text: “Why did you take this class if you are only going to stare at a blank piece of paper?” I glance up to see who's speaking. It’s a man with boyish looks and curious blue eyes. He sits at the desk next to mine. His paper already holds all kinds of objects. A square with deep shadows. A sphere with lots of pencil shading like the one on the board in front of the class. It looks even cleaner than the one our instructor drew. The rest of his paper holds a flawless cylinder. It captures the light hitting it at the perfect angle. It’s so smooth it looks like a photograph and not a sketch. I can’t help but glare. It’s obvious he’s taken art classes before. I straighten my paper on my desk. It’s still crooked. I straighten it again. I take my box of charcoal pencils and lay it evenly next to my paper. I straighten them both once more. My eraser is too far away. I place it next to the box of pencils. Perfect. Everything lines up in a nice, neat row. All I have left is to get started. I glance back over at the guy next to me who is waiting for a response. “Oh, you’re one of those,” he says, answering his own question. My brows knit together in confusion, “One of what?” “A perfectionist.” My heart misses a beat. I hate that word, perfectionist. I look away from the guy without answering him. My blank paper stares at me from the table. It taunts me. Go ahead and get started, what’s stopping you? “I wouldn’t say I’m a perfectionist,” I tell him quietly. I move my pencil box to the left side of my paper, deciding it looks better there. Now the eraser is in the wrong spot. I move it again. It’s only after I tidy things on my desk one more time that I tell him, “I do like having things a certain way. It helps.” “Helps what, exactly?” he asks, in a playful tone. “It’s painful to watch you.” “Everyone has their own way of doing things,” I snap back, defensive. “You don’t have to watch me. I’d rather you didn’t.” Waves of anxiety hit me at the thought of someone judging my work. “Right. Okay,” he says, smiling in a carefree manner. “I didn’t mean to make you feel like you’re doing anything wrong. My name’s Gausik. What’s your name?” “Camellia,” I whisper, turning my attention back to my paper. The sharpest charcoal pencil I have sits between my fingers. I start to mimic what our instructor created on the board. The sphere feels like a safe place to start. My pencil scratches at the center of the page as I persuade it to create a perfect circle. It’s too messy. I erase it and start again. The second attempt isn’t any better, so I erase it, too. No amount of furious scrubbing with an eraser can remove my past mistakes. I pull another sheet of paper out and begin again. It was an impulsive decision I made to be in this class. The local high school had posted a flyer. It said they would be hosting several different night classes with guest instructors. The classes went all throughout summer. Anyone above the age of eighteen were welcome to attend. I had wanted to go to college when I was younger. My dream had been to major in art. A pipe dream. College is for kids who land scholarships or have parents who can afford to send them. I didn’t fall into either of those categories. A new blank paper looks at me from the desk. I pick up my pencil and then put it back down. Class is almost over. I wasted the last forty-five minutes too scared to draw a circle. Of all the “P” words used to describe me, “Perfectionist” was the wrong one. The guy next to me should have used the word that really fits. Pathetic. No wonder I’m painful to watch. Tears form in the corner of my eyes. The last thing I want is for Mr. boyish good looks to see me having a breakdown on the first night of classes. I scoop all my things into my bag and dip out of class early. What had I been thinking? My shoes hit the sidewalk in loud steps on my way to the parking lot. It isn’t fair for the night sky to look down on me with a perfect moon at its center. The moon’s round face has a smug smile hidden in its craters, as if to say, look - even I can make a circle. My keys shake against my car door as my fingers tremble with frustration. Anyone who happens to be watching me will think I’m the first one to die in a horror movie. My keys drop to the ground, and I snatch them back up. I can’t do anything right, can I? A yelp escapes me when someone grabs at my shoulder. It’s all reflexes when I swing myself around. My bag connects with something solid. “Ouch,” it hisses. “I didn’t mean to scare you.” The solid object is Gausik. He rubs at his arm with a sheepish look on his face. A ping of guilt for hitting him stabs at me before I push it away. What business does he have sneaking up on a woman in a dark parking lot? Without confinement to a desk, his height towers over me. His hair is a mess of brown curls. He looks around my age, late twenties. “Why did you follow me?” “I wanted to give you something,” he says, and opens his hand to reveal a small slip of paper. “Don’t let tonight discourage you from going after what you want.” I stare at the paper confused for a moment, and when I look up, I notice the guy had walked away. He reaches a scarlet motorcycle on the other side