shop anymore, either.”
All this new information has my head spinning. “I like working at the coffee shop.”
“If you owned it, that would be one thing. You’re not working as a waitress. It’s beneath you.”
“It helps pay my bills. And the schedule is flexible so I can do my art—”
He leans towards me, holding up a finger. “End of discussion.”
Fat chance of that.
“I’m not quitting my job.” I jerk the door handle and slide out of his truck.
Just before I close the door, our eyes catch. Anger flashes in his, but I flash right back. I’m not afraid of Roberto. He’s my brother, and while we might not be close, we’re still family. He won’t hurt me.
“I’ll pick you up in an hour.”
“I’ll catch a ride like I always do.” My heart’s beating fast, but I’m doing my best to hold my ground.
“I’ll be here in an hour.”
“Let your inner child play.” Professor Roshay circles the small room, giving feedback as we work. “Relax… Set her free!”
Every year, one of Farrell Roshay’s students wins the Arthaus “Artist in Residence” award. It’s a massive, twenty-thousand-dollar gift that includes six months to create, culminating in a private show at the Palladium Gallery in downtown Dallas.
Uncle Antonio has helped me pay for these studio classes since I graduated from community college two years ago, and I want that award so badly, it hurts.
I’m standing in front of my latest piece, a four-foot canvas covered in energetic swirls of red-orange and coral with yellow and white, brown and forest green cast highlights and depth.
Rising above it all is a black charcoal outline of a horse with its tail fanning out. Its mane swirls up and around its powerful, bowed head. In the foreground is the rear and back legs flexing and stomping.
The horse is in a gallop, consumed in the colors like a cyclone.
I’m lost in the movement of the piece, a spiral curl falls onto my cheek, and I push it back, leaving a smudge of paint across my skin. I don’t care. My spirit is free, running wild, eating up the miles, chasing the sunset. I’ve shaken off the scars of my past. My fear is gone, and I can do anything I want. I’m invincible.
“Angelica!” Professor Roshay stops behind me, holding out her arms. “I feel the energy radiating from this piece. Tell me what you’ve done here.”
My breath catches. We have two classes left before graduation, and every piece, every class feeds into consideration for the award. Every interview is a judgement, every answer a step closer or a strike back.
Swallowing my nerves, I ignore the smear of paint on my face, the messiness of my hair, and I speak from my heart. “I’m calling it Spirit. The horse is the spirit of the west, but he can also be the spirit of the viewer. He’s a mustang, free to run the grasslands, swept up in the fire of the desert, the glow of the setting sun.”
“I see it. Now tell me about your technique.”
My heart is beating so hard—deep breaths… “I knew the colors and the movement of the sketch would dominate the canvas. For the highlights, I wanted to do something special. I dipped my fingers in the paint and made these smudges, these glows around the nose and jaw with my hands.”
“Finger painting?” Her eyebrow arches, and my stomach drops. “A primitive and unexpected choice.”
“It felt right.”
She nods, taking a few steps, tapping her finger against her lips. “Inventive. I like it.”
I swallow the squeal bubbling in my throat, and answer calmly. “Thank you.”
She continues down the row, and I close my eyes, fighting tears. Spirit is one of my favorite pieces. I can’t wait to show it to Deacon. I can’t wait for Uncle Antonio to see it. I’ll include it in my portfolio when I apply for the award.
“Our time is at an end.” Professor Roshay claps, and it’s the signal to clean up. “Our last meeting is next week, then the Arthaus application opens online. Good luck.”
I float through cleaning and wrapping my brushes, stowing my palette, wiping the paint off my face, and head out the door with a smile on my lips, visions of winning that coveted award in my head. Not even my scowling brother in his truck can dampen my mood. He’s on the phone the entire drive to Valeria’s small house, so it doesn’t matter.
“Beto!” Valeria’s happy cry echoes through the tiny house as we enter. “You’re here!”
She’s in the