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Excuse the Mistakes

Dedicated to NaturallyFiona, who made the cover on the side!

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“Don’t lie to me”

I spun around and spread out my arms, presenting my outfit for judgment. I was wearing a dark brown dress, which had spaghetti straps and ended two inches above my knee. It was a plain shift dress, since I wasn’t sure how dressed up I was supposed to be. This seemed like a happy medium, and I liked the dress. However, that wasn’t the issue.

“Does this clash with my cast?” I asked, desperate for a second opinion. In retrospect, yellow was a poor cast color choice since most of my clothes didn’t really go with the neon color.

Olive frowned and cocked her head to the side. She opened her mouth, and then closed it with a grimace, and after a moment, she opened it again. “Absolutely,” Olive replied, and I groaned.

Olive, as per usual, looked perfect for the Marx competition reception. She was wearing a strapless, dark orange romper with some long, gold necklaces and dangly, gold earrings. Her hair was up in a messy bun, and she had on some gladiator sandals. I envied that fact that both of her arms were bare, and not in a neon cast that was starting to itch like hell.

“Do you want help?” Olive, asked, and she started to stand up.

“Freeze!” I cried, pointing at her, “I want to pick this out myself.”

Olive put her hands up in surrender, and as she sat back down, I returned to my closet. I flipped through the hangers, and I came to the back of the closet where I hadn’t dug around in a while. I looked at dress after dress, most of which were cute but not “the” dress, and I almost called in Olive for backup. However, just before I opened my mouth, I came across it.

The dress was one I hadn’t worn in a while, probably because I forgot about it, and I plucked the hanger off the closet rod. The dress was plum, and the front was simple, while the back had a lattice-like design. The dress required me to go without a bra, which wasn’t a major issue since I didn’t have much need for one.

I slipped out of the brown dress with as much ease as a casted hand would allow, and with the same amount of it, I unhooked my bra and pulled the plum dress on over my head. I straightened the dress out and let out a deep breath before turning around to once again present myself for critique.

“Clash?”

“Nope,” Olive answered, giving me two thumbs up, “You look fantastic!”

“Thanks,” I replied happily, and I grinned.

I walked over to my dressers and opened my jewelry box, and I rummaged around until I found the earrings I was looking for, which were silver infinity symbol studs. I tried to maneuver the studs in a way that I could get them into my ears, but I guess my frustration was evident because before I knew it, Olive was at my side, putting my earrings in for me.

“There you go, cripple,” she said, smirking.

“I could’ve done it myself!” I declared, and Olive snorted.

“Maybe,” she replied with a shrug, “but we would’ve been here for awhile.”

“True,” I admitted, and Olive nodded. I glanced at the clock on my bedside table, and bit my lip. “Just let me finish getting ready, and then we can head out, okay?”

“It’s your event,” Olive replied, sitting back down on the bed. “You take your time, and we’ll leave when you’re ready. I’m just along for the free snacks, which hopefully include mini pigs-in-blankets.”

“I could go for those,” I replied, picking up my mascara.

Thankfully, when it came to doing makeup, I was pretty much ambidextrous. When my mom taught me how to do makeup, she did it with her left hand, since she was a lefty. That’s how I did it when I learned, despite being a righty, since I was overly concerned with doing it exactly as my mom did.

“Alright,” I said slowly, coating my bottom lashes in the black liquid, “I… am done!”

“Fantastic,” Olive cried, clapping her hands together, “Let’s do this shit!”

I laughed and grabbed my little, black purse, as well as my jacket. I followed Olive out of my bedroom, and we walking down the stairs with our arms looped together. I didn’t look at the basement door, but I could almost feel it’s presence behind me, as horror-movie-esque as that sounds. Like this past weekend, Duke had spent every night at a friend’s house, citing to my parents that it was because of a big project due. I was grateful he wasn’t here. I already had enough anxiety about my winning piece being of him, so I didn’t need him to actually be here.

“Bye Mom!” I called, waving in the direction of the kitchen, “We’re off.”

“Oh! Oh, Harper, wait!” she yelled back, and she hurried out of the kitchen. My mom was wearing her usual Friday night outfit, which was a pair of navy sweatpants and an old college t-shirt because he liked to be comfy.

“Yeah?” I asked, and I didn’t get an answer before my mom practically rammed into me and gave me a tight hug.  “Mom!”

“Have fun, sweetheart!” My mom said excitedly, squeezing me. “Your father and I are so proud of you.”

