I sat at the kitchen counter, eating chocolate pudding. It had been a few days since my phone call with my dad and a few days since Amber had said those things to me. But the anxious hole that she’d cut out of my chest with her vicious words was still there and still needed filling. It was so big and gaping that I knew nothing would fill it, though, certainly not chocolate. Things like chocolate only ended up making the hole deeper. After what she’d said to me, and the way she’d been watching me ever since, I’d avoided looking at Jake at school. I didn’t want to give her any more fuel to pour over my head, but it was hard to ignore him because we’d fallen into this habit of texting each other constantly. And pretending he didn’t exist at school would just be weird. But every time I looked at him, or spoke to him, a bolt of anxiety gripped me and I found myself looking around for Amber.
I looked up from the pudding cup. Zac was curled up on the couch, half-eaten dinner in front of him, watching TV, and my mother had headphones on while power walking on her treadmill. Every now and then I would hear a . . .
“I am bold. I am bright. I am beautiful.”
I watched her for a while, thinking about what Vicki had said. Was she just sad and lonely? Didn’t she trust the world around her? I thought about her lying in bed the other night, surrounded by tear-soaked tissues, but stopped when my phone suddenly rang. I jumped when I saw the caller ID. My heart thumped in my chest. This was it!
“Crap!” I knocked the chocolate pudding over my phone while trying to answer. “Craaap!” I grabbed a cloth and wiped my phone frantically.
“Crap, crap, crap!” Zac was on his feet, looking at me with concern.
“Shhh.” I raised my finger to my lips.
“Shhhhhh,” he shushed back at me, clearly unnerved by my outburst.
“I can’t, Zac. I can’t now. I need . . . Mom!” I yelled.
She didn’t reply. She’d turned up the speed on her treadmill. “Bold. Bright. Beautiful. Bold. Bright. Beautiful.” She swung her arms so hard that they looked like they would snap off at the elbows.
“Mom!” I yelled again.
“Mom! Mom! Mom!” Zac shouted. But still, she didn’t look up.
I grabbed my chocolate-smeared phone and raced for the guest toilet. I slammed the door behind me and sat on the floor with my back against the door.
“Lori!” Zac called as he banged on the door.
“Not now. Please,” I begged.
I took a deep breath and answered the phone. This must be good news. They said they would email us, but they were phoning me!
“Hi. Lori speaking.” I tried to sound like I hadn’t just locked myself in a toilet.
“Lori. Hi.” I recognized the voice immediately. The dean of Blackwell. I remembered her voice so clearly from my initial interview. She had this deep, husky voice, I was sure it was from smoking far too many cigarettes in dark, dusty, Parisian art studios. She’d studied art at the University of Paris in the ’60s—only the best art school in the world. Some years back I’d dreamt of studying there, too, but I’d given up on that—I couldn’t be that far away from Zac, especially with my mom the way she was.
“Hi. Imogen . . . um, Mrs. Blackwell, uh . . .” I stuttered.
“Imogen is fine,” she replied.
“Cool.”
“I wanted to call you and tell you that we’ve made our final selection for next year.”
“You have?” I tried to sound calm, despite the pounding in my chest.
“Yes. And I’m afraid, Lori, that we didn’t choose you.”
“Y-y-you didn’t?”
“Lori!” Zac screamed and banged on the door again.
I covered the receiver with my hand and banged back. “Stop it, Zac,” I hissed through the door.
“Everything okay?” Imogen asked.
“Yes. Sorry, baby brother, uh, I thought you were going to email us?”
“Well, we did email everyone else, but I wanted to talk to you personally.”
“Why?”
“The thing is, Lori, you’re an incredibly talented artist. And when this process began, none of us thought we wouldn’t be choosing you for next year.”
“So . . . why didn’t you?”
“You’re technically brilliant. Probably the most technically talented artist I’ve seen in years, but we all just felt that with your last painting, none of us knew who you were as an artist.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, the painting didn’t really have a voice.”
“A voice?” Why did I keep hearing this word?
