Chapter Four
Chloe
Group critiques.
My least favorite part of the art classes. I need more critique in my life like I need a knife to the
heart.
I try to pretend their words don’t hurt, but they do.
I bite my tongue and shake it off.
They don’t know that this isn’t all I have to offer. They don’t know that my entire body is a canvas
of torment and my hands could paint a picture that would move them to tears.
They only see me as I want them to see me. The optical illusion.
Mediocrity.
I try to tell myself that it isn’t true. That I can do better. That there is hope.
But it’s hard to cling to that notion when I am the only person who has ever seen it.
“I just feel like you keep creating the same piece over and over,” Emily notes. “Only a different
version.”
I wait for Mr. Vaughn to speak. To offer his insight. To jump in and defend my honor. But his eyes
are simply on my face. Watching for a reaction.
I shrug my shoulder, which is the best I can do in these circumstances. It doesn’t matter. None of it
matters. Until he speaks, and then everything matters a whole awful lot.
“I’m inclined to agree.”
That knife I was thinking about earlier? It’s there, lodged in my heart now. And I can’t bring myself
to look at him.
Of course he would agree.
He’s the greatest artist I’ve ever known. A creator unlike any other in this room. In this entire
campus, or even in this country.
The world probably won’t see another Keller Vaughn for decades. Maybe even centuries.
And I had expected him to be impressed with this hot mess on a canvas?
There is pressure in my face. Behind my eyes, specifically.
God, if my father could see me now. Nearly crying over some paint on a canvas.
In the end, I am his daughter. So I hold it together. Like a good little soldier. Blocking out the rest of