Designing Morgan

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Designing Morgan Page 2

by Lucey Phillips


  I wanted to get started on my application, but I needed to step away from the computer before a full-blown panic attack set in. I decided to hop on my bike and head over to the campus registrar’s office; maybe I could at least get the transcripts thing squared away today.

  Laurel Highlands University is in the very charming Pennsylvania town of Fairmont Springs. I’d attended Laurel Highlands for my bachelor’s degree and was so charmed, so at home in this artsy college town, that I decided not to move away after graduation. With Sophie being here and our business doing so well, I wasn’t ready to even consider leaving. So Laurel Highlands was really my only option for my next degree.

  I got on my cruiser bike, a yellow fixie with white fenders and big cushy tires, and started the fifteen minute ride toward campus. Fairmont Springs was magical this time of year. All the little bungalow houses on my block had flowers and huge, full fern plants on their porches. On Central Avenue, the bookshops, bakeries, boutiques, and cafes had colorful “open” and “welcome” banners waving in the early fall breeze.

  Across town, the university campus was as pretty as always with 150 year old brick buildings and newer ones designed to fit in with the historic atmosphere. From the hilltop campus, I could see the wide, rolling valley and tree-covered hills on the other side. The trees were lush and green.

  I still came to campus regularly to see new exhibits in the Morris Fine Arts Gallery. Every time I was here I felt a pang of longing for my college days. At the time, I thought I was so stressed out with projects and assignments and exams. But now I can see that those days were really carefree. I never thought about bills or home repairs or even where I would eat my next meal.

  I locked my bike and went into Wright Hall. The registrar’s office was practically deserted. There was a cute guy, probably my age, behind the counter. He was wearing a striped bow tie. He had the typical hipster haircut of the day—clipped close on the sides and longer on top with plenty of shiny product. He wore black-framed glasses like Sophie’s. They were sort of the uniform in college towns.

  “Hi, what can I do for you?” the man asked me.

  Suddenly I drew a blank on exactly what I wanted to ask for. Thank you, social anxiety.

  “Um. Well. I got my bachelor’s degree here?”

  He looked at me expectantly.

  “And. So. I’m going to apply to the MFA program. Well probably. Still kind of thinking it over,” I said. “So, yeah. I wanted to see about getting my transcripts released to the MFA admissions department.”

  He smiled. It was beautiful. This man could star in a toothpaste commercial.

  “Ok, sure,” he said, and started clicking on his computer. “Do you remember your student ID?”

  I told him my number and took a deep breath, grateful he wasn’t openly annoyed by my awkward stammering. I tried to lean casually on the counter, as if everything was normal. As if I wasn’t being an anxious nutcase over this simple interaction.

  The man tilted his head sideways and pressed his lips together tightly. It was an apologetic expression. Or maybe it was an “oops, you’re pathetic” expression.

  “It looks like they have a hold on your transcripts,” he said.

  I could feel my cheeks start to get warm. “Oh, ok,” I said as I reached in my pocket for my debit card. This was great. I love it when handsome men get the impression that I’m a deadbeat.

  He clicked a few more times on his keyboard. “It’s from the safety office. Probably a parking ticket. They love to hunt people down for those.”

  “That’s the man, for ya. Always coming down on us,” I said.

  He laughed a little louder and longer than my quip probably deserved. I appreciated the effort, though.

  He slid a paper across the counter toward me. “Here’s the invoice. You just need to go to the safety office or go online and pay this amount. They’ll give you a receipt and then they should release the hold. Sometimes it takes a day.”

  Then he placed a business card on top of the paper. “I’m Lee. I’m here all day on Mondays and Thursdays—part of my fellowship. My number’s on here. Just call, or you can email me if you need anything.”

  My eyes widened. Something about his gentle mannerisms made my anxiety evaporate. “Are you in the MFA program?”

  Lee laughed and shook his head. “No, no. I wish I was creative like that. I’m studying ancient societies of the Mid-Atlantic region.”

