Surveying the intense beauty of it all only reiterated my disappointment that it was a school I could never afford.
Unless I won this contest.
A part of me was glad that the terror of the attack led me here. I wasn’t sure I would have entered the contest otherwise. But thinking too much on that only caused the panic to rise up in me again, so I pushed it aside.
The flyer stated that applications were to be turned in at the admissions office, so I glanced at the posted campus map and headed in that direction. Passing by other students buzzing about, talking excitedly, I imagined them discussing their designs or a particularly great teacher or . . . anything. The potential of it all gave me a momentary glimpse of what my life could be like.
If I hadn’t murdered someone.
Block. Blocking the thought and detaching.
Detach.
Breathe.
Good.
Grabbing the large silver door handle attached to one of the two ten-foot-high oak doors, I swung it open and walked down the hallway until I reached the admissions door and stopped.
This door was much plainer with respect to the rest of the campus. It was quite ordinary, blond wood, school logo, and shiny silver doorknob.
A turn of that knob and my path was set.
My hand began to shake uncontrollably.
Breathe.
Bringing up my trembling hand, I opened the door and entered the admissions office. There was a large leather couch and chair that faced the receptionist, who sat behind an enormous oak desk.
I could do this.
Nervously, I walked up to the receptionist, who was a beautiful woman with a planned messy bun and clothes that appeared to be casual but were perfectly placed to give the impression that she just naturally looked put together. My T-shirt and jeans weren’t cutting it at the moment, especially for a fashion institute.
Acknowledging me as I approached her desk, the woman grinned in a way that said I’m really busy. What do you want? But what came out of her mouth was, “May I help you?”
I jumped back when her face morphed into my attacker from the alley.
As quickly as her face changed, it changed back, but now she glared at me with confusion. “Are you all right?” she asked.
Regaining my composure, I stuttered, “Um . . . sorry . . . is this where you enter the fashion contest?”
“Yes, hold on one minute.” She opened a drawer and pulled out a form. “Fill that out. Do you have your portfolio?”
Nodding, I pulled my backpack from my shoulders.
“Perfect. Attach it to the form and turn it in here when you’re done.” The receptionist handed me a large clipboard.
Taking it, while now trying to balance holding my bag by the straps, was an ordeal, but once I had everything situated, I sat down on the leather couch.
Relieved to see that the application was only a page, I reached into my backpack and pulled out a pen to fill it out. My eyes briefly glanced at the window behind the receptionist.
My attacker stood outside, staring at me.
I closed my eyes, then opened them quickly.
He was gone.
Focus.
Fill out the form.
Luckily, a young woman walked into the office to distract me and approached the receptionist. “Hi. Could I get the application form for the fashion contest?”
“Of course,” the receptionist said and handed her the form.
Plopping down next to me, the girl pulled out her portfolio to get it ready to turn in.
I gulped.
It was stunning.
As in, professional-level drawings that looked like they came from a top designer.
I finished the application and pulled out my own portfolio. They were child’s drawings compared to the girl next to me.
I can’t do this.
The exit door called to me, telling me to bolt.
As I was about to make a run for it, Emma from Jane Austen’s book appeared at the door, standing in front of it.
“Don’t even think about it. You’re entering this contest.” Emma eyed me sternly.
I shook my head, panicked.
“Yes, you are. Now get up and hand that application in with your drawings.” Emma pointed to the receptionist with an air of command.
Taking another deep breath, I nodded, standing.
My legs ripped from the leather couch in a loud tearing sound.
Yup.
Flushed from embarrassment, I handed the receptionist my application that I attached to my portfolio. “Sorry,” I said, though I had no grounds to be, but making a noise that sounded like a loud fart seemed like a good reason for an apology.
Before either woman responded, I hurried out of the office.
Once outside, it truly hit me.
I did it.
I entered the contest.
I was both elated and terrified. Now all I had to do was finish the dress for the pop-up fashion show on Thursday.
Which I hadn’t even cut out the fabric for.
Which was a huge gown that would take hours of work.
Well, I said I needed a distraction. This would definitely fit the bill.
As I left the building, I noticed an art supply store next to the campus. I still had some time to spare before I’d be late for work, so I rushed over there and picked up some supplies for Hank. Not having a lot of money, I ended up buying an acrylic paint bundle, a couple different brushes (the cheaper ones; I had no idea paintbrushes cost so much!), and a small twelve-inch by twelve-inch canvas.
After purchasing the items, I stuffed them in my bag, raced to the bus station, and managed to catch the bus as it pulled up. Only a short time later I arrived at the bookstore, putting my bag in the locker, the meals in the fridge and arrived at the front counter with a wave to Josh.
Waving back, Josh opened his mouth as if he was about to say something when Rachel walked up, holding a framed picture in her hand. “Got your
