Don't Give up on Me

Breathe, Andi. Just relax. Everything will be okay.

I stared at my reflection in the mirror and exhaled slowly. I nervously smoothed down my shirt with shaking hands. The day of the competition had finally arrived, and I couldn't seem to get myself together. Last year, I had stayed with Cara and didn't even think of panicking, because she was right beside me. Now, I had to rely on myself, and that was what worried me the most. I'd come to know that by now, I was more likely to bail rather than sit and deal with the problem, and my temper would get the best of me if I let it. Today would test my limits in every single way possible, and it was up to me to make sure I got through it without freaking out.

Breathe, I reminded myself once again before I turned the light off and stepped out of the bathroom. It was eerily quiet as I made my way to the kitchen, since the guys were still asleep. Logan wasn't back yet from her run, so I didn't have her usual early morning company as I forced myself to eat something. I didn't want a repeat of what happened yesterday.

I finished quickly and took my time washing the bowl in the otherwise empty sink, then put it away. Once I turned around, I came face to face with Zack, making me jump.

"Why do you always do that?" I asked, looking up at him. I always forgot how much taller he was until times like this; I was 5'4" on a good day, meanwhile he was over 6 foot.. It was too dark to make eye contact anyways.

"Because I know that it scares you every single time," he replied, moving past me and reaching into the refrigerator for a Gatorade.

"Why are you even up right now? It's 6:45 in the morning," I asked curiously. "You're always the last to get up."

"I woke up at 5 like you did, but couldn't go back to sleep," he shrugged. "When are you leaving?"

"In a few minutes," I answered quietly. "I'm so nervous, Zack. I... I don't think I can do this."

"You worry too much, babe," he said, pulling me close. I rested my cheek against his bare chest and listened to his heartbeat. "You're gonna kick ass today."

"No, I'm not. I don't even have the piece I knew would help me today because some bitch had to ruin it," I muttered, still angry about my discovery barely twelve hours before.

"I know it sucks, but you can't do anything about it now," he said bluntly. "It's gonna be okay,. You have to trust me, and you have to trust yourself. You didn't work this hard to just quit now, right when everything is supposed to happen for you! Where is the Andi that I know and love, who doesn't take no for an answer? Or the girl that isn't afraid to call people out on their bullshit? You need to bring her out, babe. Don't go soft on me now."

I chuckled. "I wouldn't dream of it, Baker. Bravo for one of many pep talks you seem to be filled with."

He smirked. "It's what I do."

I looked at the time displayed on the microwave and saw it flicker over to 7:00. "That's my cue..."

He smiled before kissing me. "I'll see you at...?" He trails off, forgetting the time I've told him for days now

"5," I answered with a small smile. "I love you."

"I love you, too," he called after me as I quickly stepped into my Docs and grabbed my bag and keys. I smiled as I walked out the door.

*********

"Miss Andria Dawson, your first appointment is at 11:00 a.m. and the next is at 11:30. Good luck to you," the volunteer National Honor Society member said without making eye contact with me. She handed me two yellow forms that stated my appointment times and the scoring rubric that both judges would use.

I turned to my side out of habit to see if Rachel was still with me, but the flash of dark hair turning the corner told me that she definitely wasn't. I started walking in the direction of room 1100, where my first piece would be judged.

I reached the room in the large school fifteen frustrating minutes later, and sat in the line outside the door. I didn't have my appointment for another hour, but after learning last year that you could go at any time, I decided that I may as well go early.

Four students were ahead of me, chatting casually, as friends do. I read their badges and saw that they were from Newport Beach, which explained their clean-cut looks. My Doc Martens did not fit with their pearls and ironed shirts. I was alone.

A few minutes pass. It's 10:35. I feel more bored than I do nervous. I unlocked my phone and pretended that I was entertained by some game that Violet downloaded onto it months ago. I put it away. My hands are starting to shake.

"What's your name?" a girl sitting across from me asks. She wears a fashionable silk kimono over her T-shirt and skater skirt.

"Andria, but I only go by that if I'm in trouble. My nickname's Andi." I reply. "Yours?"

"Isabelle, but I go by Izzy for the same reason." She smiles. "What's your piece look like?"

I smiled. This was what I loved best about competing. Sure, there were the Newport snobs and other rude people, but then there were people like Izzy, who were kind and friendly and was genuinely curious about the talent they would see today.

I explained the piece quickly to her, then lifted my cover sheet and showed her. She and a few eavesdroppers gasp. "Holy shit..." she says under her breath, taken aback.

"That's it, I'm done!" says the boy next to her, sighing.

"Raphael, chill out!" She punches him lightly in the arm. "That's really good, Andi."

"I can kiss my chance of going to state goodbye," he muttered, shaking his head.

