On an Edge of Glass

by Autumn Doughton

  I shake her hand. It’s bony and cool. “It’s nice to meet you. I’m Ellie Glass.”

  “And Ms. Glass, what do you have to show me?” She nods her head to the portfolio.

  My stomach clenches. “You want to look right now?”

  Michaela’s eyebrows lift. “There’s no time like the present. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

  My movements are shaky, uneven. I’m not really sure how to do this. Do I open my portfolio on the desk? I look around the office.

  “The desk,” Michaela suggests gently understanding my consternation. I wonder just how obvious it is that I’ve never done this before. I feel my chances getting slimmer and slimmer by the second.

  I hoist the portfolio onto the black surface of the desktop. I fumble the snap and Michaela has to help me with it.

  There, spread out in two distinct halves, is my heart made into thin sheets of glossy paper.

  I pay attention to the way that Michaela breathes as her eyes move through the pictures. The slightest change in the pattern of her breath causes my insides to twist tighter. She pauses on the photo I’ve included of Ainsley, her slender finger tracing the outline of Ainsley’s lovely face. I’ve captured my friend in profile—head bent, backlit by the sun, wisps of blonde hair floating over the bridge of her nose.

  Next, with her neck held at an awkward angle, Michaela looks at the photo I took the night of my first date with Ben. It’s the largest of the grouping. He’s standing in the doorway of my bedroom with his hands crossed over his chest. His head is tipped forward. His smile is thin, enigmatic. Even like this—stilled on paper—his eyes are so full of passion that they crack me in half.

  “This boy,” Michaela says, her index finger pointed at the photograph. “He’s the same as in these other two.”

  “Yes,” I say and shift my weight, hoping that my voice doesn’t give me away.

  Michaela looks up. Her large eyes drill into me. Finally she asks, “Do you have a title for the collection yet?”

  I clear my throat. “I do.”

  Her eyebrows lift in expectation.

  “Starstuff,” I say.

  “Hmmm…” She turns back to the photos on her desk. “This is a large grouping of photos. Mostly, I’ve been choosing one or two to pull and use for the exhibit.”

  “But, they go together. As a collection, this is a story. Apart you don’t really get that, do you?” I cringe at how pompous I sound even to my own ears.

  Michaela’s eyes crinkle. She shakes her head. “No you don’t.” She pauses, touches another photo. “Are you a student? I don’t recognize you from any of my classes.”

  “Yes, I’m a student. I’ll be graduating this May.”

  “And your major?”

  “Pre-law,” I say, biting the inside of my lip.

  Laughter burbles out of her. “I didn’t see that one coming.” She looks at the photos one more time, then sideways at me. “I’ll be in touch soon Ms. Glass.”

  That’s my cue. I thank Michaela and cross to the door. Her voice stops me.

  “Do you mind if I ask what inspired you?” She asks.

  I think about it. I let the beats settle inside of me. They make up one word: “Love.”

  “What do you think the odds are?” Ainsley asks. She’s got her feet propped on the low coffee table so that Mark can paint her toenails.

  I shake my head lightly. “I’m not sure. It’s not like I had a chance to look over any other submissions. Michaela just said that she’d ‘be in touch soon,’ whatever that means.”

  “Well…” Mark pauses and wipes away excess lavender nail polish from Ainsley’s big toe with his thumb. “The exhibit is a week from Saturday so I assume you’ll hear from her one way or the other in the next day or two.”

  “Yeah, probably.” I let my head fall against the couch.

  Ainsley grabs my wrist. “Hey! Even if your photos don’t get chosen, at least you tried, right?”

  “And that’s more than a lot of bitches can say,” Payton adds, grabbing hold of my other wrist.

  I’m not sure if I’m supposed to be pleased or offended. I laugh. “Umm… Thanks?”

  The University Symphony has out of town performances tonight and tomorrow in Richmond, so it’s just Mark and us girls here at the house. Mark asked us what we wanted to do and Payton held up her chipped nails and suggested manicures all around. Ainsley is being a daredevil with her choice of lavender nail polish. Payton’s pulling no punches with midnight blue and a topcoat of bright pink glitter. And I’ve picked out a subdued shade of grey.

