The room is packed by the time the curator drags me to the makeshift platform to give a little speech. I give a small wave to my professor, who looks so different in a black lace dress instead of the brown tweed suits she wears to class. Christopher leans against the back wall, looking impeccable in a suit but somehow distant from everyone.
Someone who should belong but doesn’t.
I’m not twenty-one yet, but Mom gave me a glass of champagne. It left my throat dry and scratchy, or at least that’s how it feels as I look out at mostly strangers. They’ve been exclaiming and complimenting my work since they showed up.
My central piece is still up for auction.
Those display walls are glorified plywood; they don’t even reach the ceiling. The curator was more than willing to take a chunk out of
