Girl in Pieces

I finger the bundle of cash in the pocket of my overalls as I walk the aisles of the art store near the coffeehouse. Willow charcoal sticks, the airy, soft bristles of watercolor brushes. I press my fingers against the stacks of bound drawing paper, feel the raised teeth under the plastic-wrapped covers. Elegant Winsor & Newton paints in pristine bottles, lined up in perfect rows: SCARLET LAKE, PURPLE MADDER, LEMON YELLOW. They have pads with comic panel templates already in place; no more using a ruler and a finely sharpened pencil, like I did with mine. I see a lot of canvas messenger bags, low-slung army pants, and filmy scarves on the necks of the girls in the store. The boys all look like car mechanics in sandals, light scruffs of hair on their chins. I wonder if some of them are in Ariel’s classes in the program at the university. Her workshop is starting next month. I still haven’t decided if I will go. Art School Tools, that’s what Linus called a tableful of kids in paint-spattered pants and horn-rimmed glasses. They had full messenger bags and black portfolios duct-taped together. They drank cup after cup of tea and coffee. They left tips of stacked pennies and hand-rolled cigarettes, sometimes a napkin sketch of one of the waitpeople. I check the prices on sticks and graphite and paper. I have to buy some soap and toilet paper, tampons, and underwear. The soles of my boots are thinning; I can feel the bumps in the pavement on my feet as I walk and it’s so hot outside, maybe I should just get some sneakers or something instead, a lighter, cooler shoe. I have to pay Leonard rent, but I’m not sure when I’ll get a check from Julie. And then I think: Where am I going to cash this check? I don’t have a bank account. I try to add some figures in my head, but the numbers get complicated and I lose track of them, and myself. Everyone here seems to know exactly what they need, but I leave without a thing.