  “Grey?” Mark looks appalled when I pass him the small bottle. “Why do you even have grey nail polish?”

  “It’s not that bad,” Payton defends. “I think that I bought to go with some outfit.”

  “Were you dressed as a hobo? Because otherwise, I think there are like five hundred thousand other colors that are more suitable.”

  “Dude,” Payton says dryly and then glances back to the text she’s typing out on her phone.

  Mark looks at me. “I’m just saying that I think you should pick a shade that’s more fun.” He picks up a bottle of neon pink polish. “Like maybe this color.” When I lift one side of my mouth up in a grimace, he sets it down and grabs another bottle. It’s an obnoxious shade of orange. “This is Mango Madness. Who wouldn’t want to have that on their fingernails?”

  “Me. I don’t want that horrible color anywhere on my person.”

  Mark frowns.

  “Why does it even matter?” Payton interjects with her eyes on Mark.

  Mark looks at her and then at me. His face is serious. “I just want Ellie to be happy and this color isn’t going to get her there.”

  I roll my eyes. “Fine. But not the orange.”

  He grins. “Okay, what about…” He sifts through the glass bottles in the plastic bin at his feet and pulls out an iridescent blue shade. “Starry Starry Night?”

  “Deal,” I say and stick out my right hand.

  I don’t really expect to hear anything about the exhibition until Monday, but Michaela calls me on Sunday afternoon while I’m reading through my notes for school and watching reruns of Family Feud.

  “All of them?” I ask the question for a third time.

  I can almost hear her smile through the phone. “Yes, Ms. Glass. All of them. I told you that I’m very impressed with your work.”

  “Wow! I-I’m—”

  “Hopefully you’re about to say that you’re thrilled and will be able to come by the gallery on Tuesday and again on Friday to help out with the placement of your photographs.”

  “Of course! Just let me know what times I need to be there.”

  “I’ll be sending out an email with that information to all of our artists shortly.”

  I thank Michaela a hundred times. I’m bubbling over. So much so that, with a note of exasperation in her voice, she finally says, “Ms. Glass, I’m not the one that took your beautiful photographs. If you need to express your gratitude, thank yourself or one of the subjects of the collection.”

  “I will. And I’ll see you at the Pratt Gallery on Tuesday.”

  I bounce out of my bedroom, calling for Payton and Ainsley. “Girls! Girls! You aren’t going to believe it!”

  “Is everything okay?”

  I turn. It’s Ben. He’s standing in the kitchen eating cold pizza off of a paper plate. His long hair is rumpled and hanging in his face. His eyes are dark with concern. “Is everything okay?” He repeats.

  “Yeah, it’s fine. I-I didn’t know that you were back. How was Richmond?” I ask, catching my breath. I don’t know why I’m so surprised to see him—he does, in fact, live here. It’s just, the way things have been recently, we haven’t interacted much. And, with my revelation about the way that I feel about him, things are…

  “Different,” he says, and for a second I think that I’ve spoken aloud. Then I realize that he is simply answering my question. “I actually met a guy who plays in th
e San Francisco Symphony and he told me that they have a cello chair opening up. He set up a remote audition for me.”

  “Wow. San Francisco? That’s really ummm… far.” I’m stumbling over my words.

  “We’ll see. I’m sure that there are tons of cellists applying and I’d have to nail the audition.”

  “I’m sure that you will.”

  He smiles and it’s like a fan to the fire that’s burning inside of me. My heart skips. It bounces. It dances.

  “Have you seen Ainsley or Payton around?” I ask quickly, not trusting myself to manage much else. I’m a ball of nerves.

  Ben looks disappointed. “I don’t think they’re home. Do you need something?”

  “No.” I start to turn away then think better of it. I have to do this sometime. “Actually, I do have some news to share.”

  Ben’s eyes widen and he sets his plate on the counter. “Did you hear back from other law schools?”

