“Color Our World” Writing Contest Winner: Audrey Novella

 

 

I was too good for art school. I figured that out when I spoke to the guy with the easel next to mine. He had a man-bun, an unkempt beard, and wore ironed dress shirts despite the fact we were painting. We’d been tasked with painting the ultimate cliche: a fruit bowl. Yes, one with a too-large bunch of grapes, a less vibrant pile of pears and oranges, and a stray pineapple.

 

I started with the background. It was an ugly green, like the dirty pool my mother had tried to make me excited about when I learned we’d have to live in a motel for “a while.” I tried to make it more appealing, leaning for a shade with more blue undertones, more like my grandparents’ old SUV I’d taken road trips in.

 

Mr. Man Bun took notice. “That’s not going to match.”

 

I didn’t look at him. “I’m aware.”

 

He glanced at our professor and then back at me. “He’s not going to like that much.”

 

“Well, I don’t like that background color much.”

 

Mr. Man Bun got the hint after that, but he’d be giddy if he’d seen the less-than-stellar grade I received on the painting. My professor emailed me, telling me that yes, art was about self expression and challenging the norm, but that came after becoming a staunch rule-follower via pure imitation. He ended the email with a blunt, “We’ve gone over this in class. Weren’t you paying attention?”

 

Of course I wasn’t. My grandpa had died a couple years ago and my grandmother was actively following in his footsteps through the whole semester. Besides, there was nothing the haughty, tenured professor could teach me that my grandmother hadn’t already. She didn’t need a fancy, student-loan-funded classroom: only the art studio in her attic.

 

When I got the news that she’d finally passed and that I’d inherited her house, I dropped out. For a couple weeks I did nothing but sleep in her guest room, try to gather the strength to go through her belongings, and fail. I was no help with the funeral arrangements; I left that to the real adults: my aunts and uncles.

 

Soon enough, capitalism dictated I needed to get a job or starve. I applied at the supermarket a few blocks away and, despite being nothing more than a warm body at the time, they hired me.

 

That’s where I’ve been stuck for the past ten years. I’m a manager now, and people tell me I should be proud of that, but I’m rotting. Every time I walk under the hatch to my grandma’s attic, I give it a cursory glance and my stomach sinks.

 

I’m closing the store and leaving out the back door when a small figure, swallowed by their dark hoodie, catches my eye. The thick, chemically scent of spray paint reaches me before they realize I’m there. The figure sprays the dumpster, scaring away the cloud of flies buzzing around it.

 

My stomach bubbles with rage. It spreads to my arms and forces its way up my throat. I white out as I scream.

 

How dare they vandalize my store? How dare they paint on a dumpster of all things? How dare they exist and create when I don’t and can’t?

 

I come back to my senses and see their look of adolescent terror and hear their sneakers squelch under the still-wet grass from the day’s earlier rain.

 

I take deep breaths. My face is too hot. What had gotten into me?

 

I approach the dumpster to assess the damage. A crude, sludge-y daisy in black paint was all the kid had managed before bolting. I remember my grandmother teaching me to draw flowers in charcoal and my fingers coated in a similar, black sheen. What’s wrong with me? What had I even screamed at that kid? I’m crazy. Out of control. I need sleep. Bad.

 

The drive home is short as always. I don’t look at the attic hatch as I enter the house and instead hide under my covers in my grandma’s guest room. I dread work the next day until I’m unconscious.

 

I stroll towards my office in the back of the store the next morning. Chelsea, one of my usual openers, looks too happy; morning people like her are freaks, but she seems even more chipper than usual. I decide I’ll ask about it once our old monster of a computer is booted up, but I don’t end up needing to.

 

A birthday card is sitting on the keyboard. I blink a couple times. I’d totally forgotten.

 

I take a seat and open the card. My employees had signed in all colors of the rainbow, wishing me a happy birthday and thanking me for things I’d done. Chelsea’s signature was biggest at the top, signed in her favorite color: purple, like the bottle of her favorite lavender-scented lotion she thanked me for ensuring our store carried. Hazel’s was red like her car; she wrote about the time I’d stayed late to help her change her tire that had gone flat on her way to work. Emilio’s was green, his school’s color: he thanked me for writing him a stellar recommendation letter and allowing him to switch to part time so he could go back to college.

 

Once again, I fought tears, but managed to get through the work day without blubbering too much. That night, when I return home, the attic hatch welcomes me instead of glaring. I stand on my tiptoes to unlatch it, releasing a powdering of dust. I hold my breath, pulling down the ladder and climbing it.

 

Family had cleared out the actual paintings when grandma died, wanting them as keepsakes. The art supplies remain untouched.

 

I crawl around, grabbing an empty canvas and the first bottle of paint and brush I can find. I paint a huge, aimless, sloppy stroke of separating, sunflower-yellow paint. I grin. What will it become?