Chapter Nine

Field Trip

Things go a little better on our location shoots. As we move from the beach to a bricked alley, to a colorful mural wall, a rooftop, and back to the studio, changing outfits, hair, and makeup each time, I gradually relax.

Stephen says we got enough usable shots to make a decent portfolio and that he’ll print them tonight and have them ready for my go-sees tomorrow.

“You did it, kiddo.” He offers me a quick hug.

“If we got anything good, then you did it. Thank you for everything. Sorry again for being such a challenge.”

“Nah, you’re a natural,” he says, then laughs, probably because we both know he’s lying. “But seriously, you’ll get the hang of it, and you’re going to have some good luck this week—I can feel it. Just believe in yourself. And don’t let the other photographers intimidate you. They’re not all as charming as I am.”

I laugh, too, and hug him again. “How could they be?”

Leaving the studio, I check my phone, eager to follow its navigation app to the art school. Shoot. It’s later than I thought. The clock in the corner of the screen reads five-thirty. Is the school closed for the day already?

I’m supposed to call my driver and let him know when I’m finished, but I stuff my phone back into my purse instead. As far as he and Alfred know, our photo session could go on for several more hours. This is my best chance to visit the school, and I’m going to take it.

I speed-walk down the sidewalk, enjoying the lingering sun and the sound of seagulls flying overhead. I’ve ditched the ridiculous heels for my usual flip-flops and my long stride helps me make good time. As I pass one guy on the sidewalk, I hear him mutter, “New Yorkers,” under his breath. I guess in his laid back, Southern California mind, everyone in a hurry is from New York.

By the time I reach The Dowrey Center for Arts and Design—a square building with lots of windows—my phone tells me it’s five-fifty. And of course the hours of operation etched onto the school’s glass front doors are eight am to six pm. Shoot, shoot, shoot.

Testing the door handle, I’m relieved it swings open. But as I walk down the central hallway, my heart falls again. The place looks basically deserted. The doors lining the hall are all closed, and through the small windows in the center of each one I can see that the lights are off.

I’ve missed my chance.

The click of a lock and the jingle of keys draw my attention to the end of the hall. A man stands on the outside of one of the rooms, shifting the items in his shoulder bag. He looks too old to be a student. Is he a professor?

I’m so hoping the answer is yes when I call out to him. “Excuse me. Excuse me, sir?”

He looks up and jumps as if startled. “Can I help you?”

Rushing toward him, I speak quickly, putting as much pleasantness into my voice as I can. “Hi. Yes. Do you work here? I was hoping I could see the school. I’m visiting from Georgia, and I was hoping to take a look around? Maybe get an application?”

“Oh. Well, yes, I teach here—Professor Gould.”

He extends his hand, and I shake it. “Vancia Hart.”

“Unfortunately, we’re closing for the day, as you can see. I’m probably the last one in the building.” A tiny notch forms between his brows as he studies my hopeful expression. “An application, you said? What semester are you thinking of applying for? The admissions process for this fall is almost completed.”

“I know. I—well I just got up the courage to, you know, um check it out. I know I’m kind of behind.”

He gives me an understanding smile, starting to walk. “Well, it’s never too late to follow your dreams. There might still be a few openings—if not for the fall semester, then the spring. If you come back in the morning and visit the admissions office, they’ll give you the forms and set you up with a tour. You can also apply online.”

Actually, I can’t apply online. Not with Pappa monitoring my computer usage. Maybe I can borrow Ava’s computer again. Or... I could just use the Sway, something I’ve avoided in my everyday interactions with humans back in Georgia. But I don’t want to.

When it first kicked in as a preteen, I experimented with it. Using it on my human peers always left me feeling guilty, and seeing their zoned out expressions and hearing the obedient tone of their voices kind of freaked me out.

Hopefully, niceness (and begging) will suffice for this situation. Keeping pace with him, I work to remove the hysteria from my voice.

“I can’t come back tomorrow. I probably can’t come back this week at all, and I really, really need to get the application today.”

Now that I’m in the building, I’m surprised at how attached I feel already to the school. It seems like a place I could belong. If I can fill out an application this week at Ava’s house and mail it from there, Pappa will never know. Until there’s a reason for him to know—a reason that will never exist if I can’t convince this guy to help me.

“Maybe... maybe you could show me around?”

He stops, and now he really looks at me. Glancing around at the empty hallway first, he brings his gaze back to me and surveys my appearance, his eyes stopping at my purse before returning to my face.

Nope—not big enough for a weapon, Mister. You’re safe.

No doubt he’s trying to determine what I’m up to—to see if I’m some sort of a threat or just the clueless prospective freshman I’ve claimed to be.

“I’m not sure,” he says, dragging out the last word. “It really would be better for you to go through the enrollment office. It’s not really appropriate for me to give you a tour alone after hours like this.”

Shoot. It’s not working. But it has to. I’ll have to use it. It’s not like it will hurt him.

Touching his arm to stop him from walking away, I gain and capture eye contact with him. Don’t want to lay it on too heavy—just enough to get his help. I put my will and the minimal amount of Sway I can manage behind my words.

“Please change your mind and show me around, tell me about the school, and then get me an application from the enrollment office. You’ll feel good about doing this, and nothing bad will happen as a result of it.”

I hold his gaze in mine for a few seconds to make sure it takes then step back and smile at him like the docile Southern belle I’m supposed to be.

He blinks a few times and shakes his head, returning my smile. “As I was saying, I’m so glad you could make it for a tour today. I don’t often give them myself, but I’m happy to show you around, answer your questions, and then I’ll get you an application to fill out. I’ll even make sure to put it in Mrs. Moser’s hands personally, with my highest recommendation. Now, this is the pottery studio.” Pulling his keys from his pocket, he inserts one into the lock of the nearest door.

I follow him in, working hard to maintain my happy expression. I should be happy. I’m getting what I wanted. But I hate the way I got it.

He hasn’t even seen my art portfolio. It could be full of stick figure drawings and crude finger paintings for all he knows, and he’s planning to give me his “highest recommendation.” Not only could it turn out to be embarrassing for him, it feels like cheating to me.

I don’t want to be accepted into art school because I glamoured some poor guy’s brains out. I want to earn it—I want my art to speak for itself. I want him to give me an application, not a free pass.

After touring the classrooms and the gallery and stopping by the office for the forms, I follow Professor Gould to the exit doors.

“Thank you so much for the tour. I hope I haven’t made you late for anything.” It didn’t occur to me until just now that his kid could be having a recital tonight or something.

“No, no, my pleasure. And I wish you the best of luck. Like I said, whatever I can do to help.” He raises a finger. “Oh—I’m not sure why it didn’t occur to me before—long day I guess. I’ll need to see your portfolio before speaking to Mrs. Moser. Let me give you my email address and you can send me a zip file, okay?”

My heart lifts from the soles of my shoes and flies up through the top of my head. “Yes. Yes, of course. I’ll send it right away. Can’t exactly admit me without it, right?” I’m almost delirious with relief that the school will require proof of my talent before admitting me.

“Right” he agrees, and raises a hand in a goodbye gesture as I turn and practically skip down the sidewalk to the photography studio.

My steps slow as I reach the building and turn the corner to the front walk.

The car is there at the curb and my driver is pacing in front of it, phone to his ear.