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[Image Caption: Rudolf Stonem painting in his abstract art class.]

I wake up with a dry throat and bad taste in my mouth like something crawled in and died halfway through the night.

Then I remember I never drank water. There’s a faint headache spreading through the top of my skull.

So, I spend Sunday trying to take care of my health. I eat breakfast. I clean that paint off my floor. I drag my ass downstairs to finally do my laundry. When my clothes are clean, I carry the basket back to my room and don’t bother folding anything. I just jam shit into my drawers.

I feel good, though. I feel productive.

Monday rolls around and I feel mostly rejuvenated. I don’t bother changing out of the clothes I slept in, but I do put on a sweater and my jacket. After layering up, I snatch my backpack and head to class.

Today is a critique day and by the time I’ve trudged across campus, the other students have already started putting their pieces on the wall for display. This course is focused on abstraction, so most of what’s hanging up is just a barrage of color.

Unsurprisingly, I hate most of it.

I hate what I made too though. My canvas is sitting on the other side of the room on an easel that I haven’t touched since last Wednesday. It isn’t even done...but I guess I’ll wing it?

I cross the room and pick up my piece, giving it a once over. I wish I didn’t have to do these assignments. I can’t wait until I get into my upper level courses and we’re allowed to do portfolios.

Finally, the instructor appears. A few other students scramble to finish their setup, but just I give her a long, dull look as she eyes my painting with obvious disappointment.

Ugh, she totally knows I didn’t finish it.

She doesn’t say anything, though. She can’t. She can’t prove I didn’t finish it. So, whatever. I don’t even care. I just want this to be over with. It’s awkward watching everyone tear into one another. It makes it hard to make friends. Everyone is such an asshole. Even if someone liked another person’s art, they probably wouldn’t say it. They’d rip into it just for the sake of it.

Things get so competitive. It’s sickening. It’s like no one can afford to be nice to one another.

When all the art is up, everyone takes their seats. My work looks pathetically bland in comparison to some of the other more elaborate pieces. I look over them, trying to figure out how I feel.

There’s a few pieces I really like and even more I couldn’t care less about. There’s two that seem technically skilled but are just really lacking in substance, one of which I pause in front of and try to examine for a signature.

There isn’t one, which tells me this person probably hated the assignment but wants a good grade. It’s not that surprising. These art movement specific classes are hard on some people. I got lucky because I actually really love abstraction.

After everyone has had a chance to peruse the room, we sit in a semicircle facing the wall and I try to pair each painting with the artist.

It’s weird. I’ve had classes with a few of these people before, but this assignment is so outside their areas of expertise. Their work is unidentifiable.

“All right,” the instructor says, indicating the painting I was examining earlier. “Let’s get started with this one. Whose work is this?”

The girl seated a few chairs to my left raises her hand lazily, and it surprises me. Her name is Avery Barron. She’s got this short, curly, brown hair and a don’t fuck with me sort of vibe that makes her intimidating as hell. It doesn’t help that she has a good four or five inches on me and always looks like she’s ready to curb-stomp someone.

What throws me off about this particular painting is that I saw her art hanging in the school gallery last spring and this is not what it looked like. This is just a combination of rough shapes and blending technique painted with a variety of oranges and browns.

That explains the bitterness that’s coming through.

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Her usual style is so cool. She’s always trying to capture this sense of vileness in animal nature and uses a lot of fine lines to depict toothy creatures ripping off their own fur or limbs. It’s grotesque, but in a hypnotic sort of way.

It’s kind of a pity she has to take a class like this. I bet it feels like a massive waste of time.

Lately, she’s been on a prehistoric mammal kick. I follow her on Instagram, which I’m a little embarrassed to admit because she has no idea who I even am. She’s just stupidly good at posting about her work, which is something I’m terrible at.

I really ought to take a course on how to better market myself.

“Any first impressions?” the instructor asks, opening up the discussion to the rest of the students.

“I still see a figure in this,” some boy with a long ponytail comments. “You could have tried harder to make it more organic. This is also just your usual color palette, so maybe branch out from that a little more.”

“Okay,” Avery responds flatly.

She seems completely unfazed. She’s a senior, so she’s probably used to this type of criticism, but what this guy’s saying doesn’t seem right to me. If anything, the painting is a little lackluster. There’s nothing technically wrong with it. The balance of the piece is good, it’s just obvious that she didn’t care. The professor seems to agree with me, because she points out that it’s obvious Avery followed the rubric but didn’t go above and beyond.

