After I Threw Away My Sketchbook, I Became the Gallery Star Chapter 01

After I Threw Away My Sketchbook, I Became the Gallery Star Chapter 01

My mother, Callista Wright, was the city art association’s most celebrated painter of starry skies.

On my little sister Catherine Wright’s tenth birthday, she hauled a ladder up to the wall of her bedroom and painted an entire galaxy stretching from floor to ceiling.

Catherine pointed to the brightest star on the mural. “Mom, write my name right there.”

Mom erased and redrew the lettering three separate times, smiling the whole while.

I handed over a sketchbook I’d saved up for half a year to buy, begging her to draw a kitten on the first blank page.

She barely glanced at it, sliding the pencil back toward me without so much as a passing thought. “Just run a print from a copy machine. It’ll look identical.”

Months later, her new solo show opened, titled The Universe I Painted for My Two Daughters.

The exhibition poster featured Catherine standing in front of that glowing galaxy wall, her white dress billowing like soft clouds. I lingered in a shadowed corner of the gallery, a plastic name tag pinned to my chest that read: VOLUNTEER.

A reporter turned to interview her. “Does your eldest daughter share your artistic gift?”

Mom hesitated a beat, then smiled politely. “She’s far more practical—she handles all the behind-the-scenes logistics.”

Catherine stepped forward, clutching a bouquet of champagne roses, and chimed in. “My sister’s amazing at hauling all the canvas frames around.”

I stared down at my untouched, empty sketchbook tucked in my bag.

It wasn’t that she couldn’t draw a kitten for me. She’d simply never once considered fitting me into any of her star-strewn canvases.

***

“Rachel, the reporter wants a full family portrait shot. Could you hold our coats for us?” Catherine shoved the heavy rose bouquet into my arms.

The sharp edge of the floral wrapping sliced lightly across my wrist.

“Sure.” I gripped the flowers and stepped two paces backward, fading into the dim glow the camera flashes never touched.

My father, Mason Wright, smoothed the knot of his suit tie and slipped an arm around Mom’s shoulders. Catherine wedged herself snugly between them, her white tulle dress blooming like a soft cloud.

Click. The shutter captured the frame.

The photographer glanced at the preview screen and laughed warmly. “Mrs. Wright, your whole family radiates such lovely chemistry—your artistic genes clearly passed straight down to your younger daughter. She’s got such a painter’s poise.”

Whole family.

I stood six feet away, that cheap plastic volunteer badge still pinned to my shirt. Black marker ink scrawled a plain word across its surface: VOLUNTEER.

Mom adjusted her wire-rimmed glasses, her tone calm and measured. “Art takes natural talent, and Cathy’s got an innate artistic spark.”

Her gaze drifted past the photographer to land on me. “Rachel’s always been grounded, though. She coordinated every bit of logistics for this exhibition.”

The photographer blinked, only just registering I was also part of their household. “Oh, your older daughter’s here too! Why don’t you step in for the group photo?”

“That won’t be necessary.” Dad checked his wristwatch without breaking stride. “Our schedule’s tightly timed. Cathy’s been standing for four hours straight—she’s hit her energy limit. We need to take her out for something hearty to refuel.”

He glanced over at me. “Rachel, you stay behind to go over closing procedures with the venue staff. This’ll be great practice honing your project management skills.”

“The venue shutdown will take two full hours,” I told him. “It’s eight p.m. right now.”

“Then work faster to streamline the process.” Dad’s voice held no warmth, like briefing a junior staff member at his office.

Catherine tugged Mom’s arm, swaying gently. “Mom, I’m craving the crawfish boil out on Eastwood Road—we’ll lose our table if we wait too long.”

“Of course, we’ll head over now.” Mom patted her daughter’s hand fondly.

I locked eyes with my mother. “Eastwood Road’s twenty kilometers from here. By the time I finish closing up, the last subway will have stopped running.”

“Grab an Uber.”

“My monthly allowance ran out last week.”