“Yes. What are you the artist saying about the subject? What emotion are you trying to convey? We felt it was more like a photograph. We know that’s your particular style, but we just wanted to see something more from you. Something a little different.”
“Something with a voice,” I echoed.
“Exactly. We wanted to see work that had an opinion. That said something. Technique can be taught, but art is not about technique and perfection. It’s about what the artist is trying to convey with their work. Your portrait lacked that, making it feel unfinished.”
“Unfinished?” I repeated and wanted to cry. That’s because it was unfinished. Technically, I hadn’t painted what I’d set out to paint. My hand went moist and sweaty against the phone.
“Lori!” Zac banged on the door again.
“Do you have to go?” Imogen asked.
“Uh, no. I mean, yes . . . I don’t know. I . . .”
“We’re very sorry. We had really high hopes for you,” she said. “We still do. And we want you to reapply again next year. Perhaps take this year to think about what I said, and try and find your unique perspective and voice.”
“I don’t understand what you mean? I thought I had a voice, I thought I had a . . .” I tapered off. “What is a voice? Can you at least tell me what I have to do to get it?” I could hear the desperation in my voice now, and I hated it.
“A voice isn’t something you can explain, and I can’t tell you how to get one either. But it’s the thing that distinguishes a good painter from an artist.”
“And my worked lacked that?”
She sighed. “Yes.”
“Lori! Lori! Lori!” The banging on the door got louder.
“I’ve got to go,” I said quickly.
“I understand.” Imogen sounded sympathetic now. “I’m sure we’ll speak again.”
“Yes. No . . . sure . . . I . . . good-bye.” I put the phone down and felt my body move as Zac pushed at the door so hard that I jerked forward.
I stood up and swung the door open. “What?! What?! What?!” I screamed at him. “Can’t you see I’m busy? Can’t you see I needed a moment! Can’t you!!” I lost it. I could feel it all slipping away and as much as I wanted to reel it in, I couldn’t. The bottle was going to burst open and everything was going to explode out.
“Lori!” my mother yelled and rushed toward me.
“Lori, Lori,” Zac repeated urgently as he flapped his hands in the air.
“See what you’ve done!” My mother moved to Zac, but he swatted at her.
“Sorry . . . I . . .”
“You should be sorry. You should.” My mother tried to pull Zac into a bear hug, but he pushed her away. “Look what you’ve done, Lori!” She shook her head disapprovingly, as if I was the bad guy, and this made me furious. All the rage and sadness and frustration I’d been lugging around for so long, built inside me, like a growing tornado. Swirling, spinning, kicking up dust until . . . touch down. It collided with the ground, the bungee cord snapped, and the bloody bottle burst open.
“You know what . . .” I shouted back. “All I needed was two minutes to myself. Two! And I can’t ever get that. Is that too much to ask from you?” I pushed past my mother and rushed for the front door. Zac ran after me, and my mother pulled him back by his shirt.
“I was doing my exercises,” she called after me, trying to control the now-hysterical Zac.
“You’re always doing something, Mom,” I spat.
“Well, I’m very busy. I am running a company, and I’m trying to break into the market here, and I am trying to build my personal br—”
“Stop! Just stop.” I looked at her, tears in my eyes.
“Stop! Stop! Stop!” Zac broke free of my mom and rushed to the corner of the room, where he flung himself down.
My mother looked at Zac and then shook her head. Her eyes moved back to me, but she wasn’t really looking at me. Not really. She seemed to look through me. As if I was invisible. As if the things I said and did meant nothing. It broke my heart.
“Oh, and by the way. In case you care at all, that was Blackwell. I didn’t get in! Apparently, I don’t have a voice. But I’m pretty sure that suits you, since now I won’t be going off and I can stay here and help you around the house, grocery shop, look after Zac while you sell your fifty-million-rand home in bloody Constantia.”
“Bishopscourt,” my mother corrected.
“Sorry, what?”
“The house is in Bishopscourt.”
At that, I turned and left.
Things I Like about Myself by Lori Palmer
I’m a good sister.
I’m a real artist.
I, Lori Palmer, am officially good with parents!