"Don't mind him. He's a bit of a jealous type," she grins.

"I don't know why. This isn't even that good. I actually don't like it all that much..." I said, confused.

"What are you talking about? You're freaking amazing!" She then stands and crosses the space between us before sitting beside me. "What's this one?"

I showed her the self portrait. She smiles again. "I'm betting on you going to State tonight."

"What? No!"

"Um, yes, you are! Look at mine, they pale in comparison!"

She shows me her digital picture of a butterfly that she took after the rain, and of a chalk pastel drawing of a conch shell. The details were immaculate in both drawings, but she lacked the ability to color coordinate in her pastel piece.

Of course, I didn't admit that out loud; that'd be rude. Plus, the color coordination was more of a preference rather than a strong critique to give her, and it wasn't my job to judge her work, anyways. "Yours are so good, too!"

"Aw, shucks," she says with another grin. This girl seemed to be very bubbly, almost like an excited puppy ready to play. "Mine are nothing compared to yours. What level are you competing at today?"

"Four," I replied, and her eyes widened even more.

"Well, no wonder you're so talented! You've had four years to practice!"

"Not really. I took Art I, Art II Drawing, Art II Ceramics, and then came to Art IV and AP Studio. I was sort of thrown into it all," I admitted, but she only shook her head.

"Room 1100 is ready for the next contestant in line!" another NHS member shouts as they push a cart with a stack of artwork on top (which only made me so much more grateful for Mrs. J's requirement of a coversheet for protection) and rounded a corner sharply, nearly hitting the wall in the process.

"That's what you get for trying to look cool!" Izzy called after him, though he didn't look back.

"Izzy, you're next," Raphael nudged her, with an anxious look.

"Calm down, Ralphie. I'll be fine," Izzy rolled her eyes at him before she stood carefully, teetering on her platform heels for a moment before picking her pieces up. "If I don't see you again, then I would like to say that it was nice to meet you, Andi. Good luck today."

"You, too!" I said, but I doubted that she heard, because she was in the room before I could say anything.

Raphael wasn't much for conversation, and left only a couple of minutes after Izzy did. Once again, I was alone as I waited for my interview.

Finally, at 10:59 on the dot, the door to room 1100 opened and I was the next to go inside. I took a deep breath and hoped I could take the critique about to come.

"Miss Dawson, is it?" the woman asked as soon as I stepped into the room.

"Yes, ma'am," I replied, thankful that my father's southern roots of manners and social grace decided to make an appearance today.

"I'm Alaina Winters. I'll be your judge for today. Is today your first time here?" she asked, but remained firmly planted in her desk chair.

"It's nice to meet you. No, it is not. This is my second time here, but fifth extracurricular art competition as of yet."

"Lovely," she chirped, but it didn't have much conviction in it. The interview hadn't even started and it was already going bad. I felt even worse showing her Heart In My Hand now.

She inspected the piece for a solid five minutes without saying a word, her cold blue eyes not bothering to show her distaste. "Great use of medium," she finally spoke, but this, too, lacked conviction. "Why do you have a plain background?"

"I felt that if I had done something less subdued that it would distract from the main focus of the piece."

She shook her head. "I would have loved to see some fireworks, or stars, or anything in the background. This piece has no balance whatsoever. And you don't have a highlight right here-" she points to the fingers underneath the heart "- which just makes the fingers less realistic."

Sadly, this was the first thing she'd said today that she meant. I tried to fight back the tears that threatened to come. I knew this piece would get picked apart. The first use of a medium is never the easiest, especially with something as tricky as oil paints.

"If I were you, I'd touch up this piece before you enter it into another competition. You're dismissed, Miss Dawson."

She takes the score sheet from my hands and sits back at the desk, leaving me stunned and stucken speechless. I picked up my handbag and turned on my heel, trying to get out as fast as I could.

"Is she nice?" someone I didn't know asked when I emerged.

"Do the tears in my eyes make it look like she's nice?" I snapped as I walked past her, carrying my other work like precious cargo.

In my emotional storm, I realized that I didn't have a clue on how to find room 2018, and my appointment was exactly 21 minutes away. I turned a corner and asked an NHS member on a Razor scooter how to get there, and she pointed to the stairs and told me that I couldn't miss it, then took off.

I climbed the stairs slowly, trying to shake off what Alaina Winters had said. What made her think that anything she said was appropriate to say to a seventeen year old?

It's no wonder! You've had four years to practice! Izzy's statement raced through my mind, and I sighed. Of course I got a harsh critique. I'm in Studio Art, so I'm treated like a college student, not some kid. This revelation didn't make it any better, but at least I could brace myself for the next critique to come.

