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“Lucas!” Jason shouts while poking his head outside. His face instantly flushes from the chill. “How about the next three Friday nights off plus the Saturday mornings?”
Ugh. I almost forgot about this little irritation. “Plus, the Saturday mornings?” I ask with a raised eyebrow.
Jason bobs his head.
“Fine. Let me see what I can do,” I say while stabbing the number of Steve’s cell into mine. “Grab me a coat while you’re there. It’s fucking cold.”
The door clicks shut and the next minute Jason is throwing my coat at me while Steve picks up on the other line. “Lucas!” Steve shouts over the roar inside. “Let me get inside my office where it’s a bit quieter.”
He has an office?
“That’s fine,” I say while shoving an arm inside my coat, followed by the next, huddling inside the warmth. It’s slightly better than nothing, but not by much. My skin is already prickled and chilled from the cold. I can only remain outside for so long, but I know the moment I return inside, Jason will throw me back into work.
The noise on the other line dissipates and I hear something in the background creak shut. “Alright, Lucas, I’m all ears. What’s up?”
I really don’t want to do this. I’ve been looking forward to Open Mic all week long. There’s some good stuff I’ve written—stuff Lori and her company won’t care for. It’s all the things that matter to me; mostly about Rachel and how I feel about her, how I sometimes hate sharing her, how I sometimes want her all for myself; the difficulty of knowing she loves others and reminding myself that she cares for me, too. Stuff that other artists would enjoy hearing, at least I hope.
“I was wondering if it’s too late to pull out of Open Mic Night,” I rush out, knowing if I stop I won’t go through with it. Three Friday nights and Saturday mornings is pretty good, and if I get Jason to hand write and sign it, then my next few weekends will be cemented. Otherwise, I’m going to be dealing with a pissed off Jason for the next three weeks, which no one will thank me for.
“Aw, that’s too bad,” Steve says, genuinely sounding upset. “I was looking forward to your new work.”
“Yeah, I was, too, but my manager has a hot date and practically begged me to take the late shift.”
Steve chuckles. The sound makes me smile. Steve is such a great guy. One day, I want to be like him, if at all possible. “You decided to take a hit for the team. That’s nice of you, Lucas.” Steve sighs and I imagine him rubbing the back of his head as he usually does when he’s attempting to work out a problem. “It should be fine, but you will be missed. Actually, I was hoping to speak with you tonight about another Open Mic in Boulder taking place in I think early March. It’s during Spring Break.”
I feel my eyebrow shoot all the way up into my hairline. “Oh?” I ask, unable to hide my interest.
“Yeah, I thought it would be right up your alley. There will be some big names—stars from other Lit. Grad School programs.”
“Yeah, I’m definitely in!” My luck just keeps on getting better. First, Lori wanting to publish a story on my family and now an Open Mic Night in Boulder—what can get any better than this?
“Wait, Lucas. You need to send your work ahead. They don’t let just anyone in. You’ll have to get approved.”
I wonder what kind of style they’re interested, or genre. Do the event organizers prefer something dark? Romantic? I will have to have a look at my notebook and see what is best. Maybe it’s better if I write something new.
“Come by tonight after your shift,” Steve says. “And I will give you more info. We should still be open.”
The call ends and I return to my shift. My step is a little lighter. A smile is plastered to my face. I greet customers cheerfully while Jason grabs his coat and heads off to his date—after I make him write and sign a contract in front of me, which I pocket to hold up just in case he tries to negate on our deal. There are some good things that come from being raised in the Brent family. It’s definitely hard to screw us over.
As soon as the night shift starts, the customers dwindle and only the late-night regulars litter the cafe, typing their thesis on laptops, while others research in the back, flipping through huge books. I look through my phone, my gaze settling on an email from the Poetry contest I took part in a couple years ago. After I won, they had offered to publish some of my works in an anthology. I scan the email, my frown growing and the giddiness leaving me as I read:
Dear Mr. Lucas Brent,
Thank you for your latest submission ofThoughts from an Aching Heart. Upon further review by our writer’s board and judges, we have decided to decline your submission for a more seasoned author. We thank you once again for considering us and please
I scoff and quickly closed out of my email. I couldn’t bear to read another word. Another rejection letter. Was my romantic work really that boring? Not everything can be perfect, I told himself, something I’ve been telling myself over and over again. I shouldn’t let this get me down. There’s the possibility of reading my work in Boulder, if they like my portfolio, and there is Lori’s offer.
However, it does. I hate rejection. Always have, and always will. Maybe that comes from being rejected by my parents most my life. If I don’t take Lori’s offer, I might not get another. And the organizers in Boulder might think my work sucks and not permit me to enter. There’s only one way to make a name for myself, and that’s writing about my family. I guess this means I have decided. I sigh while grimacing at my phone, not feeling any better after making my decision. I feel like I’ve signed the devil’s book, and there’s no going back.
Chapter 9
RACHEL
Ifrownatmycomputer, staring at my email and the attachment at the bottom. My mouse hovers above the send button, but for the fifth time in the last hour, I return to my portfolio, flipping through the photographs, the oil pastels, the paintings with a critical eye. Is this really what I want to send? I have no clue what the organizers are looking for. Some of this may be too artsy. I wrinkle my nose at distaste at the portrait with red and black details. It’s supposed to be a representation of frustration within the art world, but to many, it probably looks like red melting into black. I can just hear my customers already:Ugh. I can do this. How can this be called art? Doesn’t this take like two seconds.
I’ve heard it all before. Not of my work, but of guests visiting art museums, critiquing the work without knowing a thing about art. This red and black portrait took me a whole day to create, but who would actually know that without taking an art class, or at the very least, an art history class. Can I really deal with the criticism? That’s something I’ve been asking myself since joining the art program. Most artists don’t make it, eventually giving up their life’s passion to work in HR, or advertising.
But, there’s nothing wrong with applying, right? If the organizers don’t like my work, then they can say no and I can figure out what I want to do with my life later. I click out of my portfolio and return to the event’s website—a bright yellow page with a few lines of information. My eyes widen on the five-hundred-dollar fee, which is for the rental of a stall. I guess there’s one good thing that will come if they deny me. I get to keep my money.
