Page 20 of Surrender to Me

Chapter 12

A missed call and voicemail dinged on my phone. I was doing a shift at the No Doze, evening to night. I didn’t mind it, as long as I got to work with Clay. I waited until there was a break in the slew of customers to check the message. It was a local number, so I figured it was about the resin order I had made at a nearby art supply store.

“Miss Glass, this is Lisa with Standard Storefront Contemporary,” a voice chimed. “I was given your portfolio by Rebecca Hunt at the Foundation. I would like to schedule a meeting to discuss a potential exhibition…”

My mind went blank. An exhibition? Me?

“What’s wrong?” Bobby hit my back like I was choking on a popcorn kernel. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

I shoved my phone into my locker and pushed my way to the cash register. “I’m fine,” I said. I didn’t want to talk about it and jinx it. It felt like the voicemail could disappear at any moment, as if it had never existed. Clay moved past me towards the back room like he was on a mission. Perfect timing, I thought.

“I told you we were running low on cake pops, and now the girls next door ordered like seven hundred of them,” he said. “They’re losing their fucking minds over us being out—”

“Well, I—”

The door to the back slammed shut and I lost the rest of the conversation. Sure enough, the dancers desperately wanted cake pops—apparently, it was one of their birthdays—and we were completely out. Seven women stood with hands on their hips, demanding expressions covering their faces. I plastered a fake smile on my lips and tried to appear calm, and not jittery. The adrenaline was still pumping through my veins at the thought that I had a potential exhibition. I knew it could save my scholarship at the Foundation.

But first, I told myself, coffee and cake. Focus on the task in front of you.

“I’m sorry, but we’re out of cake pops,” I said. “But we do have brownies, cookies, and I bet we could make a cake—”

“You could make a cake?” a woman with pink hair squeaked, her voice unnaturally high pitched. “That would be perfect!”

“Let me double check,” I said, running to the back room. Clay and Bobby were still arguing. I didn’t know how they both did it; Clay talked to Bobby like he knew the best way to run the cafe, and Bobby, the owner, let Clay talk like that, and never seemed to get upset about it. And he still managed to run an amazing cafe.

Bobby saw me standing there and held up a hand stop Clay from talking.

“What?” Bobby asked.

“Can we make a cake?” I asked slowly.

“Like a whole cake? Uh—” Bobby looked around. “I’m sure we have a—”

“We’ve got a two eight inch rounds in the closet. We need frosting,” Clay said.

“We can make the frosting too,” Bobby said. “Alright, this is good. Good thinking, Riles.”

The rest of the shift was a haze. Because it was my idea, both Bobby and Clay thought it should be me who made, and frosted, and decorated the cake. Honestly, I was glad for the distraction. It was easier to get through the shift with a goal to focus on, and not be full of nerves at the phone call and eventual appointment I would have to make tomorrow morning.

Once I was done with the decorations, I asked Clay to put it in the box. I checked my phone out of habit; nothing since that voicemail. What was I waiting for? It was almost midnight; time for me to go home. Clay closed the pink cardboard box and tilted his head at my phone. “So what was that about? You looked pretty pale earlier.”

I shrugged. Luckily, the shock had worn off. I wanted to keep the secret with me for a little while, at least until I could celebrate without reservations. Heck, maybe even my mother would come to visit for the exhibition. I smiled to myself. “I’ll tell you later,” I said.

*****

Lisa with Standard Storefront Contemporary squinted down at me from behind narrow glasses. Her silky black hair hung straight down her back and she was as bony as a fish. She looked through my portfolio. I made sure to bring different ones than Professor Hunt would’ve seen in my application, as well as a proposal for the new pieces.

“How long will the shattered glass pieces take?” she asked, her voice curt.

“A few weeks,” I said. I honestly didn’t know, but I didn’t want her to know that.

“What about two weeks from Friday?”

That gave me over two and a half weeks to figure out which pictures from Surrender I wanted to use, shatter the wine bottles or find other glass vendors, and let the resin dry. I could do it, but it would be tight.

“Absolutely,” I said. She handed me my portfolio and proposal like they were dirty tissues.

“You have a lot to learn, Miss Glass, but I have faith in Rebecca’s recommendations. You can start setting up on the Wednesday before. Let me know what you need,” she said.