  I squint, confused for a second. “Yeah, I did actually. I’m deciding between a school in New York and one in Boston. But, that’s not my news.”

  “Oh?”

  I take a large gulp of air. “Remember that flyer you gave me last month for the photography exhibit? Well, I ended up submitting some of my photos.”

  Ben takes a step closer. “You did? That’s great Ellie.”

  “Yeah, thanks. Ummm… So, the thing about it is that my photographs were chosen and they’re going to be in the exhibit.”

  His mouth drops open. “That’s wonderful. I’m really proud of you for putting your work out there. I know that it’s hard.”

  I shake my head. “Well, I wouldn’t have done it if not for you, so thanks.”

  “What pictures did you submit?”

  I chew on my bottom lip. “Let’s just say that I took your advice.”

  Ben cocks his head. “Oh yeah? And what advice was that?”

  I lean back against the wall for balance. “You told me to take photos of what I care about,” I say, stretching my fingers along my thighs. Before Ben can ask me to clarify, I spit out the words that I need to say. “And, I’d really like you to come, if you can.”

  “Of course I’ll be there. When is it?” He hedges even closer to me. My body tingles.

  “Saturday night.”

  “This Saturday?”

  “Yeah, at the Pratt Gallery downtown from eight to ten.”

  Ben pauses then he tucks his hair behind his ears and grins. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Paper Promises

  Over the next week, I go through the gamut of emotions: excitement, dread, worry, frenzy, dreaminess. You name it, I experience it.

  When I first came up with this implausible idea over a week ago, I wanted a lot of things, but there were so many obstacles that I wasn’t sure any of those things would actually pan out. Now that wanting is meeting up with getting head-on, I’ll admit that I’m on the verge of a major freak out. What if Ben shows up and sees my collection and he doesn’t connect the dots? Or what if he does connect the dots and he still doesn’t want to be with me?

  Then what do I have?

  Rejection. That’s what.

  It’s like this huge, dark cloud looming over me. But, I’ve let that kind of fear control me before and I’m through with it. It’s one of the ways that Ainsley says that I’m becoming a better person. At least, that’s what she told me last night while we were in my room deciding how I should do my hair for the exhibit.

  “You are,” she insisted vehemently as she twisted my hair back into a low chignon.

  I rolled my eyes. “Well thanks. I guess that after Columbia and everything else, it’s like, what do I have left to lose?”

  “It’s not that, Ellie. You still have a lot left to lose,” she said with authority. “But you’ve changed, and it’s for the better. It’s almost like you’ve decided that you’d rather be scared and end up feeling kind of stupid than miss out on the good stuff.”

  I’ll admit that this didn’t exactly provide me with a sense of comfort.

  The exhibit is tonight. Mark and I arrive downtown thirty minutes early so that I can go over final staging with Michaela and have my picture taken with the rest of the night’s featured photographers.

  Mark parks his car in the back of the gallery between a dark green dumpster and a massive black pick-up truck with tinted windows. Protecting my brand new high heels, I have to dodge a giant pothole that’s filled with mucky water and a handful of scattered, empty aluminum cans.

  “Could you have found a more terrible place to park?”

  Mark flares his nostrils. “Sorry, but I didn’t get the memo that wearing high heels and a sexy dress transforms my best pal into a prima donna.”

  I glance down. By either a stroke of stupidity, or one of genius, I am wearing Payton’s long-sleeved green dress—the same one that I wore the night that Ben and I fought. I cringe. “Do you think this dress was a mistake?”

  Mark stops walking. “No, I don’t. You look fabulous Ellie-bear, and you’re going to blow everyone—including Benjamin Hamilton—away.” He grabs my elbow and pulls me into his side. “Now let’s go find some of those delicious tiny, dough-covered sausages to eat.”

  Eight o’clock comes and goes. No Ben. Eight thirty. No Ben. By nine, I’m resigned.

  “I can’t believe this shit!” Payton exclaims as she pops a sweet and sour meatball into her mouth.