Mom’s brows drew tight in mild irritation. “Rachel, I’ve drilled financial responsibility into you since you were small. Your stipend’s a fixed amount every month; overspending means bearing the consequences on your own. That’s basic maturity for any adult.”

She never acknowledged why my funds had been drained.

Three days ago, Catherine had fixated on a discontinued set of professional watercolor paint. She’d whined that she had no spending money left and begged me to cover the cost upfront. Two thousand four hundred dollars—half my monthly living budget.

“I’ll Venmo you the ride fare later, okay?” Catherine batted her eyelashes at me.

She never sent the transfer. I never brought it up again. I knew neither of my parents would care about such trivial details. In their hyper-rational, intellectual worldview, the weaker party deserved care and accommodation—and the elder sister existed solely to supply resources to everyone else.

Eleven p.m.,I rode the last late-night city bus home.

When I pushed open the front door, the living room light burned bright. Three empty restaurant to-go containers littered the coffee table, alongside an ornate pastry box that sat completely empty.

Catherine hated strawberry cake more than anything. It was my favorite flavor.

Mom sat on the sofa scrolling exhibition analytics on her tablet, not lifting her head at the sound of my entry.

“There’s leftover soup in the fridge. Pop it in the microwave for two minutes—microwaving won’t strip out much nutritional value.”

I froze mid-shoe change. “Is the strawberry cake gone?”

“Cathy wanted to sample a bite.” Mom kept swiping across the screen. “She took one bite and decided it was too sweet, so Mason finished the rest. It’s just one dessert; you can pick another up tomorrow.”

Just one dessert.

I crossed to the table and picked up the empty box. “This shop only makes thirty of their seasonal strawberry cakes each day, and they’re exclusive to Eastwood Road.”

Mom finally looked up, her gaze sharp and critical behind her glasses. “Rachel, don’t waste emotional energy fixating on trivial sunk costs. You’re supposed to be an independent creator—obsessing over a single pastry shrinks your artistic perspective to something tiny and narrow.”

Artistic perspective. She always wrapped her blatant favoritism inside polished, professional jargon.

Dad stepped out of his study, clutching a stainless steel thermos. “Why haven’t you headed to shower yet? Tomorrow morning you’re picking up Cathy’s custom canvas order from the art supply district. Double-check the fabric weight and weave texture—she’s extremely particular about her materials.”

“I have to submit my Young Artists Showcase application packet tomorrow,” I said flatly.

“You can drop the paperwork off in the afternoon.” Dad sipped his herbal tea. “Cathy’s canvas is for next month’s state invitational exhibition; that takes priority. We have to allocate resources logically.”

I didn’t argue. I walked to the refrigerator and pulled the door open.

Four cartons of premium fresh strawberries lined the shelf, all set aside for Catherine’s fruit platters. The bag of discounted frozen ravioli I’d bought was crushed and shoved all the way to the back bottom corner.

I pulled the ravioli out and dumped them into a pot of boiling water. The water bubbled and roared as it came to a full boil.

My phone buzzed with a new message from Mrs. Lopez, my art advisor.

[Rachel, competition for the Young Artists Showcase preliminary spots is brutal. Your mother’s vice president of the art association—did you secure that letter of recommendation from her yet?]

My grip on the wooden spoon tightened until my knuckles whitened.

A month ago, Mom had given me her word. She’d promised to write the letter once she professionally reviewed my finished piece. I’d pulled fourteen all-nighters straight working on that painting.

I turned off the stove, spooned the burst, overcooked ravioli into a ceramic bowl, and carried it over to where Mom sat.

“Mom, when will you finish the recommendation letter for Night Rain?”

Mom’s scrolling finger stilled.

She set the tablet down, laced her fingers together atop her knees, and spoke in a detached, objective tone.

“I’ve reassessed your work, Rachel. Your composition’s formulaic, devoid of authentic emotional resonance. I can’t write that letter for you.”