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Monday rolls around, the deadline for my portfolio. Prize-giving is on Friday. This is my last week of school ever. I need to edit my images and write a five-hundred-word essay to go with the application. The worst bit is, I gotta be my own referee.
I park outside the school library. Inside, I spot zero seniors; most go home to study, only coming to school if they have to.
Using the school computer, I collate all the photographs of my work into one file and log onto the SOFA portal, checking I have everything I need for my application.
The library fills with juniors, the class a hum of noise in the background. I tap my pen as I think of the two hundred words explaining why I should get into SOFA.
I don’t deserve a place at SOFA any more than anyone else. I’m not going to tell you a sob story or preach about my inflated talent. But I can say, if given a place, it wouldn’t be wasted. I’m eager to grow as an artist. Most people want to get into SOFA so more people can see their art. That’s up there for me, but I’d instead use my art to make people feel. In a harsh and critical world, I want to challenge the critics to feel empathy and let those being judged feel seen and heard.
I check and re-check what I’ve written, re-count the images and hover over the green Submit Application button, hoping it’s enough, that I’m enough, that the impossible might be possible. I use the school address for the home address; I could mention that accepting me into SOFA would mean I’d no longer be homeless, but who wants to get in with pity? I’ve been honest with my work and my words, so the rest is up to them. I attach all the required documents and hit Submit.
There’s nothing more I can do but wait. I tap my pen on the desk, re-log into the SOFA portal, application status: Pending approval.
All the hype of creating works and meeting the deadline gave me a target. Being productive fuelled hope that each new piece I added to my portfolio was taking me a step closer. Now it’s done, there’s nothing left but to wait. It’s anticlimactic. My application is one of thousands and getting in is a long shot; now it feels like I’m waiting for the inevitable, crushing let down.
Katie turns up, guitar case in one hand. “Hey.” With her foot she pushes the loose carpet by my chair.
“Hi.” I look behind her, not expecting to see Libby since they no longer seem to be friends. It’s more wishful thinking.
“She still won’t talk to me.”
“Sorry.” It’s awkward. It was her fault, and I’m not sure what to say to make her feel better.
Katie looks at the computer screen. “Great, you applied.” She smiles, and I feel like it’s genuine. “Libby always said your work was amazing.”
“She did?” My voice is a tad more upbeat than I intended, my nerves tingling.
“You know she organised all the ball setup, then left ten minutes after it started? Her mum came and picked her up; she got all dressed up for nothing.”
“That sucks.” She’d been so excited about going, had planned the ball for months. She had playlists and mood boards; her words, it was going to be the best night ever. I’m partly responsible for killing her ball dream, and she’ll never get that night back. There are no do-overs when it comes to senior balls.
“You’ve just given me the best idea.”
Katie looks confused.
“Hey, I’ve got to go, but are you around later? I might need your help with something. It’s Libby related.”
“Yeah, sure.”