After I Threw Away My Sketchbook, I Became the Gallery Star Chapter 02

After I Threw Away My Sketchbook, I Became the Gallery Star Chapter 02

“You won’t write it?” I stared at her, disbelieving.

“Correct.” Mom’s voice remained unshaken. “Letters from the art association carry my professional reputation on the line. I can’t lower academic standards simply because you’re my daughter—that would violate my professional ethics.”

Professional ethics. The two words pressed down on my chest like a boulder, stealing the air from my lungs.

Dad walked over and patted Mom’s shoulder reassuringly. “Your mother’s right—academia doesn’t cut corners for family. You need to learn to accept that your skill level isn’t elite. Not everyone’s destined to stand at the very top.”

I glanced down at the mushy, broken ravioli in my bowl, my appetite vanishing entirely.

“But last month, you wrote a recommendation for Cathy’s messy doodle,” I lifted my chin and met Mom’s gaze head-on. “That painting didn’t even get basic perspective correct.”

Mom’s eyes turned cold. “Cathy’s only ten years old. Her youth means her art holds untamed, raw vitality—true primitive tension, the hallmark of Fauvist expression. You lack the artistic vocabulary to recognize that, so don’t judge her work through rigid, test-prep lenses.”

Ten years old. At ten, every technical flaw was excused as “raw vitality.” At twenty, every piece I poured my heart into only earned the label “formulaic.”

Catherine’s bedroom door creaked open. She stumbled out rubbing her eyes, dragging a giant pink plush rabbit behind her. “Mommy, I can’t sleep—the stars on my wall mural aren’t bright enough.”

Mom shot to her feet, all frost melting instantly from her features. “How could they dim? I mixed the highest-grade glow-in-the-dark pigment for you. C’mon, I’ll check it with you right now.”

She didn’t spare me a single extra glance before following Catherine back into her bedroom.

Dad checked his watch again. “It’s half past midnight. Finish eating and wipe down the kitchen immediately—Cathy’s sensitive to lingering cooking fumes.”

He retreated into his study, shutting the door behind him.

I stood alone in the quiet living room, carrying my bowl to the trash can. I dumped everything straight into the garbage.

Back in my bedroom, I pulled open a desk drawer. Inside sat that half-year savings sketchbook, its first page still blank.

At ten years old, I’d begged my mother to draw one tiny kitten there. She’d told me to use a copy machine instead.

I flipped to the final page, where a thick stack of receipts was tucked away: The $2,400 watercolor paint receipt, a $12,000 deposit for Catherine’s custom canvas order, $3,000 exhibition gallery tickets.

Every dollar came from my tiny monthly allowance and the part-time art formatting gig I worked for my professor.

Within this household, my income was treated as shared household resources. Catherine’s wants always treated as top-priority mandates.

The next morning, I skipped the art supply district run for Catherine’s twelve-thousand-dollar canvas. Instead, I headed straight to the Young Artists Showcase registration office.

The admin flipped through my paperwork. “Rachel Wright? Your submission Night Rain passed the preliminary screening. But since you’re still an undergrad with no institutional sponsorship, you need to put down a three-thousand-dollar gallery booth deposit.”

“Okay.” I pulled up Venmo on my phone.

Available balance: $86.50.

My blood ran cold. I’d had $3,100 in the account the night before.

I scrolled through the transaction history. An automatic $3,000 withdrawal had posted at one a.m.

Recipient: Starry Skies Arts Immersion Camp.

I stood frozen in the registration lobby, my fingers growing numb, and dialed Dad’s cell phone. It rang five times before he picked up.

“What’s this about? I’m in a work meeting.” Dad spoke fast, irritable.

“Dad, three thousand dollars got pulled out of my bank account overnight for the arts immersion camp.”

“Oh, that.” He sounded completely unfazed. “Cathy’s signing up for that European art study abroad program next month, and she was short on tuition. I checked your account balance and saw you had exactly three grand sitting unused, so I moved it over to cover the gap.”

“That money was for my showcase booth deposit.”

“It’s just a student art fair—you’re not going to win any awards, you’ll only be filler for the competition. Terrible return on investment.” He didn’t sound the least bit apologetic.

“Dad, today’s the final deposit deadline.”

“Rachel.” Dad’s voice dropped into a sharp reprimand. “Don’t throw a fit over this. That European program will expand Catherine’s international artistic perspective; this is resource allocation at its most efficient. Your three grand was just sitting idle anyway.”

“I earned that money formatting art portfolios for my professor for an entire month.”

“We’ve housed, fed, and clothed you for twenty years—are you really going to tally up dollars against your own family?”

Dad’s logic always boiled down to an unbeatable argument.

“I’ll reimburse you from my work stipend next month. Don’t let a trivial amount ruin household harmony.”

The line cut dead. A steady dial tone hummed in my ear.

The admin tapped her desk to get my attention. “Miss, are you paying the deposit or not? There’s a line forming behind you.”

I stared at the eighty-six dollars left in my Venmo balance.

“I’m sorry,” I stepped back from the counter, my voice barely above a whisper. “I can’t complete my registration today.”