When the girl that gave me directions said I wouldn't miss 2018, she was serious. A large, colorful wall pointed me in the direction of the room, and upon arriving, I saw that it was the school's old art room, now used for events like this and storing materials. I sat down on the wall opposite of the door, facing a Goth looking kid and a bored looking soccer player, already in his team's warm up gear. I heard parts of the things the Goth told the soccer player and couldn't help but hold a hand over my mouth as I tried to hide a laugh. The Goth was trying to convince the guy that he had multiple personality disorder and had killed a guy because of it, but didn't get in trouble, of course, because it was self defense. None of what he said was actually funny, but it didn't take much to know that MPD hadn't been called that since 2000; it was dissociative identity disorder, now. The poor guy looked so uncomfortable.

"I'm also trying to have a baby with my fiancée. She's a freshman," the Goth said, flicking hair out of his eyes.

"Next, for whomever's ready," the woman in the room said, and the Goth stood quickly, waving at the soccer player before following her inside.

The soccer looked at me and started to laugh, a nervous giggle of relief. "I forgot how many psychos are here. Jesus, I am not gonna miss this when I graduate."

"You're a senior, too?" I asked, silently agreeing.

"Yep! As soon as June comes, I'm going to Sacramento and never coming back," he sighed, a dreamy look in his eye.

"Soccer scholarship?" I guessed.

He shook his head. "My knee is shot." He points to the black brace around it that I hadn't noticed earlier. "Tore a ligament or something like that that three surgeries couldn't fix. I can never play again."

"I'm so sorry, I--"

He waves it off. "Don't worry about it. Its okay. I'm gonna stick with this." He gestures widely, at the array of students chatting as they waited on appointments like us. "I was going to go to NYU, but they don't give out scholarships, and my surgeries made my college fund run dry."

"Same here," I sighed. "I never had a college fund. It was more of a 'let's hope this can cover something' fund."

He nodded. "I'm Andrew."

"Andi," I replied, smiling.

We began to pass the time with simple conversation, and we found that we had a lot in common. He went to Costa Mesa with Brian and Charlotte, and knew them from parties and such. He also went to middle school with Matt and Zack, too. "I know you now," he grinned. "You're Baker's girlfriend."

I nodded, feeling my cheek flush at the sound of his name. "Yes, I am."

"How does that happen? You're two are so different. He was never the guy to settle down with a girl, for as long as I can remember!"

I shrugged. "Right place, right time, I guess."

He laughs. "I think you might know my girlfriend, Leila. She's in your school's program and she's here somewhere."

"Aw, that's sweet!" I smiled. I did know Leila. She was a junior and a cheerleader. That was all I knew about her, but she seemed like she was a nice girl.

"Next," the lady said as the Goth left with quick strides. Andrew tossed me a piece of paper with his number on it. "Call me if there's anything going on tonight, and I'll be there."

"Definitely," I replied, watching him as he walked inside.

I didn't have much time to relax, as his interview ended in only five minutes, a confident smile on his face as he emerged. "Good luck, Andi."

"Thanks," I murmured, walking inside the room. I took a deep breath. This couldn't go as badly as the first, right?

"Hi, I'm Carolyn Bates. I'll be critiquing you today." She stuck a perfectly manicured hand towards me. I wondered how she could bother to take care of her nails if she were a true artist; I squared mine off and only put a clear coat on, otherwise they got in the way.

Still, I shook her hand as I introduced myself. Her smile smile seemed genuine, her brown eyes soft and inviting, unlike Alaina's had been earlier. I instantly felt relieved, eager for this interview to begin.

She, like Alaina observed my piece for a full five minutes, the silence defeaning. "This is great, Andria. Those eyelashes! How did you do such great strokes?!"

"A really, really, really used-up pastel pencil helped," I replied. "More control."

She nods, and is silent for another moment. "Why isn't this part blended?"

I follow her finger to the background, and feel like crawling into a hole. "I don't know. That was an unconscious move."

"Don't sound so freaked out! It looks nice. It's a nice contrast from your careful blending of your features, honestly," she smiles. "Okay, my only critique is for you to be more confident in yourself. Don't sweat the small stuff, okay?"

"Okay, I can do that," I smiled in relief as I handed over my second form. "Thank you."

"No, thank you. I've been dying to see a pastel piece and I got my fix. You're dismissed, Andria."

I turned and walked away, relieved that this interview was much better than the first.

Now it was time to play the waiting game. I found my way down to the cafeteria easily and sat at our group's table, only two of the fifty or so kids that came today. I then realized that it was Andrew and Leila, which made me happy, because I didn't want to sit awkwardly in silence for another second. "Hey!" I greeted them brightly, only to see Leila pale.

"What's wrong, Leila? Are you okay?" Andrew asked, a worried expression on his face.

She nodded. "I'm great." She raised her Starbucks cup to her lips and took a drink.

