Chapter 4: Another Ordinary Day

Art History is in an hour. This is your first concrete, conscious thought. You’ve been struggling in that realm between sleeping and waking for the last few hours, but you have finally risen to the surface of the fog and are staring into the large, red digital numbers of your bedside clock, watching them shift to an even 2 o’clock. The zeroes stare back at you like angry, blood-shot eyes. Your head is pounding; the events of yesterday were not dissolved by sleep. Rather, they cling to you with persistent fingers as if you never escaped them even for an hour. You have got to do something other than wait for Detective Hobb to call you with news about your car. Thankfully, school is within walking distance. You can make it on time if you leave soon. One thing at a time: shower first.

About fifteen minutes later, you are grabbing a piece of toast and filling a travel mug with day-old coffee that you’ve nuked in the microwave. After realizing that your corduroy is MIA with your car, you slip on your faded jean jacket and start a brisk walk towards campus. It’s a crisp late February afternoon. The coolness in the air clears your head a little bit and you actually start to feel optimistic by the time you approach Cravy—the art building on campus—until you run into Sylvia Baker at the entrance to the building: A grad assistant, needlessly jealous of your sudden fame and success. Because she taught one of the first art classes you took at the University, she allows herself to feel somewhat responsible for your talent. You’re not above giving credit to a teacher for their role in a student’s development, but her class didn’t have required attendance so you never went to it.

“Good morning Sylvia,” you extend an olive branch you expect to have smacked out of your hand.
“Will,” she curtly responds, not disappointing. “Not quite morning, though. I guess some of us don’t have the luxury of sleeping the day away.” As she walks through the glass door you are courteously holding open for her, she seems to remember herself, her tone drastically changing to a thick sweetness. I don’t like sugar with my coffee, you feel like saying. “Were you able to make some profitable connections at the art show last night?” How to make this as brief and vague as possible?
“Well, I got a bunch of business cards from people interested in my work. That feels like a lot of work itself, though.” She is unable to hide her distain for long and mutters back:
“Sounds like looking a gift horse in the mouth to me.” You opt to take the stairs to the second floor rather than ride with her in the elevator.
“Gotta run to class—thanks for coming last night!” She nods in your direction with a painful smile while hitting the “up” elevator button.

Self-admittedly, you are not a very good student, but you are always on time. Today is no exception and you slide into a desk about five minutes before the professor enters the room. One of your art buddies is sitting behind you as per usual; it’s a relief to see a friendly face.
“Will! How was the show?”
“Hey Jane. Uh—that’s a long answer. How did everyone know about that, anyway?”
“The show? It was publicized all over campus!”
“Well, I know that, but about my involvement, really. No one posted the names of the artists.”
“Well, we found out about it no thanks to you, to be sure.” Professor Sparrow walks in at about 2 till 3:00 and sets her very feminine leather briefcase on the desk.
“Good morning!” She says brightly.
“Well, how did you know?” You ask again, only half turned around. Jane gives you a look that says “you really don’t know?” and after pausing for a moment in thought, nods towards the front of the room. At first, you think she means that it’s time to pay attention to class, but Sparrow is still getting papers out of her bag, not ready to start class yet. You turn back to Jane and she gestures again, this time a little more forcefully. It doesn’t dawn on you until you face front once more in time to see the professor lift her head and beam directly at you.
“Well, I think it is appropriate for us to start class with a round of applause for our very own William Walker.” Most of your classmates willingly oblige. You start to feel slightly uncomfortable. “I know you weren’t able to be here last week, Will, but we talked about your show so we would all be sure to go and support you.”
“Thanks—thanks a lot everyone.” You say, waving a hand, then feeling like a pretentious celebrity, so awkwardly putting it back down. “There were several other artists there, too, it—it really wasn’t my show per say.”
“Well, yes, of course.” Sparrow says. “Why don’t you tell us all about it?” And she motions to the front of the room. You stare at the floor by your desk. Please, you beg. Please, please. Just collapse. Swallow me up. Do something. The floor motionlessly mocks you.

You aren’t sure how you made it through that class. Filled with desperate energy, you bolt as soon as Sparrow utters her usual closing phrase: “See you next time.” You refuse even to make eye contact with any classmates pouring into the hall alongside you. You are just about to get away, too, when she calls after you,
“William Walker—hold on!” You stop dead in your tracks, wishing it were a bullet rather than her words that are keeping you in place. She sidles up next to you, tall, slender, well-made, if you will. “I hope I’m not keeping you from another class, but I’d love for you to walk me to my office.” An excuse forms on your lips. “I have all these papers to carry back with me.” Curses.
“Sure thing.” You are too kind for your own good. You walk back to the classroom with her and pick up a thick folder of papers. Despite the alarms going off in the back of your skull, you are suddenly walking towards the end of the hall, past classmates and towards Sylvia Baker and other faculty member’s offices. Sophie Sparrow is walking awfully close at your side, her long blonde hair brushing your shoulder as she shifts her head—you’re afraid she can hear the accelerated speed of your heart beat.
“I am just so proud of you.” She starts. “It does my heart good to see a student taking their craft beyond the classroom into the ‘real world.’ That takes such initiative, such commitment. What hard work it is to create and create and create until you have a collection to display—especially without utilizing digital technology!” You can’t help but feel like a counterfeit when you remember how you sifted through an old box of your photographs that you threw into a manila folder to mail to Hal. You try to walk faster, but she will not alter her pace. “That makes me feel a bit like a cheat!”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you know I teach several digital photography courses here.”
“Ah yes.”
“To purists, digital cameras can seem easier…like cheating. I understand and respect—truly—any reasons you may have behind sticking with film, but I just want you to know that I think you could really benefit from modern technology in the area of photography.” Arriving at her office, she takes her keys out of her bag but drops them while unlocking the door. Instinctively, you bend down at the same time that she does to pick them up. Your hands brush against one another in the process and the feeling of her breath at your neck makes the panic in you rise. Her hand lingers on yours just briefly before you both stand back up; she continues calmly as if nothing has happened. “I hope you understand,” she is saying—her voice finally breaks through the adrenaline beating in your ears, “that I just want to be available to help you succeed.” She steps into her office, a small closet of a room with neatly kept shelves of books lining the walls on either side and a wooden desk and chair in the back under a tiny window. After setting her bag on the desk, she hesitates for the first time—clearly expecting you to come into the room and curious that you are not. She pauses and you say nothing, too worried about the sweat gathering on your palms under the student papers you are carrying. She tilts her head just slightly. “Will, what I’m saying is: why don’t you let me give you a crash course just to see if you like it? I have equipment that I can loan you.” Why is it that all you can think in this moment is ‘my mamma didn’t raise no fool’?
“Um—“ She watches you, obviously her level of comfort decreasing. She seems to be struggling to communicate her meaning to you, and tries again.
“I want to see you succeed—so few of us artists do. I just think you could really benefit—“
“Well, I think that—um…”
“You don’t even have to sign up for a course. I mean, we could do it sometime in the evening—“
“Oh, I work most evenings—“ Your out—thank you Joe’s!
“Or afternoons! I’m very flexible.” You swallow hard. “You don’t have another class to go to right now?” You shake your head. “Please, then,” she puts a hand on the door knob, “come on in and we’ll discuss this.”

What happens next?

A. You’re not great at thinking on your feet…and she seems so sincere! You step into her office. Despite your nervousness, you are slightly intrigued by her offer.
B. Nothing good can come out of this situation. You’re afraid of what this looks like—pretend to get a phone call! Get out now!