“It’s my pleasure.” Scott lifted his camera—worn suspended on a strap around his neck—without taking his eyes off what he was there to photograph. “Where should I . . . um.” He paused, then looked to Sam, wide-eyed, for help. Sam shook his head and chuckled quietly before turning back to whatever he was reading on his phone. “Where should I stand?”
I pointed to a spot about two feet away from where Manor House hung on the studio wall. “Start there. I think that’ll capture the light as it streams in through the window. Hopefully it’ll reflect off the tinsel-cellophane sculpture and really make the pictures pop.”
Scott’s mouth twitched. “Got it.”
“The manor house itself isn’t quite as large as I’d originally planned,” I mused. The explanation was probably unnecessary—Scott was a trooper to do this for me at all and probably didn’t really care. But I was excited about the finished project and needed to tell someone.
“Oh?” Scott moved around the piece, snapping a new picture every few seconds. “You’d initially wanted to make something bigger?”
“Sort of,” I admitted.
As I’d put the finishing touches on it over the past few days, my mind kept revisiting my conversation with Frederick about his past. In the process I’d inadvertently incorporated some of the details he’d shared about his old home. By the time I was finished with Manor House, the home it showed was smaller than what I’d originally planned, the plain wooden floors he’d described could be seen through the windows, and the roof had taken on a more thatched appearance than had been my original idea.
“The lake and the tinsel sculpture coming out of it are both bigger than I’d originally planned to compensate for the smaller house,” I added, as Scott continued to snap photos.
Scott grinned at me. “The plastic sculpture is the coolest part of it anyway.”
I couldn’t tell if he meant that or if he was just being nice. Either way, I definitely agreed.
“I hope the judges like it.”
What if they didn’t, though? I’d been so preoccupied with simply finishing this piece I hadn’t let myself think about what I’d do if it was rejected.
It would be okay, though. Eventually. It would suck in the short term, just like all the rejections I’d gotten over the past ten years had sucked. But I liked this piece, even if I was the only person who ever would. That had to count for something.
As Scott resumed taking pictures, I went back to the cubicle where I’d stashed my things and pulled out my laptop so I could review the email I’d drafted to David before I sent in my application.
And I nearly jumped out of my chair when I saw the email I’d just received.
From: Cressida Marks [[email protected]]
To: Cassie Greenberg [[email protected]]
Subject: Interview—Harmony Academy
Dear Cassie,
I am writing to let you know our hiring committee has evaluated your materials and would like to bring you to campus for an in-person interview. We are conducting interviews the last week of this month, and every Friday in December. Please let me know at your earliest convenience whether you are still interested in the position and, if so, what your availability is on these dates.
Sincerely,
Cressida Marks
Head of School
Harmony Academy
I read the email from Cressida Marks again, too stunned to believe that what I’d just read was real.
“Are you okay?” I startled at the sound of Sam’s voice. He peered at me from where he stood by Scott, worry lines notched between his brows. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Not a ghost,” I assured him. “I just found out I got a job interview I wasn’t expecting.” That was the understatement of the year. I’d only applied to Harmony Academy because I was having a good day and I’d had all the application materials on my hard drive. I hadn’t expected anything to come of it.
And now, just a few days later, Cressida Marks, the head of school at Harmony Academy, actually wanted to interview me for a job.
How was this real?
“That’s great news,” Sam said. He smiled, pulling out a chair from the main table and sitting down. “What’s it for?”
I hesitated. This situation was surreal enough as it was. It felt like if I told another living person about it, the opportunity would vanish in a puff of smoke. I didn’t have a teaching credential. That might not matter to Harmony; some of my classmates from Younker had been able to get teaching positions at private schools without one. But the fact that my entire portfolio was light-years away from what parents wanted their kids to learn in art class would almost certainly matter to a school looking for someone to educate their students.