Midnight Muse

Spending the weekend with my parents is great, but now that I’ve had a taste of the freedom of college and setting my own rules and limits, it’s difficult to fall back into theirs like they expect.

As shitty as this might sound, I’m excited for my parents to go back home tomorrow.

Mom, dad, and the Wilson’s had all traveled down together, taking a road trip from Seattle in a rented car. All weekend they gushed about the scenery they saw, showing me blurry photos on their phones of the same pit stops Rory and I had stopped at during the same trip a few months ago when we moved back to Vulcan U.

It’s as endearing as it is annoying, because if I have to scroll through one more photo out of the million my mom hordes on her phone, I might take this steak knife and stab it right through the screen.

“How are classes going, Quinn?” My father asks, sipping on his glass of whiskey. As much as I could use a drink of my own after this very long weekend, I can’t out Pipa in front of all of our parents by using the fake ID she got me to order the strongest liquor that they have. She looks like the epitome of relaxed with her mojito in her hands.

I envy her.

I wet my suddenly parched throat with my lemon water to avoid answering dad’s question. If I close my eyes hard enough, I can pretend there’s a bit of tequila at the bottom of my glass. When I open my eyes, even the Wilson’s are looking at me like they can’t wait to hear all about my classes, and Rory ducks her head as if that is somehow going to save her from getting grilled next.

Luckily, I’m responsible for my own grades now, and my parents don’t see anything I don’t want them to: namely, my unimpressive Art History grade. I’ve already signed up for the study group happening next week, and I pray it won’t be completely filled with people like me who are on the verge of failing and that there’s at least one person who knows the difference between Gothic, Romanesque, and Baroque cathedrals. I swear, they all look the fucking same no matter how long I spend staring at the pictures.

After that, I have to try and learn the names of all of them.

I am totally fucked.

“Things are going well so far,” I answer with a polite smile, fingering the corner of the menu for something to do. We haven’t even ordered mains yet and they’re already drilling me? It’s going to be a long meal. “I like them so far.”

“And how’s drawing?” My mom questions and I want to groan. I knew they were going to ask me about this and I knew I wasn’t going to like it. I’ve been on the edge of my seat all weekend, waiting for them to bring it up. Little Quinnie, drawing extraordinaire. “I can’t wait to see how your portfolio has grown by the end of the semester.”

Maybe I will order that drink, after all.

It’s not that I don’t like drawing, I love drawing, and have since I was a little girl. It just feels different now. When I was young and didn’t have a care in the world and all I needed was my drawing pad and pencils, and I would draw to my heart’s content. My parents saw that passion in me and signed me up for competitions and when I started winning awards, they only entered me in more and more. It was fun, until drawing started feeling like work. I was always trying to put out the most perfect pieces, all to try and make my parents proud.

They are, and I know they are, but forcing myself to constantly strive to be something better made me lose the creativity I once had when I was just drawing for myself. I was no longer drawing what I wanted and instead making what people wanted to see, what would look good for the judges and win me those awards.

I stopped creating art completely over the summer, started hiding my sketchbooks because most of them are blank anyway. Every time I want to put my pencils to the paper, my mind empties, waiting for the rules, the theme of what I’m supposed to draw—the instruction.

It’s like I don’t even have a mind of my own anymore.

The only thing that’s made me consider wanting to draw again is the short burst of inspiration I feel when I’m around Knox.

I don’t want to draw for just anyone—I want to draw for me…if drawing is still what I want to do. I haven’t exactly decided that yet.

My parents don’t know that and it will break their hearts if I tell them.

“It’s good,” I nod, trying to make eyes at the waiter when I see him. I need him to come over and interrupt this conversation right fucking now, please. “Rory and I made a new friend. His name is Reid.”

It’s a poor excuse to try and distract them when I fail to catch the waiters gaze. Luckily, it does the trick because my mother and Mrs. Wilson start gushing over him immediately.

“Is he boyfriend material?” Mrs. Wilson asks with a wink.

Rory and I share a look, one that tells me she’s as ready to roll her eyes as I am. “Just because a guy talks to us, does not mean he wants to date us,” Rory explains, and I jump in quickly, adding my two cents.

“And, no, just because a guy looks at us, doesn’t mean he likes us either,” I tell my mother pointedly, because she keeps making weird faces at me every time the waiter walks by.

I’m pretty sure he’s staring at Peep’s chest, anyway.

“Oh, you girls,” my mom scolds playfully, brushing off our antics while I tuck back into my menu. I already know what I’m going to get, and yes, it’s going to be a steak because I haven’t eaten one since I left for college and if my parents are willing to pay, then damn right I’m going to take advantage of it. “You know, when I was your age?—”

Thank the motherfucking heavens the waiter chooses right now to interrupt.

“Do we need a few more minutes or are we all ready to order?” He asks politely and I almost cut him off with how quickly—and desperately—I answer.

“I think we’re all ready,” I smile, glancing around the table to gage where everyone’s at. I garner mostly nods of agreement, so I continue. “I’ll start.”