I walked out to the studio and looked at my nearly-completed painting of Isabella. I was not liking what I saw. It was verging on hack work. The problem with showing hack work was that if you did too much of it, no one wanted to pay a premium price for your art anymore. Not long after that, nobody wanted your art at all. We’re talking garage sales and thrift store pricing.
I sighed heavily.
Maybe I was rushing the painting because Brandon was calling every day asking about my status. I had a backlog of paintings to get through for the show. Maybe I could spend more time on the Isabella canvas, turn it into something special.
Or not.
As of yet, no pre-sale money had come in. Brandon had said something about building anticipation to push the prices up before closing any sales. That meant no more money for your’s truly until after the show, which was likely to be months away.
Russell Merriweather’s invoice for services rendered would have to wait, but I could only string him along based on our friendship for so long before I looked like a bum. Russell had bills of his own to pay.
With my trial date breathing down my neck, I wondered how much painting I would get done if I landed in jail. I’m sure the corrections officers would be more than happy to set up a private studio in my cell.
Yeah, right.
With storm clouds hovering over my financial horizon and shit closing in around me from multiple directions, Wes-Con’s $250,000 was money I could’ve used.
But there was no way I was selling out Samantha for any amount.
I tipped back my glass of whisky and downed the rest of it before walking back to the liquor cabinet for more.
Maybe there was an escape hatch from this mess I wasn’t seeing yet.
There was always a way out of any dilemma, even if it was the most drastic one.
SAMANTHA
When I got my mid-term grade for History that day, it turned out I was bombing the class worse than I’d thought. My overall grade was now hovering around a C-minus. The last thing I wanted was a D on my transcript.
Fortunately, I had paid Major Marjorie another visit in her office hours and she had confirmed that my grade would now most certainly be a B, if not higher. That worked for me.
But a D in History? Even I wouldn’t be happy with that. My parents, of course, would put out a contract on my life if they found out I got a D. Knowing my mom, should probably put one out on Christos, too.
Hell to pay…
I needed to start hitting the books twice as hard. I don’t know where I was going to find the time. The only answer was less sleep. Even though I’d agreed to move in with him, Christos and I really hadn’t been spending much time together lately, even when it came to working together in his studio. We were both simply too busy. It was a total drag.
Luckily for me, I didn’t have a shift at either the museum or Grab-n-Dash today. I was free to focus my entire afternoon and evening on the political exploits and daring deeds of the American Presidents. Yipee! Not.
But I was morbidly surprised to discover that many past American Presidents were far from nice people. Many had been involved in all kinds of back-door nastiness. I mean, I’d heard that Abraham Lincoln had secretly hunted vampires, but I didn’t know that some of the previous presidents had been vampires. Seriously. I read it on the internet somewhere.
Groan.
The truth was, I doing anything I could think of to make my reading more interesting for myself, but I kept imagining political cartoons of everything I read, which wasn’t actually helping my comprehension and retention.
Maybe I needed some ice cream? I was convinced it helped me remember things better. I stood up to go raid my freezer.
My cell phone rang.
My first thought was that it was Christos calling to tell me not to get any ice cream and that he was coming over to cook me dinner. The idea made me smile.
Then I saw it was parents.
There went my smile.
“Hello?”
“Good evening, Sam,” my dad said.
“Hello, Sam,” Mom said.
“To what do I owe this pleasure?” I asked sarcastically.
“Your mother and I were calling to find out if you had registered for Spring Quarter classes yet?”
Registration was just around the corner.
“Not yet,” I sighed.
“Well, I wanted to be the first to break the good news,” my dad said.
“What’s that?” I asked, pretty sure my parents’ idea of good news didn’t match up with mine.
“I noticed in the online schedule of classes that Managerial Accounting is indeed offered Spring Quarter. Isn’t that terrific, Sam?”
Wow, my parents were totally stalking me. I rolled my eyes to myself. They were so not getting me.
“Now you can change your major back and continue with your Accounting classes without falling behind,” Dad said with a smile.
I steeled myself. It was time to put this issue to bed once and for all, even if it killed me. “I’m not changing my major.”
“And why, pray tell, are you not?” my mom asked snidely.
“Because I don’t want to?” I sneered.
“I told you, Bill,” my mom growled, “it’s that Christos. He’s putting all these silly ideas in our daughter’s head.”
“No, Mom,” I said confidently, “if you remember, art was my idea. Remember you guys said I couldn’t go to art school because it was too expensive? Well, SDU isn’t too expensive, and it turns out the university has a great art program. For the same price as an Accounting major.”
“We’re not throwing away good money on an art education!” my mom scoffed.
“I have to agree with your mother on that,” my dad said.
I shook my head. “It’s not throwing away. There’s all kinds of jobs for people in the arts.”
“I’ll bet,” my mom huffed dismissively.
“Mom, you don’t know what you’re talking about. I—“
“Pardon me?” my mom barked.
I tried to calm myself. “Mom, the more I learn about art, the more I see there are jobs out there.”
“If there were so many art jobs, what are you doing working at a convenience store?” Mom sniveled.
“I don’t know, Mom, but it’s not like there were a bunch of accounting jobs for undergraduates either. I scoured the job websites and never found a single one for someone who’s only taken two accounting classes.”
Mom was silent.
“She has a point, Linda,” my dad said.
I was shocked into silence again. That was probably the first time in my life my dad had conceded that I wasn’t an idiot.
“I don’t care what sort of point she has,” Mom growled, “I’m not happy about this whole art thing. And I don’t care what you say, Samantha, it’s this Christos who’s put you up to this. You were never this defiant before he came along. I’m telling you, Bill, this Christos is steering our daughter in all the wrong directions.”
I sighed and wondered if now was the time to tell them that I planned on moving in with Christos, on top of everything else?
Hmmm. Maybe not.
I eyed the END button on my phone.
Maybe I needed to terminate this call before my parents made plans to terminate me.
“That boy has you wrapped around his finger, doesn’t he, Sam?” my mom said, her words suddenly dripping with foul judgement.
Why did I suddenly feel like guided missiles were pointed at my heart?
“I bet you two are having plenty of sex, aren’t you?” she sneered. “Well, I hope you’re using protection.”
I was shocked into silence. Not because we were discussing sex and birth control. That was nothing new. It was the pure hatred pouring out of my mom’s mouth like a fire hose. Or maybe a sewage hose. I never imagined she could be this harsh.