of the parking lot. Light from the moon reflects on the back of his leather jacket. It reminds me of the cylinder on his paper. A single line of reflected white light trails between his shoulder blades. The white then fades to various shades of grey before it disappears into solid black. “Hey wait,” I yell. “What is this?” He gives me a mischievous grin before he slips on his helmet. He slides onto his bike and the engine rips through the air with a violent sound. He offers a thumbs up before he pulls out of the parking lot. Fury builds inside me as I watch him go. How hard is it to answer a damn question? I study the piece of paper. It reads: 1412 King Ave, Tulsa OK Friday, June 13th 6:30 p.m. How stupid would I be to show up to this address without more answers? I climb into my car and listen to the familiar whine of the engine. Anxiety claws at my chest. I’m not good at doing new things or going places I’ve never been before. It’s up there with my other fears like “meeting new people” and “ordering food over a drive thru speaker.” It took insane courage to come to this class. What good did it do? Isn’t it time to let go of the idea that I could ever be an artist? *** My nails drum against the desk. My heel taps against the floor at the same speed. The clock above the door grabs my attention. Hello, it’s four forty-five in case you care , it tells me. Ohh ho ho, it’s 5 o’ clock and you know what that means, it continues. I glare at its red digital numbers and debate throwing my shoe at it. A broken clock can’t tell time. My computer blinks into a black void as I power it down, readying myself to leave for the day. There are no last-minute calls needing me to schedule appointments. All the accounts payable paperwork has been filed. I can’t think of a single thing left to do that would keep me at the office late no matter how hard I try. My desk is organized to the point that a furniture magazine would use it for advertising. The only thing holding me back from going to that address tonight... is me. *** It's a tall building. I didn’t expect that. The architecture suggests it’s from the 1920's. Lots of old buildings in downtown Tulsa are from the 1920’s. My fingers itch to park myself across the street, pull out my sketchpad, and draw every old brick one-by-one. The glass doors are covered by a moss green canopy. The windows are arched and a staircase zigzags down the left side of the building in a series of black iron bars. Next to the staircase is a giant painted canvas of a black bear. It holds a yellow daisy in its paw, sniffing it. Above the bear reads, “Black Bear Hotel.” It’s when I get to the doors that I take note of an important detail missing from Gausik’s slip of paper. Where am I supposed to go? There isn’t a room number. It’s not too late. I can still turn back and go home. No one is making me go inside. My traitor feet drag me through the hotel doors and dump me into the lobby. Cherry red sofas and chairs are spread across the room. Old black-and-white photos of Tulsa landmarks decorate the walls. A turquoise chandelier hangs from the ceiling with thousands of dangling beads. There isn’t anyone behind the counter to check guests in. My shoulders sag in defeat, and I head back to the hotel doors. I did try. I should get points for that. I yelp as someone grabs at my back. My body turns before I tell it to and my hand connects with something solid. It takes a second before it registers that my hand has been captured. It’s wrapped tight in fingers larger than my own. “I was ready this time,” Gausik laughs. A girl stands next to him. She’s in overalls. A striped shirt with long sleeves is underneath. She’s covered in splashes of paint all the way down to her black combat boots. Bright blue hair is tied into pig-tails high on her head. She smiles at me with brilliant red lips. “You must be Camellia.” Gausik lets go of my hand. “Everyone is waiting. Let’s get going.” He tosses a grin to the girl, “told you she’d show, Maddie. Where’s my ten bucks?” She fishes a ten dollar bill from her front pocket and shoves it into his hand. Then, she snakes her slim arm around mine. “We love new faces. I’m happy to be wrong. Let’s go,” she says, dragging me up a flight of stairs hidden behind the check in desk. “Is anyone going to tell me what’s going on?” I ask. One flight of stairs turns into two. Two turns into three, three turns into five, and I ask another reasonable question. “Where are we going?” “The rooftop,” Maddie says, as if it’s obvious. Gausik throws open the door at the end of the last flight of stairs and we funnel onto the roof. I let out a gasp. On the top of the roof are at least eight huge canvases. Buckets of paint, paintbrushes, and tarps, are scattered everywhere. Strings of lights hang low with glowing yellow bulbs against a fading sun. Several more people are on the rooftop. A trio near the right corner of the roof sing in time with music I’ve never heard before. Their hips and paintbrushes sway to the beat. The words are off key as they sing. They don’t seem to care. Maddie lets go of my arm and runs to the center canvas. The image makes my heart skip a beat. A nude woman is turned around