  “Wow. I’m impressed. An area of study with even less income potential than mine.”

  Lee shrugged, “I try.”

  I thanked Lee and told him I’d be back another day, after I handled the invoice.

  “Ok. Call me if you have any questions. You know, about your account. Or about ancient societies. Or just call me.” Lee smiled.

  I swear I heard a tinkling bell when he smiled. I looked at him a moment while I considered whether I’d understood him properly. Then I felt the social anxiety switch back on and decided to get out of there before I embarrassed myself any more. I said goodbye and hurried back to my bike.

  ***

  I was in my back yard working with Franklin on his rolling over skills when my phone text alert chimed. I took the phone out of my pocket. It was Clint. The screen only showed part of his message. “Hi. Good to see…” I set my phone on the picnic table and backed away slowly as if it were a grenade.

  “When is he gonna go away?” I asked Franklin. “I don’t know what to do.”

  Franklin looked at me with his head tilted sideways and a blob of saliva dangling from one side of his mouth. He was way too much dog for me. When I adopted him from the shelter as a puppy I knew he’d end up being a big dog. But I had no idea he would be this sweet, slow-witted, 120-pound beast.

  I lay down on the grass and hugged his neck. “Who’s my sweet sack of meat?”

  My phone chimed again. It had been a couple days since Clint and I, and his fiancée, saw each other at the cafe. I knew he’d try to get ahold of me. He never stayed away from me very long. I was finally realizing we weren’t friends or ‘getting to know each other again’ like I’d told Sophie. I was finally starting to understand the Clint probably just enjoyed keeping me in his back pocket because it boosted his ego.

  Acting hurt, or even as if I cared that he had a serious relationship, would be really satisfying to Clint. I couldn’t allow that. I knew he knew that I never got too far from my phone. If I didn’t text him back soon, it would look like I was upset. Or plotting, which I was. Both things.

  I gingerly picked up my phone and read Clint’s message. “Hi. Good to see you the other day. You look good. I probably should have told you about Hannah sooner. I just didn’t know how to bring it up, was worried about hurting you.”

  I had to be breezy. Thank God for texting. I love hiding behind my keyboard, where all my nervous expressions and awkward failed attempts at eye contact remain a secret. It lets idiots like me appear socially competent.

  “Hurting me? Really? Of course not! I’m happy for you. Congratulations. I like Hannah,” I typed. Lies, lies, lies. I thought about adding, “She’s really pretty,” which would be at least one thing that wasn’t a lie. But that was probably laying it on a bit too thick.

  He wrote, “She’s really excited about the jewelry.”

  “So is Sophie. Lol.”

  “She wanted me to ask you if you wanted to get together for lunch some time this weekend to talk about the necklaces and stuff.”

  So this is how it’s going to be? Sophie gave Hannah her contact information. But now they’re using my connection to Clint to bug me at my personal number. No. No way.

  “She needs to get in touch with Sophie to set up the contract,” I wrote. “Then if we need to have a design meeting, we can set something up. Sophie handles my schedule.”

  My schedule. Ha. It was a Tuesday afternoon and I was wearing pajamas, laying in my back yard, using my dog as a pillow.

  I erased my and Clint’s texting thread from my phone. T
hat would take it out of the computer, too. I needed it gone now—before I started drinking wine and scrolling through our old conversations, wondering where things had gone wrong. Not necessarily with Clint—he really was a douche—but with me. What was my problem with men?

  I edited Clint’s contact information to discourage any further communications. I changed the name and linked to his number from “Newton, Clint” to “Douche, The.”

  When we met, I had just graduated. I had been working at Stone Cupboard during school and my plan was to continue working there while I saved money to do an art fellowship in France.

  I’d had other boyfriends, but nothing long term. Clint showered me with attention in a way that no other man had. He was handsome then, and still is now. But he’s lost part of his youthful light. There’s shadow of age, or maybe it’s just too much alcohol, on his face these days.

