that he was nervous.

"Language," Mrs. Jackson said sternly from where she filled out her own paperwork.

"No, Mrs. J, this calls for every curse word in the book," Rachel said when she approached Tate, a worried expression on her face.

"What is it?" I asked, following Mrs. Jackson over to the table where he stood. When I reached the table, I felt like I was going to be sick. My oil painting of the skull was stained with what looked like coffee, so much so that the few white highlights I had within the piece were now brown.

My heart dropped into my stomach. I didn't even realize I was crying until Rachel pulled me into a sympathetic embrace. Fatigue was the least of my worries right now. At this moment, a part of myself that I had taken time to paint and slaved over for days was damaged beyond fixing, thanks to a careless, nameless person. The worst part was that didn't look like it had just been done recently; instead, it had sat there for hours underneath an empty box, a half-assed attempt at hiding it.

"What are we going to do?" Tate asked as he tried his best to clean up the area. "The competition is less than 24 hours away and I hate to say this, but this can't be fixed."

I couldn't help but sob harder when my own realization was spoken out loud.

"We're going to put in her other oil painting," Mrs. Jackson said calmly. "And, I'm going to make sure that whoever did this will pay the consequences. Andi, I'm so sorry, kid."

"Put in my other one? They statements won't match up to the new painting at all!" I said softly, sniffling. Tate handed me a paper towel, and I silently thanked him for it as I wiped gently at my eyes and nose.

She went over to the stack and found my towards the beginning. "Your technique is still the same, as are the highlights, choice of color, medium, and why you think this piece stands out. The interview is what is going to count heavily into your final score, remember? As long as you present this piece well, then it should be fine. Just take a few deep breaths, eat a piece of emergency chocolate, and make a coversheet for your canvas. It's not the end of the world."

"I know, I just feel like this effort has been put to waste. Red Eyed is one of my favorites I've ever created, and now it's beyond repair. I can't even include it in my final portfolio..." I sighed, taking a shaky breath. "But, I have no other choice... The show must go on, right?"

"Even when you feel like you've been hit by a semi truck, the show most definitely has to go on," Mrs Jackson replied, giving me a warm hug. "Don't worry. I'll find out who did this so we can make it right, okay?"

"Okay," I exhaled slowly. I closed my eyes and once again tried to regain my composure before I moved the coffee stained piece into the storage closet, where it would stay indefinitely until I figured out where to put it next. I used a mirror that was usually used for self-portraits to clean up my mascara stained face and went back to filing. I still felt devastated, but I couldn't allow myself to get so angry right now. It wasn't in my nature whatsoever, but if I let my anger consume me now, I'll only do something that I'll regret later.

So, I channeled the negative energy into alphabetizing and putting the statements onto the backs of pieces while Tate helped Mrs Jackson check them and put them into travel portfolios. It was a mundane task, but it needed to be done, and I needed a distraction.

Ten minutes after the last bell rang, I finished my job of matching the statements and began to make a coversheet for my painting. I wished I had gone ahead and done this the first time instead of worrying about everyone else's, but I also knew that was a selfish thought to have. There was nothing I could do to prevent that; my painting was on the correct table, waiting for a protective backing and coversheet, since it was a canvas. No one else had placed theirs on that table until noon, due to the fact that I was the only one with finished pieces. So, it must have happened before noon, or else I would've seen another stained piece.

I sighed once again. I really needed to stop dwelling on this. I finished the coversheet and started cleaning up, my chance to go home and relax on the horizon. I felt like I did after double shifts at work; my lower back ached, my feet screamed with each step, and my neck hurt from being tense as I worked.

At six o'clock on the dot, we were finally able to leave. I felt bad due to the fact that she'd be here for at least five more hours, as well as leading the participants and judging other pieces as well. However, my worries melted away when Jourdan entered right then, opening her closet and putting her hangbag and jacket within before she gave me a smile. "Go home, Dee. I'll see you tomorrow morning."

"I am," I smiled back, pushing the door open before I shouted a goodbye.

I shivered when I stepped outside; it was chilly for February, especially at night. I regretted wearing such a thin sweater as I hurried towards my car.

A few moments later, I reached the car and sat for a few moments, thankful for the comfort of the leather seats in the Beast. I reached for my phone and checked my messages, and listened to the voicemail left by Zack that asked if I wanted to stay with him tonight. I almost laughed; nearly a year after we started dating, and he still sounded slightly nervous when he asked me to stay the night. I couldn't help but chuckle softly as I rang him back to let him know I was on my way.

After going by my apartment to grab what I'd need for tomorrow, I sped over to his and raced up the stairs and briefly said hello to everyone before going straight to his room. He followed suit, equally as tired as I was. I thanked God that he had showered before he came in, or else he would be intolerable. I greedily breathed in the soothing scent of skin and nearly instantly fell asleep, despite the nervous pit in my stomach about tomorrow.

It was the best night's sleep I'd had in ages.