Devon Hartford - Reckless

“I could go either way,” he said, now standing in the kitchen. “You’re freaking about telling your parents, aren’t you?”

“Stop reading my mind!” I whined. I couldn’t help my sudden poutiness. The idea of finally telling my parents about changing my major made me want to eat too much ice cream, vomit it up, get drunk, vomit that up, then go for a jog so I could eat more ice cream.

“You want to talk about it?” he asked softly. He walked toward me and clasped my arms in his warm hands. He leveled his super-powered blue eyes at me.

Why did I feel so at ease every time I gazed into those eyes of his? Was it their color? Because they were impossibly beautiful? Or was it the man behind them, and his love for me? I’m sure it was both. But it was also the fact that I’d never felt this kind of love in my entire life. Unconditional, supportive, understanding, compassionate love. I was tearing up again. It was starting to become a bad habit.

Is that what love did to you? Made you cry all the time?

Christos pulled me into his arms. “You don’t need ice cream, agápi mou . You need to talk, I can tell.” He grabbed his water and led us to my couch. “What’s eating you?”

I sniffled and giggled. “My need for ice cream.”

He chuckled. “We can have some later. But right now, I want to know what’s bothering you so much about telling your parents, if you want to talk about it. If you want to wait, that’s fine too. But it needs to come out, or it’s going to keep eating away at you.”

I wasn’t sure where to begin. I held my hands up plaintively, then dropped them in my lap. But I knew Christos was right. This was just like the Taylor Lamberth situation. I knew I needed to get it out. I took a deep breath, and began.

“I never told you this before,” I started.

“Sounds like a familiar opening,” he smiled.

I shook my head and leaned into him. We were thigh to thigh on the couch. He put his arm around my shoulder and I rested my head on his chest. It was so firm and supportive, just like he was.

“When I was applying for colleges in high school, I got the idea into my head that maybe I could go to an art college. But I never told my parents. I went online and found a bunch of different schools, all of them in California.”

“Which ones?”

“Mainly CalArts and Art Center College of Design.”

“Those are the big gun schools in Southern Cal.”

“I know. Anyway, I read about portfolio submissions, and realized I needed to do some drawings of my own. Some serious drawings. So every day after school, I would draw all kinds of different things at home. Since I’d lost all my friends after the Damian thing, I had plenty of spare time. But every day, I’d make sure to put away my drawings before my parents got home. Somehow, I intuitively sensed they would say something to knock me down if they ever found out.”

“Serious?” Christos frowned.

“I guess it wasn’t like that in your house growing up.”

“Heck no. My dad and my grandad were always wanting to see what I was working on, always trying to help me make my work better.”

“You have no idea how lucky you are,” I said, my voice quavering. “Because, one time, I was so wrapped up in one of my drawings, I never heard the garage door when my mom came home from work. I was trying to copy a photograph of a horse, and I remember how amazed I was that my drawing looked good. I was drawing the entire horse, legs and all, and for once, it didn’t look like a kid’s drawing. To me, anyway.

“The next thing I knew, my mom was over my shoulder saying, ‘What are you doing?’ I covered my drawing instinctively, fear instantly knotting my guts.”

I looked up at Christos. “How lame is that? I was afraid of my mom looking at my drawing.”

Christos cupped my cheek with his palm and stroked my face with his thumb, wiping away my tears.

I continued. “I told my mom it was nothing. I remember her eyes narrowing as she searched my face, almost like she knew I was up to something…I don’t know, like I was up to something dangerous …”

SAMANTHA

PAST…

“What is this?” my mom asked.

“Nothing,” I said.

“It’s not nothing. It’s a drawing.” She reached over my shoulder and pulled it off my desk to examine it.

I watched her face, trying to figure out where this was going to go. She knew I didn’t socialize much anymore. I’d thought maybe she would’ve said something about how it was nice I had a hobby or whatever.

“Why were you hiding this, young lady?” she demanded, like it was a crack pipe or a handgun.

“I don’t know,” I said.

Then she rifled through the other drawings I had laying out on my desk. I’m sure a normal girl would pin her best work to her bedroom wall. I kept mine in a stack under my books when I wasn’t working on them so my parents wouldn’t notice them.

“What have you been up to, Sam?” my mom asked, eyes narrow.

“Drawing,” I said.

“Why?”

“I don’t know, because I like it?”

“You sure have a lot of drawings here. You’re not sacrificing your study time to do these drawings, are you?”

“I—”

“You need to be focusing on keeping your grades up, studying for the SATs, and college applications, Sam. Not on goofing off drawing all these worthless drawings.”

“I’m not goofing off! I have to do these drawings for the art schools!”

“Art schools?” my mom sneered. “We never talked about any art schools.”

“So?”

“So? You’re not going to any art schools.”

“Why not?”

“Because we already discussed this with your father. We’re looking at business schools.”

I folded my arms across my chest. “ You’re looking at business schools.”

My mom’s brows knit together. “Don’t take that tone with me, young lady.”

“Yes, ma’am.” I sighed. I almost gave up. I was about to stack my drawings up and set them aside to make room for my school books. But I couldn’t. I had to say something. “Mom, I really want to go to art school. I’ve been looking at a bunch of different programs online, and I think maybe I could get in. I read the different portfolio requirements, and you can’t get into an art school without submitting artwork. It’s not just grades and SATs.”

My mom looked at me, assessing me. “Is that so. How long have you been thinking about this?”

“A few months?” I was so unsure of myself.

“Have you looked at tuition?”

A felt a glimmer of hope. “Yeah.”

“How much is it?”

It always came down to the bottom line with both my parents. I sighed heavily. “It’s almost double.”

“Double?!” my mom blurted. “You’re kidding,” she laughed.

“No.”

“It’s out of the question, Sam,” she said with finality.

“But what if I can get a scholarship or something?”

My mom put her hands on her hips and her lips welded together sternly. She picked up my drawings and flipped through them so heatedly I thought she was going to tear them up. But I kept my mouth shut, hopeful.

She nodded with increasing intensity as she flipped. “Mmm-hmm. Hmm. Mmm-hmm.” She dropped them on my desk dismissively. “I don’t think you’re good enough for a scholarship.”

My jaw dropped. “Who are you to say that?”

“I’m your mother, Sam,” she growled.

“Mom, you don’t know anything about art!” My face was hot with anger.

“I know enough to know you’re probably not going to get a scholarship.”

“But shouldn’t I try?” I struggled to hold back my tears.

“Not when it means taking time away from your studies and your other applications.”