Stacy

I sat on a metal folding chair, denim legs bouncing the plastic portfolio on my lap. On each wrist, I wore a series of bracelets like thick shackles. Pulling out a compact mirror, I took one last look and, with my thumb, smudged the black kohl lining my left eye. I looked up.

“Stacy?” A man in a grey suit opened the door. “Come on in.”

He looked too neat, too sterile. But I got up and followed.

The office was clean and messy. Like someone had vacuumed and dusted but then tossed papers all over the desk. I took a seat.

“My name is Roger and I’ll be conducting your interview,” he said. He opened a fresh manila file and smiled. “Your mother says you’re very talented.”

“Well, she hasn’t seen much of my work but I put a lot of energy into it. Art school has always been my dream,” I said. I tried to sit up straight, look serious.

“Why don’t you tell me about your work?” he said.

“Well I do charcoal and acrylics mostly,” I said. “Would you like to see?”

“Sure,” he said.

I untwisted the tie on the portfolio and pulled out a charcoal drawing of a flower I’d sketched. The petals fit together like a Venus flytrap or closed eyelid, able to contain. I’d imagined it growing out of the pages and reaching beneath sheets to pluck me out of bed. I’d hid the drawing beneath a stack of old textbooks hoping it would stay there through the night.

Roger peered through thin metal frames and I began to feel nervous. He didn’t say anything so I pulled out a painting in reds and greys. Swirling loops met sharp angles and lines fled the page through one corner.

“Tell me about this one,” he said.

“Well,” I began. I didn’t know how to explain this painting because I didn’t understand it myself. Looking at it now, I felt scared. I shuttered.

“It’s one of my more abstract pieces,” I said. I was terrified he’d think I was a fraud.

“Aha. You know Stacy,” Roger said, “many artists use substances to enhance their creative abilities. You ever try anything like that?”

“Of course!” I said. I knew all real artists used. “I went through a meth phase a couple years back and starting snorting heroin. Now I shoot it.” I eagerly pushed my bracelets down over my wrist and showed Roger my forearms. I felt like I belonged. A residual wave of the opiate flowed down my neck and spine. For a second, I closed my eyes.

Roger leaned in. “Stacy, you know your mother cares about you a lot, don’t you?”

I opened my eyes and felt the doom of an impending sense of sobriety. I looked at the file in Roger’s hand. My name was handwritten next to the typed words, “PATIENT NAME.” The wall behind his head came into focus and I read the words “doctorate,” “psychiatry,” and “adolescent medicine.” I glanced over my shoulder at a bookcase and immediately saw the title, “Addiction.”

My heart began to palpitate and the sweat from my palm was softening the sketch paper in my hand. It slipped onto the floor and I stared down at it. The flower had its petals open now and was ready to take me in.