in the center of it. You see her arms crossed above her head. Her hair is trapped in her fingers as it tumbles down her bare back. The curves of her hips meet the bottom of the canvas leaving the woman’s lower half to the imagination. Her head is angled away. All you see there is the side of her angular cheek, her curved nose, and the lines of her chin. Above them, a closed eye with long lashes. The picture is painted in several shades of grey and blue. “It’s mine, Camellia. What do you think?” Maddie asks. A nauseous feeling hits my gut. I shouldn’t be here. “It’s stunning,” I tell her. Something slaps me in the stomach and I look down. Gausik had put a large paintbrush in my hand. “This is my sister’s art studio. Welcome to Novice Night. We host these every third Friday of the month. Pick any blank canvas you want.” He says this like it isn’t a big deal. Anyone can pick up a paintbrush and lay it against a blank canvas. Anyone can choose the right colors. Anyone can make something out of nothing. Anyone can create art. My breath comes out faster and faster until I can’t keep the panic inside any longer. I push the paintbrush back into his hands and turn to the door. “Camellia, where are you going?” he asks. “Thanks for inviting me,” my voice comes out tight and my eyes sting. “But I’ve never painted before.” “Hey... hey. No need for crying,” he says to soothe me. “It’s okay if you haven’t painted before. It’s not a test. Don’t you want to make art? Did I get that wrong?” “You have to be an artist to make art and I haven’t had a chance to learn yet. I’m not ready.” He tilts his head in confusion before he says, “Who told you that?” “Well, it’s true. I’m not like everyone else here. You guys are talented.” He laughs and it’s a full sound that shakes his whole body. Shame burns my cheeks and I take a step closer to the door. He grabs my hand pulling me back. “Camellia, everyone is an artist. Don’t you know? If you wait until you think you’re ready, you’ll never get started. The time will never be right or perfect. You don’t have to have talent to create art. The only thing you need,” he leans in close to my ear, “is to be human.” His words sink into my head. I blink a few times. He pushes the paintbrush back into my hands. A blank canvas mocks me as it stands next to Maddie’s perfect painting. No matter what he says, I still can’t bring myself to move. He shoots me a toothy smile before picking up a bucket of paint at my feet. The color is black. In one large movement he lets the paint fly. It coats Maddie’s painting and she shrieks. Instead of anger, she surprises me, and lets out a laugh. She takes her brush blurring the black paint into the background. When she finishes, I'm struck again by her talent. Everything is black except for fingers twisting into hair and the side of the woman’s face. “What’s it going to be, Camellia? Worried you'll make a mistake?” Gausik asks. “Are you going to let the fear of not being good enough hold you back for the rest of your life?” The first color I choose is red. Red like the anger inside me for needing to be perfect all the time. A voice is loud in my head with every stroke against the blank canvas. I can’t tune out the words. Oh, you only took second place in your track meet? Why didn’t you take first? You have a B on your report card this semester. It was all A’s on the last one. You need to try harder. We expect more from you. Camellia, your hips are hanging over your jeans. Don’t you think you need to slow down on the food? Your face is breaking out again, Camellia. Why don’t you ever wash your face enough? Is that what you’re wearing? I don’t want people to think I raised a daughter who doesn’t care about her appearance. Tears run down my cheeks when I see the canvas in front of me is no longer white. All I see are shades of red. I attack the canvas further as if the sound of paint strokes can drown out another voice in my head. My own. You’ll never be good enough. You’ll never be loved. Everything you do is a mistake. You’re trash, Camellia. Don’t you know that? Who are you to think you can be an artist? Don’t make me laugh. How can you create something that means anything when you mean nothing? How can you make something beautiful when you’re so ugly inside?” I grab black paint and keep going. The place painting takes me to is a state of release. It’s a symbiotic relationship between chaos and peace. Its Maddie’s voice that brings me back to the present. “Oh, this is truly something... it’s beautiful Camellia.” My fingers still against the canvas, finished, and I hear Gausik say in a low voice, “I told you, didn’t I? We’re all artists.” I study the painting, surprised it’s my own. Looking back at me are ruby red petals. They belong to a Camellia flower. They ripple against the canvas in a way that steals the breath from my lungs. Around the Camellia flower are black bars. Such a beautiful delicate flower and yet, it’s trapped in a cage. The petals are messy. The lines aren’t straight. Despite it all, I sink to my knees. A weight on my shoulders has been lifted. This is what it means to be an artist. Everything about my painting is... right. It’s perfect. It’s human.