“How did it not hurt that much when it happened?!” I exclaimed, touching the bandage carefully.
“You ever been cut before? A sharp knife doesn’t feel like anything,” she explained. “I’m surprised she kept it sharp — my boyfriend is always gettin’ on my case about sharpening our knives after I use them, but it’s such a pain, you know? I’ve got better things to do with my time…”
She continued to babble, her chatter soothing this time.
I took another look at the huge bandage on my neck in the mirror, my mind circling one singular thought:
Luke was going to kill me.
Luke
The sound of sirens outside echoed through the halls of Parsons.
I twitched.
Could that be trouble with Adam? Would he be okay?
Shifting my weight so I could carry my supply bag with one hand, I plucked my phone out of my pocket.
The screen was blank.
The nervousness quivered deep in my stomach as I felt my all-consuming fear plunge through me.
That quiver was always a canary in a coal mine; it was a threat from my brain saying, you need to get your shit together, or I’m going to make you pay.
I tucked my phone back into my pocket with a frown.
As I walked down the bright, open hallway, the other students blurred out of focus as I fixated on Adam. I knew that he couldn’t get to his personal phone when he was on the job, but it put me in the dark. It left me waiting nervously in anticipation, wondering if he was okay.
I didn’t know if he was hurt; I didn’t know if he was dead.
He could be dead right now, and I wouldn’t know.
Again, my brain whipped up images of handsome, manly cop-Adam spread out on a gurney. Only this time, the memory of that Russian Tarot reader came to the forefront of my mind to reinforce it.
She’d pulled that jester card and said I was at the beginning of something; to enjoy it while it lasts.
My fingers began to flutter at my sides as my steps quickened toward my classroom.
Could it be possible? Was Adam hurt or dead?
No… there was something inside of me that felt like if Adam died, I’d be able to feel it somehow. There had to be some sort of intuitive sense that would tell me.
He couldn’t just disappear… right?
I hurried into the classroom, already a bag of sizzling nerves.
What most people didn’t think about mental illness was accessibility. All of these people with perfectly healthy brains could just waltz on into this classroom and pick a seat wherever they wanted.
But I had severe anxiety, and the anxiety demanded that I sit close to the door. In case I had a panic attack, I needed to be able to dash out of the classroom at a moment’s notice.
And I already felt the tingling sensation threatening in my fingertips.
When I sat in the stool next to the door, I spread out my supplies on the flat desk in front of me, trying to concentrate on breathing. I organized the scissors, the compass, the swatches of fabric, and my drawing pad into a neat grid.
Sorting everything where I could see it gave me a slight sense of control.
That kept my anxiety at bay for now.
Professor King entered the room, carrying an aura of power. She must have just come from a meeting with the administration.
There was no, “Hi, how are you, class?” There was no, “How did you all sleep last night?” or any of the pleasantries of the sort.
Without any of the usual nonsense greetings, she jumped straight to the point like a typical New Yorker.
There was only a sharp gaze at the ten students scattered throughout the space and a short, “Today we will be working on themed work. By the end of the class, you will all have a theme.”
“Wasn’t this going to be a semester-long project?” A mousy girl in the back asked.
“Not anymore,” Professor King quipped as if the closing of her mouth on that last syllable was closing a box of hope. “You will pick themes today, and by the end of the class, you will be locked in for the rest of the semester.”
“But what about Nell? She isn’t here today,” another girl in the class piped up.
“She’s out of luck, my dear,” Professor King quipped. “This is why we have a zero-tolerance policy for tardiness or attendance.”
“That’s not school-wide, that’s just you,” a sassy gay from the back said.
“Right. And this is how I choose to run my classroom. This is what the fashion industry is like — it’s not fair, it’s not reasonable, and it can change the rules on you at any time.”
“I’m going to report you to the dean!” the sassy gay threatened.
“See if I give a hoot,” Professor King fired back.
I watched as he cowed down under her thumb.
“Any more protests? The clock is ticking,” she reminded us, glancing at her watch. “You have two hours and fifty-four minutes to come up with themes, drawings, and color pallet. Go.”
The class stared at her, mouths agape.
“GO!” she cried.
A fire lit up inside of me, but it wasn’t due to my anxiety. If anything, the monster seemed farther away than ever.
I was in my element. I knew exactly what to do. Even with the time limit, it felt like more of a challenge than a limitation.
I could do this. I knew at my core that I could.
Diving into my supply bag, I pulled out the tarot deck I’d bought at that Russian florist’s store. I’d been thinking about the anachronous art style on them, a cog in my mind whirling away with ideas on how I’d turn them into designs.
And then I began to draw.
As soon as my pencil touched the paper, I was in the zone. It was like I was in a trance, and time slipped by without making a single sound.
I was focused; I was on. This was