  Back then, all the girls at the restaurant, and many of the customers, wanted to date him. He liked me the best, though.

  Our relationship and that little restaurant were our whole world. We worked late then stayed out even later. There was always gossip and drama among our coworkers. It was like high school, but with plenty of cash and no parents. For a while, it was really fun.

  It didn’t take long for me to become so absorbed in the relationship, our social circle, and my new, intoxicating, independence from school that I forgot about France. I started to forget about art a little bit, too. Meanwhile, things with Clint were heady, dramatic, and immature.

  The first time I broke up with him was after we had been dating six months. When you’re young and you work late and sleep late, your free time tends to focus on one thing: booze. That never spells young relationship success. Every night was a crapshoot as to whether we would wind up making passionate love or having passionate arguments.

  “It’s unhealthy,” I had said one Monday morning when I was tearful and hung over. “All we do is fight. I’ve totally lost track of my goals. And I feel… just—old.”

  Then came the first time he told me he loved me.

  We would straighten up for a while: Get up early to ride bikes and stay out of the liquor cabinet. But eventually the fighting would start again. He accused me of having an anger problem. I accused him of cheating, which did happen, at least once.

  Staying away from him felt like giving up nicotine—toxic, comforting, addictive nicotine. I could keep my distance for a while but eventually he’d send me an innocent text. It would be about an inside joke we’d had or just a simple “hello.” We’d try being friends but things would slowly, then less slowly, slip back into old routines.

  3.

  Sophie came in through my front door without knocking. She was carrying two iced coffees and a small stack of envelopes.

  “I grabbed your mail,” she said, grinning. “Guess what we have?”

  “No clue,” I said, my voice flat. I did have a clue. I had been expecting Hannah’s save the date note since we met a week ago. I was sure it would be a beautiful card. There would be a photo of the happy couple. The address would be written in professionally hand-drawn calligraphy. The design would be traditional and impeccable—with a mocking undertone of my many, many relationship failures.

  “It’s from Hannah,” Sophie said, opening the envelope. “It’s the save the date. Oh wow, they’re getting married December 12. I didn’t realize it was that close.”

  “Crap. That’s right after my MFA application is due,” I said. “I’m going to be busy right when we’ll be finishing the jewelry.”

  “Just turn in your application early,” Sophie said. “You shouldn’t wait ‘til the last minute anyway.”

  She sat down across the kitchen table from me. “So you’re really doing it? The master’s degree thing?” she asked me. “I didn’t know if you were just saying that because of Clint or if you really wanted to go back to school.”

  I shrugged. “I’ll apply. I mean, I was sort of exaggerating my artistic career for them, which I know was totally dumb. But I do want to go back. I want to be able to take myself seriously as a real artist, you know?”

  Sophie nodded.

  “It’s competitive though,” I said. “Twenty spots for, I don’t know, maybe fifty applicants.”

  Sophie grimaced. “Yikes.”

  “And the application is crazy. They want so much stuff. A personal statement,” I said. “What is that?”

  “Aw that’s easy, you just spin some crap about how your art makes you feel connected to, whatever, yourself or the voices of the global community,” Sophie laughed. “Buzzwords. Whatever.”

  “You’re kind of genius,” I said. “So you’ll help me?”

  She did her trademark, chin down, look at me over her glasses move. “Of course.”

  “Hannah already tried to set up a meeting with me. She got Clint to text me.”

  “Oh I heard,” Sophie raised her eyebrows and shook her head. “She’s already a huge pain in my ass.”

  “Then let’s just say no! We don’t have contracts yet,” I said, my voice verging on a whine, yet again. “It’s going to be a huge hassle.”

  “Can’t. A: We’re not going back on our word. B: Wedding and custom jewelry gets like a double mark-up. If we could turn this into another branch of Candy Blue, we could start earning more money for the same work,” Sophie said. “And if you really are going back to school then we have to find ways to keep revenues high with less involvement from you.”

