Reclaiming the Sand
Page 58

I headed back to my bedroom to grab a clean pair of clothes to change into for my shift at JAC’s. I planned to go back to Flynn’s house after the workshop, so I could get ready there.
The sight of my sculpture collection caught my eye as I opened the drawers. I picked up the miniature pyramid and held it in my palm. It had been a while since I had ordered a new one.
At one time, these tiny pieces of art had been my one source of joy. I enjoyed looking at them and imagining all the places I’d love to go if I could. When I was a little girl, before the system had jaded me, I’d pour over travel books, fantasizing about all the places I would visit when I was older. Julie bought me a world travel guide when I was seven and I had looked at it so much that the pages had become dog-eared and faded.
I lost the book at some point during my numerous moves. But by the time it was gone, those dreams, those fantasies, had disappeared.
I wasn’t sure why I had bought the first sculpture. I had been looking online at Shane’s house one evening. Everyone was hanging out and I wasn’t in the mood to watch the cheesy  p**n o with the rest of the group.
I was surfing through random links when I found my way to eBay. The artist’s collection was featured on the home page and on a whim I had clicked on it. I saw the small Taj Mahal and the little Parthenon and I impulsively bought one.
Maybe it was the reminder of a time when I had dared to dream of something outside of Wellsburg. Maybe it was just the fact that I was drunk and thought they looked pretty. Who the hell knows? But I ordered the miniature Parthenon and then promptly forgot about it.
Until it showed up in my post office box.
I hadn’t been prepared for how happy I’d feel holding the little thing in my hands. It was sort of ridiculous. It was a painted piece of clay for crying out loud.
I had gone home and put it on my dresser. And then when I could afford it, I bought another. Then another. Now I had a collection. I loved the details. The artist was clearly very talented.
I wondered if Flynn had ever seen them before. I decided to bring one of them with me so I could ask him. I picked up the little Eiffel Tower and wrapped it in some tissue before putting it in my bag.
I was just getting ready to leave my apartment when my phone rang. I looked down and saw a name of someone I had rather not talk to but knew ignoring the call wasn’t an option.
“Hi Mr. Cox,” I said to my probation officer after answering. I tried not to snicker as I said his name. It was a never-ending battle when I spoke with him.
“Hi, Ellie. I’m just calling to remind you of your court hearing tomorrow afternoon. It’s at three, but I wanted you to meet me at my office twenty minutes early so we could go over a few things and then walk over together.”
I swallowed my groan. I had forgotten about my upcoming hearing. I had followed every mandate set out for me, even if the ornery child inside wanted to stick her tongue out and refuse to comply.
I peed in a cup once a month. I swallowed my irritation at having Mr. Cox (come on, it’s funny!) showing up at my job and interrogate me whenever he felt like it. I put in my volunteer hours and never missed a shift.
I knew I had done everything right, but that didn’t stop my paranoia from making me doubt myself. Because it seemed like it would be my fate to have everything fall apart just as I felt I was sort of, maybe, getting things together.
“Sure. I’ll see you then,” I muttered.
“Good. Don’t be late,” Mr. Cox, said and I could picture his disdainful pursed lips and I could practically feel his superior complex from here.
“I won’t, Mr. Cox,” I said and this time I did snicker. I couldn’t help it.
“I hope not, Miss McCallum. It won’t look favorably if you are,” he preached and I rolled my eyes.
“Yes, sir!” I snarked.
Mr. Cox never knew how to take my bland sarcasm. I heard him bluster for a few seconds before saying goodbye.
I hung up the phone, trying to ignore the pessimistic sense of doom that had blossomed in wake of my PO’s phone call.
I checked the time as I left the apartment and realized I was going to be late for Flynn’s workshop. Shit!
I broke several speed limits on my way to the campus. I pulled into the only vacant parking spot and hurried towards the art building.
I peeked into the art studio and saw that the workshop had already begun.
I also noticed that everyone was staring at Flynn. And that he was sitting in his chair, his head bowed, his hands clenched almost violently in front of him.
Crap, crap, crap!
I opened the door and snuck inside. I looked for a seat close to Flynn but they were all taken. I scanned the room and a hand waved at me.
Kara Baker’s arm was flailing about, trying to get my attention. I maneuvered my way through students until I passed behind Flynn.
I knew being inconspicuous was out of the question so I simply laid my hand down on his shoulder and bent down towards his ear.
“I’m here, Flynn,” I whispered. I quickly dropped my hand and hurried back to the seat beside Kara. Everyone’s eyes were on me but I couldn’t care less. The only person I cared about was sitting silently at the front of the room, looking like he was about to lose it.
“Hey, you!” Kara said quietly as I sat down. She was obviously letting her hair grow back out and it stood in crazy spikes all over her head.
“Hey,” I said back, my eyes still trained on Flynn as I dropped my bag onto the floor.
I watched him take a deep breath and release the death grip he had on his hands. He still wouldn’t look up but he slowly picked up the pieces of scrap metal that lay in a heap in front of him.