ARIELLE

Chapter6

By the second week of classes, I had developed a routine that would have felt like a chore beforehand.

Wake up by 6:30 am. Shower while Star slept. Study for my first class. Occasional breakfast in the dining hall by 8:00 am. Classes from 9:00 am onward, with a break for lunch somewhere in between. Afternoons were spent either in class, depending on my schedule, in the art studio, or in the library if I needed to conduct research for a seminar. I then had dinner with Star and whichever group of people sat with us at the table. Evenings were spent back in the dorm, doing homework, having conversations, and then lights out. A girl needs her beauty sleep.

It was a rhythm I didn’t mind dancing to.

Dr. Mitchell taught economics, and he seemed really unhappy about teaching freshman business basics. This was justified since the course was pretty bad. But since he was upfront about it, his classes were slightly more bearable.

"I know this is boring," he had announced on the first day. "I know most of you would rather be anywhere else. Unfortunately, the same goes for me. Economics is the study of resource allocation, and frankly, you've all been allocated to this classroom. So, let’s make the best of it."

The literature class, Survey of Western Literature, was taught by a professor named Dr. Reila, who was old but surprisingly sharp. "Shakespeare's been dead for four hundred years," she said in her introductory lecture. "But he's still more alive than most of the authors we'll read this semester. This should tell you something about the nature of genius and survival."

I liked her immediately.

The painting class, however, became my favorite class on campus.

My painting professor, Dr. Cho, didn’t believe in ‘waiting for inspiration’ or 'finding yourself through art' or any of the other phenomena people usually attach to creative work. Instead, she believed in discipline, experimentation, and being completely comfortable making bad art.

"It’s okay to make something ugly," she told us. "Go ahead and make something you’re not proud of; it might even look like someone with no talent or training made it. Why? Because you can only learn by making mistakes and then figuring out what went wrong."

I spent the entire class period doing exactly that. My work resembled an explosion of paint and form with no coherent structure whatsoever. It was terrible. Dr. Cho, while inspecting our work, got to me and commented,

"Interesting. What were you trying to do here?"

"Fail spectacularly?" I told her, not quite sure myself.

"Well, you succeeded," she said. "But take a look at what happened in this corner." She pointed to a place where I'd layered colors that didn’t look all that bad. "This is you discovering something, the good part of failure."

By the end of the class, I'd started a new piece, and this time I wasn’t ashamed of it.

The campus routine became second nature to the extent that I moved through it on autopilot. I knew which professors had office hours at what time. I knew which tables in the dining hall were occupied by which social groups. I knew the path from my dorm to the art studios, how long it took, and where the weird brick was that always caught my foot.

Yeah, I know: clumsy much?

I found out that the archival library was quietest in the early afternoon. I also knew that Star had a class by 2:00 pm on Tuesdays and Thursdays, which meant I could have the room all to myself if I needed to.

Sweet.

During office hours with Dr. Ashton, I discovered he was indeed interested in more than just my essay. His office was cramped with books and photographs, giving it an equal part organized and messy look. He pulled out a printed version of my essay from somewhere in the mess and gestured for me to sit.

"Your analysis was exceptional," he said. "But more importantly, you asked good questions about what happens when we don't know the truth. Like what happens to meaning when context is false." He leaned back in his chair. "I'm cataloging some artworks that were donated to the university over the years, so I'd need a research assistant—someone to help me figure out the artworks' history, verify their authenticity, and understand what it all means. Are you interested?"

"Yes," I said before my brain could catch up and convince me this was a mistake. "Absolutely yes."

"Good," he said. "We can start next week. It would be for a few hours, and flexible with your schedule. Think of it as advanced learning."

When I got back to the room, I took a seat at my desk and opened a fresh page in my journal—something I had stopped doing when dad died but decided to restart.

Week two of college is done. I have a routine. I have the best roommate ever. My professors think I’m smart, and I bagged my first research project. I am actually doing quite well.

I paused, my pen hovering over the page before writing the last statement.

I think I'm going to be okay here.