Who wouldn’t be interested? I accepted the flyer she handed me and practically drooled over the amazing photograph of the Ponte Vecchio positioned front and center. I doused that flame and shook my head. “Unfortunately, I’m booked solid all summer. My loss.”
The lady put on a fake pout and then raised her eyebrows, waiting to find out why I was standing in front of her. “Actually, I’m hoping you wouldn’t mind if I leave some business cards and pens here for students to pick up. I recently launched a graphic design company, and thought some McIntosh students might find my services useful. For websites and portfolios.”
Her eyes narrowed. “So you aren’t a student here, then?”
I shook my head again. “No, I go to Henderson. My sister goes here though. She suggested I advertise here tonight.” A little white lie, but who knows, maybe Tilly would have encouraged my plans. Not that I would have told her. I gave the lady my best innocent face, my eyes wide and lip on the verge of trembling. “So is it okay?”
I was just about to up the ante and bat my eyelashes when she nodded, lips pursed in a line.
“I suppose it would be fine. I’m sure there are plenty of students looking for help with portfolios for college applications.”
I smiled and hauled the stuff out of my bag before she could change her mind or I could lose my nerve. It still didn’t sit well that I was keeping my graphic design business a secret from my dad, but he wasn’t here to tell anyway, and I definitely wasn’t going to tell Belén. I’d always felt she looked down her nose at my art, thought of it as favorable to something like 4-H but definitely not as good for my résumé as violin or tennis. I was perfectly happy allowing her to believe the Schmidts were paying me excessively to watch Maya and Kate. I arranged the business cards in a fan design and laid a small pile of pens horizontally at the base of the fan.
The woman picked up a card. “Well, aren’t these darling? I love the angel wings.”
“Thank you.”
“And TLC, that is just precious. Tender Loving Care, am I right?” Well, at least she didn’t reference the singing group.
“No, ma’am. It’s actually a play on my name.”
She inspected the card closer, looking for my name, which I’d left off to avoid my family catching on, and to also steer clear of any weirdos who might randomly find my site. “Ah. You said you do websites?”
“Yes, ma’am. And graphic design.”
She nodded and tucked my card into the back pocket of her mom jeans. “My daughter is just finishing ninth grade, but I’m going to keep you in mind for next year.”
I gave her that winning smile again. “Thank you very much. I’ll look forward to working with her.” I offered my hand to shake; it seemed like the right thing to do. She took it and shook it firmly.
“Nice to meet you, Miss TLC.”
“You too.” I gave her a little wave and walked away. At least I’d impressed one person.
I meandered aimlessly through the exhibits and found myself standing in front of a wall decorated with student-made event posters. They boasted things like poetry coffee houses, school plays, and concerts. Little placards were posted underneath, sporting a different name from the ones displayed on the posters. The artists. My face burned with jealousy. They were beautiful reminders of how much better my own work might have been at this point if I’d benefitted from the amazing teachers here. And yet, like a train wreck, I couldn’t stop looking, wishing I had something on display for all to see. Wishing I wasn’t forced to be at McIntosh to see all I missed out on. Wishing I wasn’t going to be missing out on even more this summer. Wishing things were different in a lot of ways.
I wish, I wish, I wish.
Anger rose in my chest, threatening to spill out in a scream, but I muffled it with a clamped jaw. With clenched fists, I slid along the wall of posters, the bright colors and swirly scripts blurring before my eyes.
“What do you think of that one?” I jerked my head to the left, surprised to find someone standing next to me. My eyes landed on a pair of green ones, the same color as sea glass. I blinked a couple of times before I realized he had asked me a question.
“I’m sorry, what?” I looked away quickly, my cheeks flushing with embarrassment.
He laughed, soft and low. “You okay there? I just asked what you thought of the poster.”
I jerked my head to where he was gesturing. The advertisement was for the jazz ensemble’s holiday concert, created by someone named Summer Smith. The gold font was big and showy, glittering like the photographs of the instruments themselves. Sparse snowflakes dotted the border. I nodded slowly.
“It’s nice work. There’s a definite theme, and it feels like a true collaboration between the artist and the musicians.” I smiled at my shoes.
“You have a good eye. One of my friends plays the trombone for that group; they worked for a week batting ideas back and forth with the designer.” The guy pointed to the next poster on the right. “And this one?”
I lifted my head and inspected it. This poster, by James Williams, wanted the viewer to attend a solo cello recital. It was stark—white with a black, androgynous stick figure and an outline of a cello between its straight-line legs. The spare words simply listed a time and place, and the name of the performer, Seamus Kipsang.
Frowning, I cocked my head to the side. “What kind of name is that? Wasn’t he Harry Potter’s friend?”
A musical laugh came from beside me. I shifted my eyes and took a minute to look him over. Wow. Maybe I should have done that first. The bright-green eyes were attached to a face with the most flawlessly perfect skin I’d ever seen—an exact match with tawny brown on Pantone’s color palette. He stood half a head taller than me, and his cheekbones gave John Legend a run for his money. I shoved my hands into the pockets of my dress, the warm metal in my right hand calming my nerves.
His left eyebrow lifted. “So, the poster? What are your thoughts?”
I managed to collect myself long enough to look back at the poster and consider the actual picture. “Right. It’s okay. A little boring. I might have added a little color somewhere. Maybe the performer’s name in red or something. I dunno, it doesn’t really move me. Or tell me anything about the performer. Honestly, it doesn’t make me want to go to the show.”
“Brutal,” he said, laughing. I shrugged, and the guy nodded. “Yeah, color would definitely make it stand out more.”
“Right? You want people to notice you and come to your performance.” I pointed to the poster to the right of the black-and-white one, this time for a duet ballet performance by Graham Lund and So Jung Ha. “Take that one. What jumps out at you?”