First Down (Beyond the Play, #1)(78)

“You’re all pensive again,” Mom says, squeezing my waist as she walks by. “Are you going to take that order, or should I?”

“Right. Sorry.” I paste on a smile and make my way over to the couple sitting at the table, two older women with matching tote bags and simple silver wedding bands.

“This is such a pretty photograph,” one of the women says, pointing to the framed piece on the wall in the middle of their booth. “Do you know the photographer?”

I look over at it. It’s a photograph I took of one of the farmstands here in town that sells fruits and vegetables and cute little clay pots that the owner’s daughter makes. In the spring and summer, they sell bundles of flowers, and in the fall, they sell pumpkins, then Christmas trees. I loved the way the flowers looked in their metal bins and focused on those. It was last spring when Laura and I visited; we bought a bouquet for our room and a bag of cherries to split.

“I took it,” I say. “It’s from Henderson Farms, right at the edge of town. They’re closed in January, but they have really nice produce.”

“Is it for sale?”

I blink. “The farm? I don’t think so.”

The woman glances over at me. Her wife laughs softly, putting her hand on top of hers. “The photograph, I mean. Is it for sale? I’d just love it for our kitchen. Reminds me of why we moved up here from the city.”

“You’d really buy it?”

“Of course.” She opens her tote bag and rummages through it. “I have cash if that’s easiest for you. What do you normally charge for a piece that’s already framed?”

I need to work hard to make sure my jaw doesn’t fall on the floor. “Um, fifty?”

Her wife tuts. “Please tell me you’re not undervaluing yourself like this. Two hundred.”

My mouth really does fall open then, as the first woman counts out a whole bunch of twenties and passes them across the table.

“Unless the piece is particularly special to you?” she says.

“No, it’s not that.” I swallow, picking up the cash and tucking it into my apron. “Please take it and enjoy it, that’s why I put it up in the diner in the first place. I’m just… surprised. I don’t sell a lot of my photography.”

I don’t sell any photography, actually, but I’m not about to tell them that.

“You should,” the second woman urges. “People will always pay for good art.”

“Thank you,” I say. “Um, do you want to order some food, too?”

They both laugh, then, and order two egg sandwich specials, so I take that back to the kitchen. Then I duck into the walk-in pantry, pulling my phone out of my apron to text Laura.

There’s a new email alert from my McKee account. I shoot off a text to Laura about the women, then open the app.

It’s from the visual arts department.

I hover over the email, not wanting to click down. I’m riding a high; the thought of smashing that to pieces with the contest rejection already hurts. But I’m not the kind of person who can put something off, good or bad, so I do click it, skimming for the telltale “we regret to inform you,” or however they chose to phrase it.

I have to read it three times before it actually sinks in.

Dear Ms. Wood,

Thank you for submitting your work to the Doris McKinney Visual Arts Contest. We are pleased to inform you that your photography series, “Beyond the Play,” has been chosen as the finalist in the Photography category and will be displayed at the Close Gallery in New York City this February 10th-13th. In addition, you have been awarded the $1,000 category prize, and your work will be considered for the $5,000 grand prize. The judges were impressed by the level of range and skills you brought to such a unique subject. We look forward to seeing you and your invited guests at the prize ceremony on February 10th. Further details can be found below.

Congratulations on this achievement!

Best,

Professor Donald Marks

Visual Arts Department Chair

McKee University

I stare down at my phone, re-reading the email half a dozen more times. I submitted a series of photographs of James for the contest—some of him at work on the football field, and others of him off the field, including one of the photographs I took of him that morning in Pennsylvania. I hadn’t expected anything to come of it, not when there are plenty of actual visual arts majors at McKee.

But they liked my work. No—they loved it. They loved my range and my skillset.

Holy fuck.

I clasp my hand over my mouth as I scream, doing a little happy dance. I know they probably intend the prize money to be used for tuition, but screw that, I’m using it to buy myself new furniture.

I want nothing more in the world than to call James. He’d be so excited. If we were on good terms, he’d insist on going out to celebrate, probably at the arcade or to get milkshakes or something equally sweet. I almost do call him; I bring up his contact and everything. He’s the one who bought me the new camera, after all, and without it, I wouldn’t have been able to get those photographs in the first place.

Before I can decide, someone knocks on the door to the pantry. “Bex, honey?”

I open the door. Mom raises an eyebrow at me. “Why are you hiding in here?”

“I won a contest.”