For some reason, I felt a twinge of suspicion towards her. I quickly shook it off; not every person who drinks coffee destroyed my piece. But the way she looked at me when she saw me, I swear I saw guilt flash onto her features.

I was reading too far into things. "What's up?" Andrew asked, reaching for the snacks that Mrs. Johnson brought and grabbed two chocolate chip cookies.

"Finished my interviews. I can't wait to go see if we made it to the hall."

The hall was where all of the pieces that made a score of 4 (the highest and best score you can get) were displayed. It meant that you advanced to regionals and your fate of going to state was deliberated tonight. We would have the results by Sunday evening at the latest.

"Didn't you hear? There's so many people here this year that they're using the gyms now." He washed the cookies down with half of his water bottle, then continued. "And there's already some down there now."

"Damn," I said in amazement. "We should go see them now!"

"Want to go, Leila?" Andrew asks. She'd been silent the entire time, and didn't dare to look at me. I felt suspicious once again. There was no way that this could be coincidence.

She shook her head. "Maybe later," Andrew shrugged. "Someone has to man the tables around here. Having a table is a precious amenity here."

I nodded in agreement, and then decided to change the subject. I needed proof to see if my instincts were right, even if it was risky. She may not have even done it, but she was acting too guilty for my liking. I just had to know.

"So, the hand piece that I told you about earlier wasn't actually the one I was supposed to bring today," I said casually, grabbing a couple of cookies for myself. I needed something to distract my hands, anyways.

"Really? What were you supposed to bring?" he asked, taking my hook.

"It was an oil painting of a skull with roses in each eye socket. It was my favorite piece of the entire year, but it got ruined yesterday and I don't know who did it."

His eyes flickered over to Leila, like it reminded him of something. She didn't meet my eyes once again, and I knew right then and there that she was the one to do it. "But, it's whatever, I guess..."

"Did you want to go see the gyms now?" Andrew asked. I nodded. "Lei, I'll be back soon, Kay?"

She gave him a cold look then that had don't tell her anything plastered all over it. He hardly lifted his shoulders in response, and led the way to the gyms in silence.

"It was Leila, wasn't it?" I asked when we rounded the corner.

"Yeah," he sighed, and he looked guilty for her. "She didn't tell me it was intentional, but after seeing your portrait, I think it was."

"But why?" I ask.

"Because everyone is betting on you to go to state. Hell, I'm betting on you to go to state. You're really talented, and she's intimidated, especially since she both of her pieces weren't nearly as clean as yours."

"So she destroys the piece that took nearly a month to make? Yeah, that's great," I grumbled, my head reeling with so many emotions. "That's so fucking logical to do."

"Jealousy does ugly things to people," he sighs, groaning when the floor starts to incline. "Knee," he murmurs, pushing a bit harder. "Not quite done with my rehab from the last surgery. Inclines really make my body aware that my cartilage is gone."

"Ouch, sorry," I said, offered him my arm for the last bit. He took it without any hesitation, a grateful expression on his face.

"Here it is, division IV."

I walked inside and carefully walked the floor. There were so many diverse pieces here; bright photography pieces; a monster made from stippling with Sharpie; a watercolor painting of a woman with pink hair flowing behind her.

"Fuck yes!" Andrew exclaims at the watercolor piece, raising his fists in the air. "I got a four!"

"That's awesome!" I grinned, my anger disappearing as I high fived him.

"No sign of yours, though," he says with a sigh. "But, that's okay, its only noon. We're here till 4:30. Plenty of time."

"Right," I sighed. "Time to go back."

"Feel free to be as angry as you want to be at Leila, but don't get too crazy, okay? We're friends, right? You'll do this for me?"

"Of course, Andrew. It's our teacher I'm worried about. There's no telling what she'll do."

"Fair enough," he said, wincing at the pain of walking down the incline. "I'm sorry it happened, though. She's been acting like this a lot, lately. I bet she's pissed that I even knew your name, she's that jealous."

"Jealousy does ugly things to people," I repeated what he said only minutes before, but the words seemed to click into place whenever I said them myself. I was definitely still angry that Leila did this, considering today would be the first time we ever spoke, but I could get over it. Not immediately, but I certainly wouldn't retaliate.

We reached the table a minute later, Mrs. Jackson among the others. Jourdan was here again, helping her mother so she would one day be in the same position, teaching and leading kids in the same manner. I felt so much pride in her; she finally made up her mind on what direction her art major would take, and she only had a year left before she could start teaching.

I looked around, the pride growing within me as I saw the happy faces of my classmates around me. Tate and Rachel were sharing a bag of gummy bears and laughing, and even though I still felt so angry towards Leila, I decided to let it go, and enjoy the rest of my day. I could deal with the drama later.