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Wyatt
1996
I woke up in a great mood. Even though I hadn’t seen or heard from Tilly in almost a week, the memories of the kiss in my bedroom were enough to keep me hopeful. And I had turned in my big animation project before spring break had begun. And rumor had it that our professor had completed her grading and would be returning them to us in class on this day.
I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t dying to know what she thought of my time travel project that I’d hoped would have what it took to eventually be something I could submit to animation companies, or at the very least, a talent agent. I knew it was an ambitious thought for a freshman to have such lofty expectations for a second-semester project, but whenever I felt inspired by Tilly, I had a way of feeling invincible, unstoppable, on fire.
So, when my name was called to the front of the lecture hall and the T.A. handed my project back to me, the great mood I woke up with evaporated before my eyes. Pressed on top of my project was a Post-It note that simply said, “See me after class.”
Fuck.
Maybe I was delusional. Maybe I didn’t have a talented bone in my body. Maybe Dahlia, and everyone else I had shown the project to, had just been trying to spare my ego from humiliation.
Maybe I was a total and complete hack. A don’t-quit-your-day-job animator, a hobbyist. That last thought sent a chill running down my spine as I found my way back to my seat, just as Dahlia’s name was called.
“Cross your fingers, Wyatt. This isn’t gonna be pretty,” Dahlia said. She shook her head, and I watched as she walked to the T.A. with her head bowed like she was reporting for her execution. After seeing the note on my project, though, maybe she was.
Instead, when she looked down at the folder in her hand, she lit up like a Christmas tree and found my face in the crowd, beaming. Although I was happy for my friend that she’d clearly received a much better grade than anticipated, I couldn’t help but wonder why hers was accepted and mine was not.
I’d helped Dahlia with her project, and even then, it had been a struggle to see a clear vision with her storyline and style. She was doing her best, though, and I was proud of her for seeing it through. But I kept looking down at yellow square of paper on my own folder, wondering where the hell I went wrong.
“I got a B-,” Dahlia said, sitting down next to me, exhaling loudly as she threw her head back and looked up at the remarkably high ceilings of the lecture hall. “I didn’t think I’d get anything higher than a C.”
“That’s awesome,” I said, doing my best to fake genuine enthusiasm.
“Thanks again for helping me.” She sat up straight, leaning over to look at the project sitting on my desk. “You must have aced it, right?”
“Not quite.” I tilted the thick sketch pad to the side so that she could read the note. She did, her eyes clearly puzzled, and she mouthed, “What the fuck?”
I shrugged, opening the notebook just to make sure it was mine and that it hadn’t been accidentally switched with someone else’s project.
No such luck.
“Maybe it’s a good thing,” Dahlia said, looking guilty.
Overwhelmed, I couldn’t make eye contact. I just stared at the front of the classroom. “There’s no grade. It’s bad. Real bad.”
“Don’t think that way. Class will be over in a minute and then you’ll know. Do you want me to wait for you?”
“Nah, thanks. But there may be a line to talk to her…you know, me and the other talentless hacks.” I laughed a self-deprecating chuckle that made me uncomfortable. I wasn’t arrogant by any means, but I had always been confident in my abilities when it came to sketching, drawing, and storyboarding.
That fucking Post-It note was rocking my world.
My leg was restless, and my foot bounced against the linoleum floor in stressful anticipation.
“Are you smoking crack?” she asked. “Give me that project.”
Reluctantly, I handed it to her. “Look at this artistry—your style, your skills…you have real talent, Wyatt. Don’t let anyone make you think otherwise, not even Professor Cohen.”
“Thanks,” I said. But something in the pit of my stomach refused to see things through Dahlia’s eyes. In my own brain, I was already pondering taking courses over the summer to sharpen my skills and to find out what my work was missing—whatever I could do to continue pursuing my dream.
Professor Cohen dismissed the class. Dahlia turned to me, nodded, and said, “Think positively. Do you still want to go to the comic bookstore later?”
“Oh, yeah. I can drown my sorrows in anime,” I said with a laugh. “Tell Marissa I’ll be there. I may be a little late, but I’m coming.”
“All right,” she said. “Good luck.”
And just like Dahlia, I walked down to the professor’s long kitchen-island-type desk at the front of the room like I was heading to my own execution. The professor turned off the overhead projector and smiled as I approached.
