My eyes went wide. I hadn’t had a piece accepted into a juried show in years. Chicago only had so many juried shows per year, and I wasn’t bringing in enough money with my art to submit my pieces more widely. If I could get a piece into this show, and possibly even win a prize, it could be just the shot in the arm my non-career needed.
“Do you know anything about what mediums they’re looking for?” The last time I’d spoken with David we’d discussed whether Eye of the Tiger was a tasteful choice for Sam and Scott’s first dance. We hadn’t chatted about his taste in art. Scott pushed the sketch he was working on to the side and pulled his tablet from his bag.
“Let’s look it up.”
I watched as he typed River North art exhibition into the search bar, reminding myself there was no point in getting excited, or thinking that maybe my luck was finally starting to improve, until I saw what this show was about. Despite my best efforts at staying calm, though, my palms were already sweating by the time Scott found what he was looking for and turned his tablet around so I could see it.
“Oh,” I said, pleasantly surprised when I saw the theme listed at the top of the call for submissions. “They’re asking for pieces inspired by contemporary society.”
“That’s great,” Scott said. “It doesn’t get more contemporary than what you do.”
I hummed in agreement, scrolling down the page. It only got better the more I read.
“It looks like all mediums are welcome,” I said, my smile growing. “Including multimedia works.” My pieces, which combined traditional oil and watercolor paintings with found objects, were the very definition of multimedia.
Scott tapped the bottom of the screen, where the prizes were listed. “Did you notice that the grand prize is a cash award of one thousand dollars?”
My throat went dry. There would also be a few smaller awards given out for excellence in different categories, and I’d be delighted to win any of them because the most important thing about winning a prize at a juried art show is the recognition that comes with it, but . . .
Well, a thousand dollars would really come in handy.
“The fine print here says only twenty applicants will be selected,” I said, feeling the familiar beginnings of doubt creeping in. This had the makings of an incredibly competitive selection process. Getting into it in the first place would probably be a tall order.
“You never know if you don’t try,” Scott said, not unkindly. “You should go for it, Cassie.”
I handed Scott back his tablet and took a deep breath. “I should,” I agreed. Maybe nothing would come of it, just like nothing had come from most of my attempts to get recognition for my art these past few years.
Then again, maybe my luck was finally starting to turn around.
* * *
Frederick wasn’t home when I got back from the studio that evening.
I didn’t see him the next day—or evening—either.
Running into him again at some point was inevitable, of course. We lived together. But hopefully the longer we put that off, the less awkward the inevitable would be. In the meantime, our conversations, such as they were, were limited to notes we left for each other on the kitchen table. They mostly concerned the logistics of our living arrangement and, honestly? It was easier that way. Frederick made no reference in any of his notes to having seen me almost naked the other night. Neither did I. It was like we’d reached some unspoken agreement to pretend nothing awkward, or hot, or awkwardly hot had ever happened between us.
It was probably for the best. Sam would think so, anyway.
Even if my mind kept replaying that moment when Frederick and I bumped into each other after my shower when I should have been focusing on other things.
Dear Miss Greenberg,
I do not wish to be a nag, but please do remember to collect your discarded socks from the living room floor before retiring to bed. I just slipped on a sock I know isn’t mine on my way to the door and very nearly injured myself.
（Also, I must ask—are fuzzy blue knee socks with green puppets on them the current style?）
With kind regards,
Frederick J. Fitzwilliam
Frederick,
Ack! So sorry about the socks! I’ll do better, I promise.
And no, HA, fuzzy Kermit the Frog socks are not “the current style.” OBVIOUSLY, hahahaha. You’re hilarious. Those were a joke from my friend Sam.
Also, before I forget could you please remember to give me your WiFi network name and password? Sorry to keep harping on this, but I’ve been using my phone as a hotspot since moving in, and it eats through my data.