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Posted: Fri Mar 17, 2017 9:55 pm
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They hadn't had too leave too early of course. More of a mid morning in time for fast food breakfast early, really. Jer's car was a novelty to say the least, almost like the world's least thrilling amusement park ride. Sipping the last of her orange juice, America tells him about calling her mom.
"First time I like, tried to my best to pretend everything was okay and I'd just gotten caught up with school and a boy and all that," she explained. "I called a second time 'cause I panicked like, it felt like I'd forgotten something, like some everybody with a mom knows to do this thing sorta deal, like I've probably seen it on TV or something, right? Anyway I was still panicking when she'd picked up and I was like, Wrong number! And hung up."
She turned a disbelieving look toward the driver, as if incredulous at her past self being such an idiot.
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Posted: Fri Mar 17, 2017 10:26 pm
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Sometimes fast food was necessary- especially when they had to make a drive for this kind of subject matter.
Jeremiah let out a breath, a huff of laughter. "If it makes you feel any better, I essentially did something similar with my own mother. Not to mention that I still am a little ... unsure of myself when texting your mother back." Just because clearly there was a friendship there, of some kind, he had no recollection of.
It was obviously far, far more trying for America. "I'm glad you got a hold of her finally, though." His eyes cut to her briefly, a smile given. Jeremiah reached over with a hand, the other staying on the steering wheel, and squeezed her forearm reassuringly.(His hand was just the faintest bit cold - not uncomfortable just cool - and his affection and caring flickering briefly as it was felt.
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Posted: Fri Mar 17, 2017 10:38 pm
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Posted: Tue Mar 21, 2017 9:20 pm
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Posted: Wed Mar 22, 2017 2:46 pm
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In the center of the gallery there was a massive, terrifying sculpture of a bone-colored deer leaning on a block. Shiny red translucent acrylic spilled from its breast and down onto the floor, and covered basically everything about the stripped-down buffed concrete. A note on a shoulder-level stand by the beginning of the red pool said Please Step On The Art. So, that happened. The deer's antlers were hung with live peonies. A viewer could tell they were live because they'd begun to dry, shriveling and losing their bright colors, but were in that stage of drying where they were actually horrendously unattractive.
Art.
The walls, sheet white and starkly lit, were hung with a hodgepodge of paintings and relief sculptures. A person all in black was sitting at a desk stuck into a corner. This person had tucked up their hair into their hat, and was bowed over a rose gold Macbook. The only sound in the gallery was their fingers clattering against the keyboard, and occasionally their noisy sips of a Starbucks drink in the blue springtime cup.
Hanging from the ceiling were thousands of strips of torn black fabric. They glimmered with gold writing and shredded pieces of paper were sewn among the forest of God only knew what.
"Hey," said the person, pausing their typing. Their voice was mid-range for a girl. "Let me know if you have questions."
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Posted: Wed Mar 22, 2017 2:54 pm
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"Oh boy, do I..." America's gazes fixed on the central piece. Letting go Jer's arm, she moved to circle it, taking in the sight of the whole, then the pieces that made it up. It was, to say the least, impactful. The sort of thing she'd see behind her eyes at night.
Reading the note, she experimentally pressed the toe of her shoe onto the acrylic, calling out, "Miss? How long has this piece been up?"
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Posted: Thu Mar 23, 2017 2:56 pm
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"Uh, it was me," said the student. There was something about her that was familiar to America, something otherworldly. For Jeremiah, the nearness to the student brought a feeling of impending danger. "There's a tag off on the side."
The tag was a paper-white mailing label stuck onto the pillar beneath the lovingly sculpted deer. It listed the name of the work, of the artist, and the date of installation in a hand that, to America, would be familiar. Bold, yet feminine at the same time, the handwriting declared: In All My Dreams V. Hawken 12 March 1980
"I think you know what my inspiration was, Mr. Mercer," said the student.
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