Page 33 of High Hopes

“Both.” She follows me into the living room and drops her stuff onto the coffee table. “But I do want to help. Make sure you’re not being too . . . you know, flowery with your words.”

She snorts as she settles onto the couch. “Great. You think I’m flowery?”

“You artists tend to be,” I tease, sitting beside her. “Meanwhile, I get straight to the point.”

“Alright, Mr. Straight Shooter. Let’s see what you’ve got.” Her eyes narrow as she opens her laptop. “I’m supposed to explain my artistic process and how it relates to the themes—delicate versus raw, chaos versus order, all that good stuff. But every time I try to put it into words, it sounds ... pretentious.”

I lean over to glance at her screen. “Classic case of overthinking.”

“That’s what I do,” she mutters.

“Ah, really? You’ve been hiding it so well.”

She elbows me, but a secret smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. For a moment, I watch her, taking in the way she bites her lip in concentration as she queues up another draft. WhenBirdie’s around, I can let my guard down. She pulls me out of my own head, makes it easier to breathe.

“Alright, hit me with what you’ve got so far,” I say, settling back into the couch.

She scrolls through her notes and clears her throat. “My work explores the delicate interaction between meticulously curated structure and the uninhibited essence of organic freedom—”

I hold up a hand, cutting her off mid-sentence. “Oh, God. Stop.”

Her brow furrows. “What? Too much?”

“Way too much,” I say, shaking my head. “It’s like you’re trying to win a game of Scrabble with your presentation.”

She frowns down at her notes. “I thought I was supposed to sound . . . you know, professional.”

“You’re supposed to sound like you,” I counter. “Not like a thesaurus exploded on your page. I know you’re smart, Birdie. You don’t need to prove it with ten-dollar words. The work is all about tension, right? Between the delicate and the raw. So, just say that.”

She’s quiet for a second, fingers hovering over the keyboard, before finally typing, retyping, cutting, and pasting. Then, she unclamps her barrettes, straightens her shoulders, and clears her throat.

“My work explores the tension between chaos and control. I’m fascinated by the spaces in between—the areas where we can’t predict what’s coming, but we still try to shape it, to create something that feels both fragile and powerful at the same time. With each piece, I’m challenging the idea that these two forces aren’t opposites. Instead, I’m exploring how they coexist and inform one another.”

“See? Way better. Now, tell me why it matters that you’re the one creating this tension. Why should I care aboutyouspecifically?”

She furrows her brow, thinking for a moment. “I guess because . . . I’ve always been drawn to extremes, to things that seem contradictory but somehow make sense together. Like, I’m a perfectionist, but my favorite pieces are the ones where I let go of that need. I love working with delicate, intricate details, but I’m also obsessed with rough textures and imperfections. I think it’s because I see myself in that contrast—trying to balance those two sides.”

A slow grin spreads across my face. “That’s your hook. It’s not just about the art itself—it’s about you and what you bring to it. You’ve got something to say, Birdie, so say it.”

She looks at me, wide-eyed, like she’s finally seeing something she hadn’t before. Then she starts typing again, the keys clicking rapidly. “Okay, yeah. This feels . . . right.”

“Good,” I say, tapping her notebook. “No more hiding behind big words.”

She laughs softly, the kind that starts in her chest and works its way up, and I can’t help but feel a little proud. Not just of her work but also of the fact that she let me be a part of it.

I like this—spending time with her, helping her. It makes me feel useful, like I have a reason to stick around and just be here.

Present, grounded. Enough.

12

BIRDIE

The sounds comingfrom the kiln room aren’t good. It’s late, just past dusk, and Professor Hall’s unloading last week’s firing with a series of frustrated grunts and muttered curses that echo through the near-empty studio.

Hall is the opposite of Professor Tanaka in almost every way. Where Tanaka is composed and soft-spoken, Hall is blunt, big-voiced, and completely unfiltered. Tanaka teaches hand building like it’s a meditation; Hall runs his wheel-throwing class like a workout session—loud, gritty, and peppered with an endless supply of commentary.

I hover just outside the doorway, my heart already sinking as Hall shoves his glasses higher up his nose and waves me over with a gloved hand. “Birdie, you’re gonna wanna see this.”

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