A few more students make pretentious comments and then we move on. Eventually we work our way through the rest of the art on the wall. Most of it’s...fine. One girl gets her piece really torn into and looks hurt, but she sucks those feelings right back in and sits through the rest of her turn.

When we finally get to me, I’m full of dread.

“This is your piece, right, Rudolf?” my professor makes eye-contact with me.

“Yes,” I say awkwardly.

She seems annoyed. She probably knows I’m better than this. I know I’m better than this.

“Okay, what do people think?” she asks.

Everyone stays quiet for a moment, like they’re trying to figure out what to say. Avery rests her chin on her hand and looks unimpressed.

“It’s very subtle,” a girl sitting across from me finally says, “but the negative space you have going on here is really expressive.”

I have to hold back a laugh.

How nice of her, but that blank space is literally only there because the painting’s not finished.

“I agree,” a second person chimes in. “The range of colors you used is also really tasteful.”

Oh my god, seriously?

Well, that’s flattering, I guess. I do like this style. Maybe I’m better at it than I thought.

“Thanks,” I decide to respond. “That’s…That’s what I was going for.”

The professor gives me a lame look and I smile weakly.

She’s totally going to make me finish this later, regardless of what my classmates think.

When we’re finally done, I pull my painting off the wall and return it to my easel. I stare at it for a few minutes while the other students pack up and leave, ignoring my professor as she approaches me from behind.

“Rudolf…” she starts exasperatedly.

“I know,” I say before she even has the chance to finish speaking. “Can I get it to you next week?”

“You have until Wednesday. I won’t take it after then.”

“All right, sorry,” I mumble, trying to sound confident that I can have it done by then. “I’ll bring it to your office.”

“Good,” she nods, and with that she walks away.

Ugh.

I gather my things together and follow the remaining students out of the classroom. Sucks that the professor caught onto me. I can’t believe no one else figured out my painting was incomplete. That’s so funny.

As I walk down the hallway, I round a corner and immediately bump into a sturdy body. Before I can stumble backwards, two hands grab me firmly by the shoulders, steadying me and then letting go.

I look up and see it’s Avery.

“Careful,” she warns, and her voice sounds flat and hard, the same way it sounded in class.

Maybe she just always sounds this way?

“Sorry,” I apologize quickly.

She smirks, tilting her head to the side like she's analyzing me. It makes me feel kind of shy, but I don’t say that. I don’t say anything. I just wait for her to respond.

“Rudolf, right?” she finally says, still looking entertained. “So, did ya get caught? Did the professor know your piece wasn’t done?”

“Oh, uh…yeah,” I pause, unsure of how to respond.

This is so humiliating.

“Hah,” she snorts, “I could tell by your face. You looked fucking mortified when we got to you.”

“I’m going to finish it this week,” I justify poorly. God, Avery probably thinks I’m a total jack-off for not being able to get my shit turned in on time. She didn’t like the project either and was still able to pull something together.

She continues to tower over me and presses her tongue into the back of her lip, pushing out the post of her lip piercing.

“Yeah, professors won’t fall for that crap,” she tells me with a shake of her head. “They’ve pulled out all the stops themselves, so they know exactly what bullshitting looks like.”

“Yeah, I know,” I murmur. “Thanks. I was just distracted this week.”

It’s such a poor excuse, but it’s the only one I have. I just didn’t want to do it. I felt like doing other things instead.

Do I regret it? Not really, if I’m being honest.

“Yeah?” Avery laughs. “Well, better try and find some time to finish your painting. Now run along!”

With that, she waves her hand at me in a sweeping motion, telling me to leave. I don’t bother responding. Instead, I do just as she says. I run along. I turn around and walk awkwardly down the hallway, feeling like a child who’s just been scolded.

This is the worst. I feel like such an idiot. It was bad enough for our professor to call me out, but the last thing I needed was to hear it from a classmate, especially one I look up to.

It’s really my fault. I should have finished.

I wonder if this feeling will ever go away. This bad feeling that my art isn’t good or that I’m not good or that this is all just a waste of time. I want to believe that I’ll adjust and be able to handle criticism the way Avery did, but something tells me that she never really cared in the first place.

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[Image Caption: Avery Barron stopping Rudolf outside of class.]