Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 71044 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 355(@200wpm)___ 284(@250wpm)___ 237(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71044 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 355(@200wpm)___ 284(@250wpm)___ 237(@300wpm)
“But wait. Professor Lawrence didn’t actually kick you out of the summer program, did he?”
It’s my fellow classmate and friend Vann who asks the question an hour later in my loft, located within walking distance from campus. Leaning against the exposed brick wall with his dark messy hair, sleeveless band shirt, and chain wallet dangling at his hip, he looks ripped straight off the cover of a 90s punk album. Only he can pull off skinny jeans in this weather, even with holes torn at the knees. The guy is an incoming freshman, but wanted to jumpstart his college career by enrolling in the summer program. He’s basically an artistic prodigy, but is too humble to admit it.
“No, he didn’t kick me out,” I answer him. “Yet.”
“But he gave you an ultimatum?”
“Sort of.”
“What’d he say?”
Vann isn’t one of the three Art students I live with, but he hangs out here often because he shares classes with all but one of us. I’ll admit, I had a little crush on him at the beginning of the summer, but I have since learned he lives with his boyfriend in a beach town called Dreamwood Isle, located just down the causeway. His seaside lifestyle is evident in the sun-kissed glow of his skin and his laidback demeanor. I met him a month and a half ago and it already feels like I’ve known him for ages.
“He said if I want to stay in the program, I’ll need to prove myself at the upcoming summer showcase.” I sit on the windowsill, defeated. “Get in line, Professor Lawrence. You’re just one more person I need to prove myself to.”
“Your dad, huh?”
He already knows the story. “One day, I won’t have to prove myself to anyone. I can just create the art I like, relish in the beauty of the world, and somehow still put food on the table—and rent in my landlord’s hands.”
“Don’t be too hard on yourself,” says Vann. “There is always this ‘tug-of-war’ thing in Art schools. You’ll try to make your professors happy, but in the end, the only things that are gonna matter are you and that canvas. When we’re out there in the world trying to say whatever it is we want to say, Professor Lawrence sure as shit won’t be hovering over your shoulder telling you which shade of blue-green to put in your ocean. He’ll still be in his classroom sinking his fangs into someone else’s hopes and dreams.”
“Maybe I’m just too soft for the Art world. I thought my sunset series was some of my best work … but maybe he’s right. Maybe I’m playing it too safe. Maybe they’re all just … ‘pretty sunsets’.”
My brother would likely punch me for talking myself down like that.
Sorry, bro.
Just then, one of my roommates, Alice, who’s on the couch with her new girlfriend binge-watching a show, emits a happy, crackled moan as the two of them start making out. Both Vann and I glance at them, distracted. I don’t know what prompted the sudden show of affection, but it looks like it’s about to lead to something else. I feel like it’s only a matter of time before we acquire yet another roommate in this already cramped loft.
“You’ve been single for too long.”
I turn back to Vann. “What?”
“You’re surrounded by lovebirds. All your roommates, for example. It’s sucking all the happy out of you. I can see it in your eyes.”
I frown at him. “I have enough happy in my eyes.”
“What you need is some happy in your bed … or your mouth … or your butt …”
“What I need,” I cut him off before he decides where else I need some happy, “is to find my inspiration again—whatever it is my professor insists I’ve lost.” I cross my arms, frustrated. “But where do I find it?”
Vann gnaws on his lip, studying me long and hard. At once, it hits him. “The showcase!”
“What about it?”
“It’s being hosted at the Rivington Art Gallery!” When he notes my blank stare, he spreads his hands. “Hello? The Rivington Art Gallery? In Dreamwood Isle? Where I live? Phew, that’s still weird to say—‘where I live’.”
“What’s your point?”
“I’ve got an idea, obviously.”
“If it involves putting any happy in my butt …”
“It involves you putting clothes in a bag and getting the hell out of this stuffy loft for a bit. How about you join me on my bike for a ride down the causeway? You don’t have any plans this weekend, do you?”
“Wait, this weekend? I’m job-hunting.”
“Not anymore. Your unhappy butt’s coming with me to Dreamwood Isle.”
“Slow down, slow down …”
“We’ve gotta find your spark again! Also, you can get a good look at the Rivington yourself, plus the whole art community by the beach, the arcade, the restaurants, the seaside … Just picture it, Quintin.” He throws an arm over my back and paints the picture. “Crashing waves, top-notch sun … and more gorgeous, muscly guys than you can count. That’s what you’re missing, my friend.”