Chapter 135
Elara
The last thirty minutes, I stopped thinking. My hand just moved. The backup brushes felt wrong—too stiff, too short—but I didn't have time to fight it anymore. I painted a shattered window, glass suspended mid-break. Some fragments held darkness. Others caught light. In the biggest piece, a hand pushed through, palm up, holding a seed that had already started to sprout. The roots wrapped around the sharp edges, bleeding where they touched, but growing anyway.
Behind it all, storm clouds breaking apart. Light coming through in hard slashes. I didn't blend it smooth because I couldn't with these brushes, and then I realized I didn't want to. The roughness fit.
When I put the brush down, my hands were shaking so bad I had to press them against my legs. My eyes burned. I stared at the canvas and thought: "This wasn't for them. This was for me."
Staff came through and took our paintings away. I watched mine disappear through a doorway and felt suddenly empty, like I'd given away something I couldn't get back.
Two and a half hours, they said. We shuffled back to the holding room. I found a corner chair and dropped into it. My fingers were still covered in paint—blues, grays, that gold I'd used for the light.
"Hey." Nora sat down next to me. "You okay? I saw your painting when they took it. It was..." She stopped. "It was really something."
"Thanks." My face felt stiff. "I don't know. The technique was probably a mess."
"Technique isn't everything."
She didn't push, just sat there. Across the room, other competitors huddled in groups, voices carrying.
"Kennedy's piece was flawless. That perspective work? First place for sure."
"Obviously. She's Sloane Kennedy."
"Did you see the Vane girl though? She looked like she was having a breakdown. Very emotional. The brushwork seemed rough."
"Well, she had backup supplies."
"If you're really talented, shouldn't you adapt? It looked sloppy to me."
I kept my eyes on my hands. Didn't react. The familiar weight of being judged settled over me like I'd never left it behind.
Doesn't matter what they think. You did what you could.
But my stomach didn't believe me.
---
At four, they called us back. The painting stations were gone, replaced by rows of chairs facing a stage. Judges sat in a line up front. The screen behind them showed the Praxis Prize logo.
The audience had grown. Media with cameras. Parents clutching programs. I spotted Julian and Sloane in the third row, his arm along the back of her chair. Her hand rested on her pregnant belly. She was smiling at something he'd whispered.
I looked away fast. Found a seat in the back. Less visible was better.
Dr. Sterling stood and walked to the microphone. Steel-gray hair, sharp presence.
"Good afternoon. Thank you for your patience." Her voice cut clear through the room. "Fifty exceptional young artists competed today. What we saw represents not just skill, but vision and courage."
She paused. Several competitors sat straighter.
"Our criteria: technical execution, thirty percent. Creative interpretation and composition, twenty-five percent. Thematic coherence, twenty-five percent. Emotional resonance and artistic depth, twenty percent. Each judge scored independently. We eliminated the highest and lowest to prevent outliers."
My hands were sweating. I wiped them on my jeans.
"We're advancing the top twenty-five. Fifty percent. To build suspense, we'll announce in reverse order, starting with twenty-fifth place."
My chest tightened. Fifty percent should have felt safe. It didn't.
"Twenty-fifth place, 7.2 points—Zoe Brown, Pratt Institute."
Polite applause. A girl stood, looking half-relieved, half-disappointed.
"Twenty-fourth place, 7.3 points—Nora Miller, School of Visual Arts."
Great! Nora made it through! I looked over at her and saw her jump up with excitement. I watched the names tick by. Twenty-third. Twenty-second. Twenty-first. My name didn't come. By twentieth place, people were whispering. By fifteenth, my heart was in my throat.
Nora shot me an encouraging look as she passed.
Tenth place. Ninth. Eighth.
"Seventh place, 8.0 points—Ava Wilson, Rhode Island School of Design."
Six names left. Either I was top six or I'd failed completely. No middle ground.
"Guess the Vane girl didn't make it."
"Not surprising, really."
"Probably for the best—she only got in through connections anyway."
I closed my eyes. Tried to breathe. Started preparing myself to stand and leave with whatever dignity I had left.
"At least I tried."
But God, it hurt.
---
"Before we announce our top three," Dr. Sterling said, "I want to acknowledge something."
I opened my eyes.
"These three works represent very different approaches to 'Broken and Reborn.' What you're about to see demonstrates that artistic excellence isn't one narrow path."
The screen behind her flickered. Three paintings appeared, too small to see clearly from back here.
"Third place, 8.6 points—Isabella Torres, Parsons School of Design."
Strong applause. A Latina woman in her mid-twenties stood up front, Parsons hoodie, high ponytail. She walked to the stage like someone used to winning.
"Thank you so much." Her voice was warm, practiced. "I'm honored to be here. A bit disappointed not to place higher"—she laughed—"but being in the same competition as Sloane Kennedy is honestly reward enough. Her work has been such an inspiration."
The crowd loved it. Sloane inclined her head modestly. They were performing for each other, the art world elite recognizing their own.
Third place went to a Parsons grad student, I thought. Six years of training. Exhibition experience. Tens of thousands of Instagram followers. If she's only third...
"And now," Dr. Sterling's voice changed, "second place."
The room held its breath.
"This is unusual." Dr. Sterling's gaze found me in the back row. My stomach dropped. "This artist faced significant obstacles today. Sabotaged materials. Forced to work with unfamiliar backup supplies. From a technical standpoint, this shows in the final piece. The brushwork lacks refinement. Color transitions are rough. The execution bears marks of adaptation under duress."
Oh God. She was building up to explain why I didn't place. This was going to be public, sympathetic failure. Worse than just losing.
"However." Her voice sharpened. "What this artist achieved in thematic interpretation, emotional authenticity, and pure artistic vision was remarkable. Her understanding of 'Broken and Reborn' transcended technique. She didn't illustrate the theme—she embodied it. Every judge was moved by the raw honesty. The way it speaks to human resilience without sentimentality."
My heart stopped.
"This is the kind of artistic depth many professionals spend careers trying to achieve. To see it in someone so young, under such conditions, is extraordinary."
She looked right at me. Something in her face looked almost like apology.
"Second place, 8.9 points—Elara Vance."