Page 33 of Score
“I’m fine.”
“You taking your medication?” Aunt Grace probes, the compassion, but also the gentle firmness she believes it takes to “handle me,” clear in her voice.
“Yeah.” I sigh. “Every day.”
“Remember they have resources on campus,” Aunt Grace adds. “People there you can talk to if—”
“I gotta go,” I say abruptly.
“Wait!” Aunt Roz all but shouts. “We love you, Vee Tee.”
The childhood nickname brings to mind Aunt Roz and my mother pushing me on the tire swing in our front yard, summer days of picking cherries and bicycle rides on country dirt roads.
“I know you do,” I say, swallowing my tears. They saw too many ofthose last year. “But please don’t worry about me. I feel better than I have in a long time. Certainly better than I did back in Cali.”
Days of not showing up for class. Days when I couldn’t get out of bed. Days with no shower, no food. No energy. Failing grades. Dark thoughts that drove me back to Georgia. I haven’t told anyone at Finley about the debilitating depression that ruined my junior year at USC. I’d never experienced anything like it before, and with medication, it feels like such a distant memory. I don’t want to revisit that bewildering chapter of my life. I’m writing something new here, but sometimes it feels like my aunts won’t let me turn the page. Walking across the campus, where I’ve found my fresh start and someone like Monk, I feel downright euphoric, but they’re trying to kill my vibe.
“Before you hang up,” Aunt Grace says, her tone deliberately brighter, “don’t forget we’re putting money in your account next week to cover the first part of your tuition. They did work with you on a payment plan, right?”
“Um, yeah.” Guilt twists my gut. It’s a double helix. The first strand is guilt that they’re allotting money I know they can’t spare for my education on their modest income from the small store they own together. And the second is for snapping at them when I know they simply love me and are concerned.
“And financial aid is giving you an extension on the balance?” Aunt Roz presses.
“Yeah,” I say, slowing my pace as I cut through the arboretum. “I didn’t mean to sound ungrateful. I know I blew a full scholarship at USC. I don’t want you spending all your money on me. I could try to—”
“Hush now,” Aunt Roz chides gently. “We’re family and we take care of each other. Ya hear me?”
I nod, blinking back tears. Aunt Roz never hesitated when my parents died. She took me in and gave me a home even more stable than the one that had burned to the ground.
“Yes, ma’am.” I sniff and swipe under my nose. “I hear you.”
“Good.” Aunt Roz’s smile reaches across the line. “That moneyshould show up next week. And we look forward to meeting this Thelonious boy.”
I don’t even bother to correct her, but grin through the last of my tears.
“Sounds good.” I glance at my phone to check the time. Even later than I’d thought. “Hey, I really gotta go. I’m running behind for class.”
“We love you,” they say in unison.
“Love you, too.”
Once I disconnect the call, I shift my backpack to the center of my spine and pick up the pace. Professor Rollins does not tolerate tardiness, and I think he has it out for me. The misogyny on that man goes back generations. Or maybe it’s that I’m a transfer from USC. He seems to assume I think I’m the shit because I was in that program, one of the most prestigious film schools in the country. If only he knew how lucky I feel to be here. To bealive. If only he knew Finley saved my life in more ways than one.
I dash up the stone steps of the fine arts building and rush through the double doors. My class is on the third floor, and even though I’m running late, my feet detour to the exhibit hall. For some reason, even on days when I don’t have a class here, I find myself standing in front of Chap Brody’sFlamesculpture. The hall is empty, but the sculpture seems to take up the entire space. I don’t even realize I’ve walked over to it, huddling close as if it’s an actual flame on the coldest of nights.
“Glad to see you enjoying the exhibit, Ms. Hill,” Dr. Garrison says from the entrance.
Startled, I turn, my eyes meeting the professor’s.
“Sorry.” I cross the room to get to the door. “I was just looking, but I’m running late. I better go.”
“It’s nice to see someone appreciate Brody’s art.” Dr. Garrison nods to the sculpture. “Come by anytime to see it.”
I glance back at the copper installation. I don’t know how to tell her it’s not appreciation that draws me to that piece every time I’m in this building. I can’t articulate it, but it’s the opposite.
I hate it, but I have to see it.
Every time I stand before it, irritation bubbles to the surface. When I stand close, my skin feels hot and prickly. I know it’s my imagination, but I can never shake the sense that one day, thisthingthat Chap Brody made will set me on fire.
