Page 83 of High Hopes

BIRDIE

The smellof wet clay and sulfurous glaze hits me as soon as I step into the studio. I used to love this smell—earthy, honest, full of potential. Now, it just feels heavy.

I take a seat in the back row. The stools are arranged in a semicircle around the demonstration wheel, and I’m hoping to stay unnoticed. The semester might be brand-new, but everything else feels worn-out, like I’ve lived through this scene a hundred times already.

Dr. Hall stands at the center of the room, that perpetual scowl firmly in place. He’s already got the wheel going, his hands deftly working a massive lump of clay into some unrecognizable form.

“Eight pounds,” he announces in a gruff monotone. “We’re starting large this semester, so if you’ve been coasting, it’s time to stop. Mastery Wheel Throwing isn’t for dabblers. If you’re not up to it, drop the class now and spare me the trouble.”

His words send a ripple of nervous laughter through the room, but I don’t join in. I just stare at the spinning clay, mesmerized by how easily he coaxes it upward.

Dr. Hall’s hands move with a confidence I used to dream of having. Now, I’m not sure if I ever will. The fellowship was thesole reason I even came back this year, and now that it’s gone, it’s like trying to relearn how to breathe.

I glance around the room, half listening as Dr. Hall critiques the imaginary mistakes we’ll make when we try this ourselves next week. The other students are all nodding along or scribbling notes.

Nick is up front, sitting way too straight, his blazer hanging off the back of his stool like he thinks this is a board meeting and not an art class. The golden boy. The fellowship winner. The man who beat me.

He’s nodding enthusiastically, like Dr. Hall is dropping life-changing wisdom and not just muttering about the importance of consistent pressure. It’s infuriating. But the worst part is that he looks relaxed. Comfortable. Like he doesn’t even realize what he’s taken from me.

I’m not mad at Nick for winning. Not really.

His work is good—I’ll give him that—and I’m sure he deserved it. But it doesn’t help that I have to see his face after the fact. The sting doesn’t care about fairness or merit. You’d think I’ve had the last month to stew in my own misery and get the fuck over it already, but I haven’t.

Even with all the Glad stuff, the Bad stuff still wins out sometimes. That’s the thing about balance: it’s fleeting. The scales tip, no matter how hard you try to keep them even. Today, the Bad is just louder.

I tighten my grip on my pen, staring hard at the notebook in my lap. I’m not writing anything, just doodling uneven lines along the edge of the page. Lines that wobble and overlap, just like the way I feel right now—messy and unbalanced.

Dr. Hall finishes the cylinder and begins shaping it into something vaguely resembling a vase. “This is what happens if you don’t center properly,” he says, letting the walls of the piecewobble deliberately before they collapse. Then, with a practiced hand, he smashes the clay back into a lump.

By the time class ends, I’m drained. We didn’t even touch the wheels today—just watched our professor throw around eight pounds of clay—but my shoulders ache like I’ve been holding up the weight of the room. Sitting so stiffly, pretending to absorb it all, takes more effort than I expected.

Next week, we’re supposed to put everything into practice, and I’m already dreading it. My hands used to know what to do instinctively—how to center, pull, and shape without hesitation. Now? Now I’m not so sure they’ll still listen.

As the other students file out, I think about thanking Dr. Hall. He didn’t have to support my fellowship application, but he did. He put his name on the line, vouched for me, believed in my work. Thanking him feels like the right thing to do—the professional, respectful thing.

But as I watch him wipe his hands on a towel and glance around the nearly empty room, I hesitate. This is the perfect moment: no students clamoring for his attention, no distractions. And yet, the thought of walking up to him, of saying thank you while my head is still buzzing with everything I’ve lost, makes me feel a little sick.

I look down at my shoes, avoiding his gaze as I shuffle toward the door. I’ll thank him another day—when I don’t feel so raw. When I don’t feel like the whole world is still watching me fail.

“Birdie.”

I glance up to find Nick standing there, hands buried in the pockets of his impeccably tailored pants. “Hey,” he says. “You got a minute?”

I grip the strap of my bag tighter. “What do you want, Nick?”

He raises his hands in mock surrender. “Easy, Collins. I just wanted to check in. See how you’re doing.”

My stomach twists. “You wanted to check in? On me?”

“Yeah,” he says, his tone infuriatingly sincere. “I know you were vying for that fellowship, and it’s not easy to lose something you put so much into.”

The lump in my throat doubles in size. “Thanks for the reminder.”

He winces. “I’m serious. Look, I know it probably doesn’t mean much coming from me, but your work? It’s incredible. The judges said so, too. You’re really talented, Birdie.”

I blink at him. “Mmhmm, that’s whyyouwere the winner.”

“My work was good, too. But I also have connections. My dad and David were fraternity brothers here at Dayton, and they’re still close.” He gives a self-deprecating laugh. “Honestly, I just wanted the internship. I wish we could’ve, like, split the win so you could get the stipend.”

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