Devon Hartford - Reckless

He smiled at me. “Don’t worry, I’ll find you something. Let me see here…I see that you recently changed your major to Art?”

“I did!” I couldn’t hide my excitement.

“Maybe there are some internships with the professors.” He clicked several more keys and moused around, reading intently.

My stomach knotted tighter and tighter as I waited hopefully.

“Hmmm,” he frowned. “I’m not seeing anything.”

“Oh.” My heart sank.

“Let me try one more thing.” He searched around for another minute. His face broke into a smile and he turned to me. “How about working in the Eleanor M. Westbrook art museum?”

“Really? That sounds awesome!”

“They need someone to work the front counter. Do you think you could handle that?”

“Of course! How much does it pay?”

“Ten bucks an hour. Will that work?”

“Totally!” $10.00 an hour was more than my dad had calculated that artist had made on the hundred dollar oil painting in Dad’s office! I smiled smugly to myself. Christos was right. I was already going to make more money doing art things than my parents believed possible. I was determined to prove to myself, and to them, that I could do this. That art wasn’t a pipe dream career.

“I’ll shoot an email over to the head curator at the museum to let them know you want to apply for the position, but you’ll have to go over there and fill out the application and do an interview. Is that okay?”

“I can totally do that! Thank you!” I was elated.

I left Career Services and headed straight over to the museum, smiling the whole way there.

When I walked inside, I told the girl sitting at the cash register that I needed an application.

“Are you applying for the cashier job?” she asked.

“Yeah,” I said.

“Would you like to speak to Mr. Selfridge? He’s in his office.”

“Sure,” I said. I had an hour until Sculpting class with Romeo. My stomach grumbled, but I’m sure I would have time to grab a snack on the way to class. I just hoped I could afford it.

The girl at the counter made a call on a phone behind the counter. “He’ll be out in a second. You can wait here.”

“Okay,” I smiled. I stood at the entryway to the main gallery. I had loved the museum the first time I’d been in it last quarter. It was big and quiet and calming. The paintings were amazing. I couldn’t imagine a better place to work.

Not long after, a tall, handsome man in a tweed sport coat came walking out of the main entrance to the gallery.

“Hi, I’m Samantha Smith,” I extended my hand.

He shook it. “I’m Mr. Selfridge.”

“Did you get the email from Career Services?”

“I did. Do you want to apply for the counter position?”

“Definitely. Do you need a résumé or something?”

“No. You’re a student here, correct?”

“I’m an Art major,” I said proudly.

He smiled. “You don’t say. That’s terrific. Then you’ll be right at home at the museum.” He folded his hands together. “I can only offer you ten hours per week. Is that acceptable?”

Oh. I hadn’t been expecting that. Ten hours meant about $400.00 a month, less after taxes, a fact I knew from growing up in the Smith household. Thanks, Dad. I would need to find a second job. But in the mean time, I needed to take whatever I could get. “Uh, yeah, that would be great,” I smiled.

“Excellent. Here’s the application,” he said, handing me a pre-printed form. “Bring it back on Monday. You can start then.”

“Okay, thank you,” I smiled.

“I look forward to working with you, Samantha,” he nodded pleasantly.

“I’ll see you Monday!” I walked out and jogged to the Food Court at the Student Center.

My phone jangled. A text from Madison.

Where u at?

I replied, Running to Student Center.

Wanna get lunch?

Don’t have time. Late for class.

Ok. Tomorrow.

As I jogged, I had a moment to wonder how I had ended up right where I’d started at the beginning of the school year last quarter, late and running from one place to the other.

I really needed to figure out the campus shuttle. This was getting ridiculous.

I considered fish tacos, but didn’t want to spend the extra money. I grabbed a protein bar and a bottled smoothie from the convenience store beside the campus bookstore and saved $1.38. It wasn’t much, but every bit helped.

I trotted back toward the Visual Arts building.

“She’s late, she’s late! For a very important date!” Tiffany mocked as I ran by.

“Don’t you have class?” I sneered.

“More than you, you genital sore!” she shouted at my back. Her minions cackled. They were all in league with Satan.

But seriously, didn’t she have anything to do other than stand in the same place all day long and mock me? Or was she just working this campus street corner, waiting for rich upperclassmen to come along and buy things for her?

Probably.

SAMANTHA

I ran into the Visual Arts building and blundered down the hallway to the sculpting studio. Inside, I heard an echoey voice. The door was locked, so I knocked furiously. After a minute, the voice stopped, and I heard heels clicking closer and closer to the door. Someone opened the door.

“Perhaps if you were on time, you wouldn’t have to interrupt the entire class,” the woman holding the door said snidely. Despite her casual clothes, she had big hair and carefully applied makeup. Her hair was a work of art unto itself. She didn’t strike me as the sort of woman who would be teaching a sculpting class. Maybe fashion design or even a cosmetology class.

I was breathless from running. “I, uh, had, an, on, campus, job, interview.”

Despite her striking lips gloss, her lips thinned out of existence when she frowned at me. “Next time, be on time.” She held the door for me, still irritated.

I cringed as I skulked past her. The sculpting studio was a high-ceiling room with exposed pipes painted black hanging overhead, and a concrete floor beneath. A wall of windows mounted on high-tech steel frames allowed ample light. It was not nearly as warm and comfy as Professor Childress’ inviting Life Drawing room had been last quarter, but it was better than another boring lecture hall.

I searched the room for Romeo. He waved, but the positions next to him were taken by other students. I grabbed the only remaining spot.

Like drawing and painting, the students surrounded the center of the room in a circle. But instead of easels, everyone had their own elevated square table on wheels. The table was not much bigger than a barstool. I set my stuff down on the floor next to mine.

I noticed that everyone’s table was adjusted to a different height. I realized there was a twisty handle on the side of the lone post supporting the table top. I twisted it and… BLAM!! My table top crashed down to the lowest height. The noise boomed throughout the room.

I think the echoes lasted for three or four minutes. The room had a cement floor, after all.

Everyone stared at me. Of course.

“Sorry,” I mumbled. Undeterred, I twisted the handle slightly to add some friction, so the table wouldn’t slam down again and maybe slice my fingers off. I lifted it up slowly. Somebody had forgot to oil my table.

!!SQUUUUEEEE!!—

I had to put my foot on the base to hold the stand down while I lifted. It was really sticking now. I put my back into it. Needed to adjust it sooner or later.

—!!EEEEEEEE!!—

Everyone was staring again. I shrugged my shoulders sheepishly, still lifting. May as well get it over with now that I’d started.