“Thanks mom,” I replied, beaming as she released me.

My mom returned my smile, and then she nodded at Olive. “You two try not to burn down the city, alright?” she said.

“No promises,” Olive stated, giving my mom a mock salute.

“I’ll be back late, so don’t wait up,” I said to my mom, and she nodded.

My mom hugged me one more time before letting me follow Olive out of our front door, and I climbed into the passenger seat of Olive’s car. I couldn’t drive, which meant that Olive had to, and it felt like old times, when we would carpool places all the time. Also, a bonus of having a broken thumb is that Olive pitied me and let me control the radio.

As I fiddled with the stations, jumping around to avoid commercials, Olive pulled out of my driveway and started towards the Marx Gallery. She knew the way without asking me since I’d dragged her there many a Saturday to visit new exhibits or old favorites, especially when I needed inspiration.

I settled on a station playing Florence + The Machine, and Olive nodded in approval. I opened the glove compartment of the car and fetched the Sharpie I knew Olive kept for emergencies, and I started doodling on my cast. Originally, I had thought about doing one whole big piece, but I liked the idea of a bunch of separate drawings crowding onto the limited space, almost like a tattoo sleeve.

“Jesus, open a window, dude!” Olive cried, and she pressed the button to roll down my window a little bit. “I would prefer not to hotbox my car with Sharpie fumes.”

“You’ll be fine,” I replied, coloring in a heart, “I’d have to stick it up your nose for you to really feel it.”

“How about no,” Olive stated, and I laughed. The song on the radio changed to one by the Killers, and I started nodding my head to the beat while quietly humming. “So,” Olive asked, “What’s the deal with this reception? What are we in for?”

“Well,” I said, capping the Sharpie and looking up, “From what I understood through Ruby’s bundle of excitement, there will be food, art, major dealers, and vague techno music.”

“Vague techno music the center of my universe,” Olive commented with a laugh.

“I’m more about those spinach puffs,” I replied, “The art and the dealers are much lower on my priority list than food, if we’re being real here.”

“Your priorities are in order, my friend,” Olive declared, and she reached over for a high five. Without thinking, I smacked her hand with my cast, and we both yelled in pain.

“Don’t hit me with your club hand!” Olive yelled, half giggling, “I’m doing you a favor!”

“I’m sorry!” I wailed dramatically, “Please still love me!”

Olive and I dissolved into laughter, and I leaned back against the passenger seat. This was the first time this week that I felt completely happy and peaceful, and I loved the feeling of laughing and smiling. It took my mind off of things.

Olive turned right, and soon enough, we were parking in the back parking lot of the Marx Gallery. Olive took her time straightening out her car in the spot, since she was a perfectionist when it came to parking. Then, when she was satisfied, she shut off the car and we both climbed out.

“Are you ready, Miss Artist Superstar?” Olive asked, sliding her arm around my shoulders as we walked.

I scoffed at the name. “Is that my official title?” I asked, and Olive paused before shaking her head.

“No, it’s Miss Kickass Hot-As-Hell Artist Superstar,” she stated, adding, “Artist Superstar is your nickname.”

“Ah, I see,” I replied, and I grinned. “Thanks for that.”

“You’re very welcome,” Olive said with a wink.

Olive and I walked along the path that lead to the front of the Marx Gallery, and we approached the main entrance, which was currently swamped with people arriving. “Looks we got here at the right time,” I commented, and Olive nodded in affirmation.

I was thankful to see that I was neither overdressed nor underdressed, and from that, I gained some confidence. As Olive and I filed into the gallery with the rest of the crowd, I started to feel like I belonged there. My piece was hanging in this gallery, just like everyone else’s, and I felt powerful and excited.

We followed the people directing us to the area of the gallery when the competition winners’ pieces were, and sure enough, the room was filled with vague techno music. Olive and I made eye contact and grinned. I was about to say something to her when I heard someone call my name.

“Harper!”

Two seconds later, Ruby emerged from a large group of people, and she practically ran at me. Just like my mom before we left, Ruby slammed into me with a bear hug, and for a moment, I thought she was going to lift me off the ground.

“I’m glad you’re finally here!” she squealed, sounding like a teenage girl, “There are so many important people to meet, and your piece looks great. It’s in a prime location, too; no one can miss it.”

Oh, right, my piece. The piece that featured the guy who’d cheated on me. That piece. It was in a place everyone could see. Perfect.

“Oh good,” I replied, faking my enthusiasm as best I could. “I can’t wait to go see it.”