  “He might still come,” Ainsley says hopefully, rubbing my upper arm gently and shooting daggers in Payton’s direction.

  I turn to her and smile sadly. The back of my eyes sting and my nose is starting to tingle—both are sure signs that tears aren’t far away. “He probably just forgot or something.”

  “It’s his loss,” Mark chides, looking up at my collection. “These all turned out incredible. I kind of can’t believe that you’re so good at this, Ellie.”

  “You’ve seen these exact photos before,” I remind him.

  “I know that I have.” Mark shakes his head. “But not like this.”

  It’s true. Michaela must know what she’s doing because even I’ll admit that the collection looks wonderful. My parents have been telling anyone that will listen that it was their idea to get me that first camera back in middle school. Brian and Pam Glass, attorneys at law, showed up to the gallery promptly at eight, as per my invitation. They’ve proven to be far more supportive than I anticipated. And when I mentioned that I’m looking into the possibility of studying environmental law next year, my mom barely batted her eyelashes.

  See, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately. And I’ve come to the conclusion that I do want to go to law school, but maybe I won’t become a corporate attorney like my parents. I’ve decided to keep my options open and stay away from a plan for awhile.

  I shake my head. Right now they’re engrossed in a discussion with Adam Pratt, the gallery owner, about the legal process of franchising.

  “You’re collection is beautiful, dear.” A woman, with watery grayish eyes is speaking to me. The man next to her has long chin hairs and a bulbous nose.

  I nod. “Thank you very much.”

  “What’s the title?”

  “Starstuff.”

  “Hmmm.”

  I watch as they wander into the next room of the gallery. Starstuff. It’s an homage to my first date with Ben and a bit of truth. Because, like Carl Sagan said, these people—the ones that make my world go round—really are made up of the same stuff as stars.

  There are seven pictures in total. All outlined in chunky stark white mats and framed in a thin band of brushed silver. If you start left to right, the one of Ainsley, caught in profile and backlit by the sun, is positioned first. In the photograph, a small, secretive smile is drawing up the corners of her mouth and puckering her eyes.

  The second photo is one that I took of Payton. It’s a close-up of the lower part of her face as she applies lipstick in a small circular m
irror. In the foreground, her eclectic collection of jewelry is spread out on the top of her dresser.

  Next, there’s a photo that I took over the Thanksgiving break of my mom and dad. They are in the kitchen of our D.C. house. Stilled in time, my parents stand opposite each other, their torsos bent forward over the dark granite of the kitchen island. They’re both in their work clothes and talking on their cell phones, but they’re relaxed, sharing a smile as my mom pours out two glasses of red wine and my dad loosens his tie with his left hand.

  The fourth picture is one that I took last week of Mark. He’s sitting on the wooden top of our favorite bench in the sun-filled Quad and he’s leaning back, his hands clasped and slightly out of focus. I’ve captured the moment when his mouth is opening while his eyes close on a laugh.

  The last three photographs are all of Ben. There’s him playing his cello in an empty classroom the week of winter exams, and one of him fingering the bass guitar on stage with Accidental Sweet Tea, all sweaty and incredible. And, of course, the photo that I took at the end of our first official date.

  I blink and let my eyes refocus. I know without anyone telling me, that each picture of Ben is somehow incredibly intimate. It’s the equivalent of me hiring one of those skywriting planes to declare my feelings in white smoke to everyone standing below. And with Ben being a no-show, it sort of seems like having my chest cut open and my beating heart pulled out and left, exposed and bleeding out on the cold marble floor.

  I squeeze my eyes shut and turn away. I trap my breath in my lungs and hold it there before releasing it through my teeth. When I open my eyes it takes me several seconds to put everything together. I blink once, then twice, then a third time.

  Ben is here.

  He’s centered in the threshold of the gallery hall staring at my photographs. He’s wearing a plain white button-down shirt under a tailored black jacket. Dark corduroy pants cover his long, lean legs. Everything fits him in exactly the right places. His chocolate brown hair is loose, brushing his shoulders. He’s clean-shaven