  I grinned. “Less involvement from me? I like the sound of that.”

  “Yeah.” Sophie looked down at her hands and took a breath. “I’ve been thinking, since you’re pursuing your art and sometimes it seems like you don’t even really like working on our business—and it is my full-time job, maybe we should set things up so the business keeps going even if you get into other things.”

  I rarely saw her like this. She was usually so confident and together. Now her voice sounded trembly and she wouldn’t look at me.

  “Absolutely,” I said. “You’ve made it a success and it’s as much yours as it is mine. And you’re right, I don’t want to do this forever. God. It’s not a big deal. You want a contract or something? I’m cool with that.”

  We had always split things 50-50, but we didn’t have much in writing other than what was required for taxes.

  Sophie shook her head. “I don’t need a contract, you know that. I trust you more than anyone. It’s just that if your art career takes off, and you don’t feel like making any more jewelry, I don’t want to lose my livelihood.”

  We weren’t the mushy types of friends, but Sophie was so pitiful. She was actually nervous to talk to me about this. So I hugged her.

  “Ew. Get off me,” Sophie said, shoving me away. “I know you’re not a hugger.”

  “Yeah, but you looked so pathetic,” I said. We were both laughing. “Listen. I’m not going to abandon you or this business. And if I move on we’ll just find another designer. I mean, it’s not rocket science.”

  “But you’ll still own your half,” she said sincerely. “It’ll always be 50-50, ok?”

  “Ok.”

  Then she told me about how she wanted to have more of a “client-facing” role on our website, which makes sense because she does all the client-facing stuff with every other aspect of the business.

  “We always get more hits when we do a new blog post,” Sophie said. “So I wanted to do like a regular feature of my own. It will have seasonal updates, maybe some Q & A stuff from our customers. It’ll be cute.”

  “I love it. You’re the stylish one. You’re the one who wears our stuff every day,” I said. “You should do it!”

  ***

  Micah’s studio was amazing. Well, as far as studios go, I guess it was average. But the fact that she had an actual art studio on an actual university campus was something. Being there felt amazing.

  She was my closest friend from the art world. We had gone through our bachelor’s degree program together.
We were roommates during our senior trip to Paris. Micah and I still kept in touch. Usually we got together for art stuff—new exhibits or lectures. But sometimes we just met for lunch or went out for drinks. And sometimes we collaborated. Well, she called it collaboration. But they were always her ideas and I usually seemed to end up in the role of helper and gopher.

  Micah did a lot of sculpting and some pen and ink drawing. I always loved the way pen and ink looks when it’s done right, but just couldn’t pull it off myself. Something about knowing that there are few real options for correcting mistakes made my works turn out inhibited and stiff.

  Today I was meeting Micah at her studio in the north wing of Hughes Hall. She was starting her last year for her master’s degree. She had invited me to her studio after I told her I was thinking about applying for my MFA.

  Micah hugged me when she saw me. She was wearing black tights and a baggy button-up chambray shirt with crusty specks of clay and plaster on it. Her long, silky hair was bleached to an almost-white color and was piled on top of her head in a bun. And she was barefoot.

  “Hey you made it! I was just cleaning up,” she said. “So this is where I’ve been pretty much living.”

  Micah waved her arm in dramatic fashion. Her studio was smaller than a classroom, but larger than an office. It had a countertop and sink, a small desk, and lots of closets. One wall was just pegboard with hooks holding tools and completed artworks. There were two large tables in the center of the room. One wall was made up of spectacular floor to ceiling windows that showed a view of the mature trees on the north side of campus and the majestic Victorian homes across Fifth Avenue.

  “I could totally live here,” I said as I looked around, reminding myself not to let my mouth hang open.

  “Yeah, I thought that at first, but sometimes it feels like my little cell,” Micah said. “Especially when I’m busy and I end up staying in here all day and eating all my meals in here. I’m pretty sure the pizza guy thinks I’m in love with him.”

 

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