Ruby looked like she was about to say something, but her eyes widened as she caught a glimpse of my cast. “Babe, what happened?” She asked, grabbing my forearm without warning and holding my hand up.

“I…” My voice trailed off as I searched for a viable lie.

“She accidently punched a wall,” Olive answered, giving the same lie we’d used with the school, my mom, and my doctor.

Ruby gave me the same look my mom gave me when she first heard the fake story. It was a knowing one, telling me she obviously was heavily doubting the validity of the story, but she wasn’t going to press on what happened because I noticeably didn’t want to share. My mom had tried to get it out of me the other day, but it took two minutes for her to realize the only way to get it out was to force it out, and our relationship was one where she accepted me wanting to avoid a certain topic. I think she was satisfied with me having a broken thumb and cast as punishment for whatever I did and for not telling her what had happened.

“You, my dear, are special,” Ruby said, raising an eyebrow at me. I shrugged, and then Ruby pushed herself between Olive and me. “I’ve got some people you should meet, Harper,” she stated, nodding towards the group of people she’d just come from, “And Olive, you’re coming along for the ride.”

“I’m fine with that,” Olive stated, and Ruby nodded and immediately started pulling us through the crowd.

The next several minutes were filled with introductions to people who worked at the gallery, art dealers, and patrons. One person even had connections to several art schools in the country. I made sure to keep that particular business card close. Everyone kept complimenting me on my piece, telling me it was intelligent and beautiful. As conflicted as I was about the piece’s model, the compliments from all these experts validated me in my craft, and I was really thankful.

After about twenty minutes, all the professionals dispersed, looking to see other pieces and meet other artists. Ruby also bid us adieu, since she wanted to go visit with other students and clients, as well as buyers. Suddenly, it was Olive and I alone together again.

She was scanning a business card, and she frowned. “Do you think that when that dude asked me if I did modeling, he was hitting on me?”

“Yes,” I replied without hesitation, “Absolutely.”

“Gross,” Olive muttered, and she crinkled her nose and tossed the business card over her shoulder. It fluttered to the ground, and she cleared her throat. “So,” she said, “Where’s this fabulous piece of art everyone’s been talking about?”

“Oh,” I breathed, and I put my hands on my hips. “I don’t know.” I wasn’t too keen to go and search for it, or ask anyone where it was, since I didn’t really feel like looking at something that represented a sort of intimacy between Duke and I.

“Well, I’m sure it’s around here somewhere,” Olive stated, and she started to make her way through the crowd of people filling the gallery space. I debated not following and pretending we got separated, but Olive turned around and gestured for me to follow her, which eliminated that option.

Begrudgingly, I let Olive lead me through the gallery, occasionally stopping to comment on a piece of art I thought was interesting. There were plenty of those, and I could tell Olive was getting impatient about not seeing my art. However, I didn’t care, and I took advantage of seemingly innocent method of stalling.

Finally, Olive had enough, and she gripped my wrist tightly and started pulling me through the gallery. I wanted to dig my heels in, which I know is very desperate and pathetic, but I was happy not viewing my piece.

“Harper Lynch!” Olive suddenly cried victoriously, “I found you!”

“Great,” I muttered under my breath, and a moment later, I was standing in front of my piece.

I swallowed hard and let myself look at my artwork again, and I couldn’t help but still feel the love for the piece, and the passion I felt and still feel about it. It felt cool knowing that everything on the canvas came from my hand, and now it was here, hanging in a premiere gallery. I loved it, but it hurt to look at.

“Oh,” Olive said quietly, and I could tell she knew why I had been avoiding it.

“Yeah,” I replied, crossing my arms over my chest tightly.

“That’s…”

“Yeah.”

“Harper, I’m sorry,” Olive said, turning to me, “If I had known, I wouldn’t have forced you to come look at it.”

“Don’t apologize,” I replied, waving dismissively and hoping to play it off, “I worked on hard on this, and I was going to find it eventually.”

“Harper, I—”

“I need to run to the bathroom,” I said, cutting her off.

Olive nodded. “I’ll be here,” she replied, but I was already walking away. I knew Olive could see through me like a recently windexed window, but she also knew me well enough to let me be when I needed it. I was thankful for that.

I walked into the bathroom, and while avoiding eye contact with the other women in there, I made my way to the sink. I stuck my hands under some icy cold water, desperate for a cool down. By the time I felt satisfied enough, I was the only one left in the bathroom. The isolation was stifling yet calming, and I felt uncomfortable. I dried my hands with paper towel, and I went and opened the bathroom door. Suddenly, I was face-to-face with the one person I didn’t expect to see, nor wanted to see.

