Haleigh Wenger [Wenger - The Art of Falling in Love

My head pounds as I suck in a breath.

Okay. Focus.

Across the room, my laptop is open, cursor blinking on a blank screen. Despite my aching skull, today is the day I figure out what I'm going to do to get into Flagler College. Ive always thought of myself as an artistic soul, but truthfully, I havent ever stuck toor masteredany one medium. Still, art school is the only place Ive ever wanted to go for college. And in order to do that, I need to create a project that shows my true talent, but Im stumped. Maybe I have no actual talent?

No. I have to stop thinking that. This summer was supposed to be about Opa helping me figure it all out. This was going to be our Summer of Art. Opa said it'd be special.

He always made everything so special.

I choke off a breath and push thoughts of him away. I click over to another screen, eyes glazing over as I do.

Im only a few bullet points deep into my list of possible entry projects when a shadow in my doorway interrupts me.

Claire, theres someone at the door. Do you mind?

Moms hands rest on her hips, and her eyebrows rise in my direction. Judging by the dark circles under her eyes, shes in no shape to chat with strangers. The distance from the front door to my bedroom doorway is so short that anyone standing outside could hear any word spoken, so I mouth silently to Mom. Who is it?

She throws her hands up and shakes her head, loose dark curls left over from the funeral yesterday swinging. No clue, she mouths back.

I quickly run a brush over my own stringy hair and go to solve the mystery. When I open the door to find the porch empty except for a rectangular package, I sag against the doorframe. Ill admit part of me hoped to see Opa, here to announce that the past week was all a big, sick joke, but after seeing his body at the viewing, I know this isnt a joke.

Itll never be a joke.

I heave the package up with both hands and shut the door behind me. Mom has already disappeared, probably back to her room with a washcloth over her eyes to nurse her headache. I don't need her to tell me where to put the mail, though. All of Opa's papers always go straight to his study. I haven't even peeked inside since we got here yesterday. Too many memories. Too hard to look around and realize he isn't there in the black-leather swivel chair, one elbow propped against his mahogany desk.

I suck in a breath in preparation and swing the door open. Peppermint stings my nose as soon as I step through the doorway. It's all the same as it's always been: neatly organized chaos. Stacks of papers line the back of the desk, leaning against the wall. Clear plastic containers, one on top of the other, sit in rows against the other wall, and each of them contains even more paper clippings, important documents, probably a lot of my early art projects. My hands itch to grab onto all of it and take any piece of him that's left. His desk is smooth and cold under my touch as I run one hand along the dark wood and drop the package on top with my other hand.

Opa never minded me wandering around his stuff before, but now that he's gone, I glance around like he'll pop up from behind the mess to yell at me.

I turn quickly to leave, but something flutters behind me, and a mountain of papers slips off the desk, the top pages taking their sweet time gliding to the ground. I stoop to gather them. Then I cross my legs underneath me and sit in defeat amongst the mess. My hand hovers over a brightly colored paper at the bottom of the pile, and I bring it closer to my face to inspect.

TEEN SAND SCULPTING COMPETITION, the flyer reads in bold rainbow-colored print. It's promoting a competition at the beach, hosted by the recruiting team at Flagler. My eyes roam the paper for the details, which include a scholarship prize to the winner. Another paper is stapled to the back, and when I flip it over, I recognize Opa's small penmanship immediately.

He's written my name at the top of the page. My hands smooth over the other paper. It's a registration form for the contest, and it's completely filled out, down to my name, birth date, and high-school graduation date. But why?

My fingers crumple the edges of both papers as I fight the equal desires to smash them into a paper ball or hug them to my chest in lieu of the person I miss so much.

Opa did this for me. He believed this was something I'd be good at, or at least have fun with. Knowing him, he was probably planning on turning in the entry on my behalf and then luring me to the beach, where he'd spring the news.

My wet eyes find the registration form again, which I'd let fall to the ground in my uncertainty. I pick it up and fold it until its small enough to fit into the pocket of my shorts. I back out of Opa's study and zombie-walk to the kitchen, my head buzzing.

Mom wanders in from her room, eyes trained on me like she can smell the secret simmering inside. We sit at the kitchen table after she grabs some grapes and sets them between us. I pop three in my mouth before I can work out how to tell her what I found. She stares me down while I chew, making it harder to concentrate until I unfold the registration form and slide it across the table to her.

She wrinkles her nose. What is this? I would roll my eyes if it hadnt been my exact response, too.

Ive talked enough to Opa about my interest in art for him to know that I'm passionate about serious art. Not people making mermaids out of sand. Not fun-touristy contests on the beach. And I honestly don't have a clue what my dream school is doing hosting a contest like this. It has to be one of those things for kids or amateurs, something to fill the summer. Not for real artists.

Opa wanted this for me, but why? And is this really what I want for my portfolio, even if my dream school does host the contest? A bunch of sand castles wont impress next to the other applicants inventive self-portraits and bold paintings.

I bury my head in my hands. If I thought my head hurt when I woke up this morning, it's nothing to the brain-numbing thumping I've got now.

Opa wants me to enter this contest, apparently. Mom starts to say something, but I hold up a hand. I can handle this. Im going down to the beach tomorrow to ask around. Maybe it's not as dumb as it sounds."

Not likely. But, I can at least give it a shot.

She considers me for a second. Okay. Let me know what you find out."

We sit in silence as we crunch juicy purple grapes. If Opa wants me to do this contest, I should at least try. Maybe I can find some way to enjoy this summer after all, doing something he wanted for me.