On an Edge of Glass

“What’s going on?”  Ainsley asks.  Her face is pinched with concern.  She’s got her long blonde hair pulled up into a high ponytail. 
                  “Yeah,” Payton adds moodily.  “Your text woke me up.”
                  Mark strides through the door.  Five feet into the house, he spins and waves his hands theatrically in the air.  “Girls,” he proclaims.  “We have a project!”
                 
     
                 
                               
                 

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
    An Idea is Afoot
     
     
    It gets finished the way most great works do—as a collaborative effort.  Mark, Payton and Ainsley all skip out on their Thursday classes to help me.  Mark dictates.  Payton jokes.  Ainsley makes a run to get us all lunch.  Even Hal, Mark’s boyfriend, plays a part.  He knows a guy who knows a girl who works at the campus printing lab.  Using some pretty epic flirting, he convinces her to get my oversized prints done in record time.
    I have just over twenty-four hours to complete the collection.  The flyer that Ben left for me weeks ago—the one that I found when I was going through my law school acceptance letters—says that all submissions must be dropped off to Michaela Fincher’s office in Reamer Hall by Thursday at six o’clock.  According to the University website, Fincher is head of the school’s Photography Department. 
    I know what this means.  I know that my amateur ish photos are going to be up against photos shot by people that have been studying photography as a career—people that understand balance and lighting and subject matter.  I know that the odds of my collection being chosen for the gallery showing are slim.  I probably won’t hear back from Michaela Fincher at all. 
    I’m going to try anyway.
    It’s five fifty-four on Thursday.  Her office is on the third floor of Reamer Hall, down a hallway lit by florescent light and past a row of classrooms.  The door is only partially closed.  I knock lightly and it glides open on its hinges.
    “Sorry,” I say quickly, and start to pull the handle back toward me.
    A woman with large, blinking owl eyes and a slight overbite stands from a chair.  “No worries.  Come in please.”
    My eyes dart around the room.  A low, modern desk with sleek black legs and a matching chair fill the center of the space.  There’ s a small two-seat leather couch against one wall.  A colorful mosaic mural is hung above it.  The other walls are filled with framed photos, mostly black and white landscapes.
    “Can I help you?”  The woman asks politely as she comes around the desk.  Her dark blonde hair is pulled back.  She’s wearing a stylish black pencil skirt paired with heels.  Her off-white blouse has a mandarin collar and no sleeves and I spot a matching jacket slung over the couch. 
    “I—I—” I hold up the black leather portfolio in lieu of a proper greeting.  Payton’s friend Dominic let me borrow it.  “I have a submission for the Pratt Gallery’s showing.”
    The w oman glances at an analog clock mounted over the door and smiles.  “Alright then,” she says and holds out her hand.  “I’m Michaela Fincher.  Call me Michaela.”
    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 sur e 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 hois t the portfolio onto the black surface of the desktop.  I fumble the snap and Michaela has to help me with it. 
    There, s pread 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