“Harper,” Gretchen said, taken aback.

“Gretchen,” I replied flatly. I tried to step around her, but she blocked my path. “What are you doing here?” I asked.

“My parents are benefactors of the gallery and this competition,” Gretchen explained, smoothing down her dark red dress. Great, I thought, first my boyfriend, and now my world. What can she take over next?

“Awesome,” I commented, over-emphasizing the s.

There was a moment of awkward silence, and Gretchen coughed. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you,” she said, and she stepped into the bathroom and closed the door behind her. I almost thought she would lock it, like Duke did with the broom closet.

“Yeah, I haven’t,” I said, once again I tried to get past her. She got in front of my path again, and I clenched my jaw. “Gretchen, seriously, I don’t want to talk to you right now. I haven’t really wanted to talk to you since last Friday, so if you could get the fuck out of my way right now, that’d be fantastic,” I snarled, glaring at her.

“I sort of realized that by the way you ignored me for our presentation,” Gretchen replied quietly, squeezing her hands together, “And how you refused to look at me or anything during class.”

I wasn’t going to deny it because Gretchen was correct. For our presentation, I did the entire PowerPoint to avoid talking to her, and during the actual class, I said what I needed to say and I never looked at her. Then, as soon as the bell rang, I was out of there. Every day, I got out as soon as I could because I could tell Gretchen wanted to talk to me. Duke trying was one thing, but Gretchen was worse.

“Can you blame me?” I asked, and Gretchen blinked, taking a step back.

“No,” she said quietly, “No, I don’t.”

“Good,” I replied, “Now let me leave.”

“Not before I talk to you, Harper,” Gretchen stated firmly, and she pressed her back against the door to keep me in.

“Oh, god, must you?” I muttered under my breath, and I looked down at the tiled, bathroom floor.

“Okay, Harper, I’m just going to say this, and I hope you’re listening because it’s really for your own good,” Gretchen said, and I nodded without looking up. “Alright, well, I know you’re mad at Duke, but he wasn’t the one who made a move. Actually, he didn’t make any moves at all.”

My head shot up. “What?”

“It was me, Harper. My friends and I made this bet a while ago when you guys started dating that Duke wasn’t serious about it, and if one of us got the chance, we would test it. So, when you went upstairs, I took the chance and went down to his room.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“No, and I’m not done. Duke was lying in his bed, only in his boxers, and I just walked in and took of my shirt. He freaked out and wouldn’t touch me, and you walked down right in the middle of it. He didn’t touch me, Harper, I swear to you.”

“I…” My voice trailed off as I searched for words.

“Look,” Gretchen said, and she tried to touch my shoulder but I flinched away, “If it makes you feel better, I’m not interested in Duke. Yes, he’s hot and all, but he’s not my boyfriend.”

“Maybe you should’ve thought of that before you did what you did,” I snapped, and I shoved past Gretchen and yanked the bathroom door open. I took two steps and then turned a corner into an empty hallway.

The weight of Gretchen’s news started to fall on my shoulders, and I bent over slightly. I couldn’t help but believe her because otherwise, why would she say all those things? Telling me that it was her fault was only going to paint her in an extremely negative light, and we both knew that, yet she told me. I knew it was the truth.

My throat felt like it was going to close up, and my heart was pounding in my chest. I felt overwhelmed and guilty, and I didn’t know what to do with myself. I had been so wrong and so awful to Duke, and he really hadn’t done anything.

I needed to talk to him.

Oh god, did I need to talk to him.

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So, guys, in case you haven't noticed, this chapter is being uploaded only two weeks after the last one... so... haha! Also, it's hella long. I thought about making it shorter and taking the end part and putting it in the next chapter, but I had it written so I wanted to post it!

What do you guys think about what Gretchen said? Like I already said, people were close, but not right on the money. Personally, I think it's worse that Gretchen wasn't particularly interested, but that's just me. 

ONE CHAPTER LEFT!!!

Also, before I wrap this up, everyone should go look up some Florence + The Machine. I'm currently listening to "What the Water Gave Me" and I think it's amazing. So, look it up!

Oh, and one more thing! My story, Thin Ice, is almost at 1 million reads, and it would mean a bunch to me if it could get there. So, if you're looking for something to read and like kickass girls, maybe give it a shot!

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