Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 75424 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75424 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
By the time I’ve cleaned up the space and repacked all my art supplies, I’m feeling cautiously optimistic and eager to start the weekend with my roommates and very best friends.
Harlow and I have been tight since second grade, Jess joined our crew when she moved to town in sixth grade, and Cameron was welcomed in as our boy bestie not long after, when he helped us pass our elementary school’s mandatory cooking class. He was already a foodie and amazing in the kitchen, while the three of us couldn’t boil water without burning ourselves.
For the most part, we still can’t. When we moved in together at the start of last summer—thrilled to finally be making our dream of living together come true after attending different undergraduate programs—we quickly realized Cameron was still the only one who could be counted on not to poison people with his culinary offerings. Jess, Harlow, and I agreed to pay for groceries and keep the common areas clean in exchange for homemade meals.
It’s been working out great so far, but even with healthy, delicious food waiting for us at the end of each day, the past three weeks have been grueling. Harlow is in one of the most competitive forensic accounting programs in the country, Jess is working for a video game company doing coding so complex I’m pretty sure I saw her brain leaking out of her ears a few days ago, and Cameron is a sous chef at one of the swankiest, and most demanding, restaurants in the city.
And me…
Well, I’m getting mistaken for one of the homeschooled high school kids who take art classes at NYU, even in the watercolor technique class where I’m the teaching assistant. I’m also getting overlooked in my studio classes, just like I did when I was in undergrad, proving my new professors are just as disdainful of art involving adorable baby animals as my old ones.
Which just…sucks.
Why does the art world have to be so pretentious? Why can’t they see that sweet, happy art is just as valid as the edgy, violent stuff?
Sure, I could paint my next panda bear with part of its skeleton exposed, sitting in a puddle of blood or something to please my critics, but…ew. I want to paint a happy panda hugging its baby in a misty bamboo forest. Why can’t pandas be allowed to live in peace?
At least in paintings…
I cross the street to the bar to find Harlow waiting for me under the awning of the coffee shop next door, looking elegant as always in a pair of vintage wide-leg trousers and a white button-up with a brown bow tied at the neck that perfectly matches her long, glossy brown hair.
I lean in for the hug she offers and ask, “Why can’t the pandas live in peace, Harlow?”
“Because the world is a fucking shit show,” she says without hesitation, proving why she’s still my best friend after nearly sixteen years. No question is ever too random or weird. “And people are garbage who don’t deserve good things like pandas. How was your first day with the sweaty grunt monsters?”
I grin. “Okay. They kept the sweating and grunting to a minimum. They also kept the art making to a minimum, but I think our next session will be better. Ian is going to help me get through to them.”
Harlow’s nostrils flare. “Oh, is he? How nice of him. The others are waiting up on the roof, by the way. I told them to go ahead and save us a table in the garden, so we don’t have to sit at the indoor bar with the men yelling at televisions.”
“Great. And yes, Ian is nice,” I insist as we start toward the entrance to the pub and the elevator that will whisk us up four flights to the beer garden on the roof.
“Compared to your brother, maybe,” Harlow says. “But that’s like saying Hitler isn’t bad compared to Satan.”
I laugh as we tuck ourselves into an empty corner of the elevator beside a group of chatty tourists wondering if they’ll have time to order dinner before their show starts.
“That’s horrible,” I say, pointing a chastising finger up at her face. Like most people, Harlow has several inches on me, even in flats. “Derrick isn’t Satan. And he’s apologized for that bonfire thing in high school at least twice.”
Harlow sniffs. “I don’t care. I still hate him like wet socks. But I’ll be nice to him if we host Thanksgiving this year because I love you.”
“I love you, too,” I say, tucking my arm through hers and leaning into her shoulder with a sigh. “I’m looking forward to a drink. It’s been a week.”
“I hear you.” She heaves a sigh of her own. “My study group is driving me insane. They keep mansplaining litigation support procedures, which would be irritating enough if they were in possession of correct information about said procedures. But sadly, they are not.”