Page 15 of Racking Up Penalties
I clear my throat, stepping forward. “I wanted to bring in the vibrancy of a sunset after a storm,” I say, fingers trembling as I flip open my sketchbook. “I think there’s beauty in the chaos—”
“Chaos, indeed.” Ms. Jones cuts me off, peering over her glasses at my design. She points to the ruffled hem of the dress. “This is not your best work, Tessa. It’s cluttered. And these colors—” she tuts, shaking her head “—they’re gaudy. Where’s the refinement? The creativity?”
Heat creeps up my cheeks as my vision blurs slightly, a mixture of embarrassment and simmering anger. My mouth opens, but no words come out. I designed this piece hoping to convey love and passion through my work.
“Try again, Tessa,” Ms. Jones says flatly, dismissing my months of effort with a flick of her wrist. “And next time, aim for sophistication, not a spectacle.”
“Thank you, Ms. Jones,” I manage to whisper, even though the words taste like ash on my tongue. I close my sketchbook with a soft snap, feeling the weight of disappointment settle on my shoulders like an unwelcome cloak. But beneath it all, there’s a spark of defiance, a stubborn flame that refuses to be snuffed out by criticism.
I’ll just have to be better.
The rest of the class is a blur. I can sense their gazes flitting between me and our teacher, weighing the harshness of the critique against the intent of my design. I draw in a breath, trying to still the tempest within me. Emma would know what to say, how to soothe the sting of this failure with her gentle voice.
This teacher is always harder on me than anyone else in this class.
The bell rings, signaling the end of class, and I gather my things in silence. The fabric of my self-made jacket brushes against my fingertips, a reminder of the confidence I felt this morning—vibrant and full of promise. Now it feels like a costume, a bright armor that couldn’t shield me from Ms. Jones’s piercing words.
“Ms. Jones, may I—” My voice falters as I approach her desk, clutching my sketchbook like a lifeline.
She doesn’t look up from her papers. “Tessa, I’ve said all there is to say. Take the feedback and do better.”
Her dismissal cuts deeper than any critique, and I nod numbly. I can almost hear Emma’s reassuring tone in my head, but she’s not here to soften the blow.
“Right. Thank you,” I say, though gratitude is far from what I feel. My sketches seem juvenile now, their colors too loud in the quiet aftermath of judgment.
I slip through the door, letting the river of students carry me away from the fashion department, away from Ms. Jones’s disappointed gaze. The halls are a blur of faces and lockers until I find the solace of the music room’s doorway.
Inside, Emma’s voice fills the space, a beacon in my storm of insecurities. She’s lost in her song, eyes closed, a solitary figure amidst the piano and scattered sheet music. Her voice is a balm, offering wordless comfort that begins to thaw the ice around my heart.
“Hey,” I whisper, leaning against the door frame. The last note fades, and she looks up, her green eyes bright with concern.
“Everything okay?” Emma asks, already sensing the turmoil beneath my forced smile.
“Yeah, just… tough critique today.” I manage a half-smile, but it’s brittle, ready to shatter.
“Let’s talk about it,” she says softly, opening her arms for a hug that promises to piece me back together.
I accept the hug and then push her back into the center of the room. “Keep singing. I want to get some work done and you know your voice always makes me feel better.”
Emma’s melody wraps around me like a warm embrace, the notes lifting and falling with an effortless grace that always astounds me. In this small sanctuary of sound, the sting of Ms. Jones’s words begins to fade.
I sink into one of the plush chairs near the piano, letting the strains of music wash over me, waves of soothing chords soothing my frayed nerves. Each note seems to reach inside, gently coaxing my spirit to rise above the hurt. Emma’s voice has that power, a gift that heals without even trying.
“Ms. Jones didn’t hold back,” I confess, the weight of disappointment heavy on my tongue. “She said my designs were gaudy which is an insult to my personal style and taste.” My fingers trace the edges of my sketchbook, the repository of my dreams now feeling more like a catalog of doubts.
Emma pauses, her face etched with empathy. She understands the vulnerability of putting your art out there for the world, to be dissected and judged. And yet, she sings with a bravery I’m struggling to find within myself right now.
“Gaudy isn’t the word I’d use for you, Tessa,” she says softly, her voice a stark contrast to the harshness of critique. “You’re inventive and unique in every way.”
I smile, but it doesn’t quite reach my eyes. The insecurities are stubborn, clinging like shadows to my thoughts.
“Thanks, Em. But what if she’s right? What if this dream is just…out of my league?” The question feels treasonous even as it slips out, betraying my own passion.
Emma shakes her head, the certainty in her gesture a rock amidst my swirling self-doubt.
“Your passion is what got you here, Tess. It’s what makes you amazing. Your many fans online are proof of that.” Her conviction shines through, steadfast and true.
I give a nod but my heart isn’t behind it.
