The Prize
I won an Art Scholarship when I was 15. The Headmaster called out my name at the school assembly and I looked up in confusion, sure there had been a mistake or that I had misheard him. My classmates swiveled their heads and stared at me and I felt the blood rush to my cheeks, coloring my face a deep and unattractive red and causing me to slow burn with a sudden and hot humiliation. I glanced over to where my Art Teacher stood with the other teachers at the side of the hall, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. Mrs. Pollock’s wrinkled face creased into a wide grin as she caught my eye and she nodded her head, once then twice. Prickles of sweat burst out in sticky patches along my spine and my palms itched.
The Headmaster was searching the crowd of students, probing this uniformed gathering of disinterested youth with his slightly myopic gaze, looking for me. A slight frown fuddled his brow. He had no idea who I was. I was an acceptable student but I had never stood out for any reason before, neither good nor bad. My name had never drifted across his desk or fallen from the lips of any teacher during their lunchroom break in the stuffy Teacher’s Cubby. Someone seated in the row behind me tittered and the boy sitting on the hard wooden bench beside me prodded me with his elbow. “You have to go up on stage,” he hissed.
I stood up awkwardly, pulling my dress down at the back and feeling the cotton material stick against the skin of my thighs. For an awful moment my mind made a quantum leap forward, imagining that my period had arrived unannounced while I’d been seated here. I pictured the entire school watching the dark red stain seep across my skirt as I made my way up to the stage. My feet moved clumsily, halting and unwilling to carry me into the full attention of my peers. The aisle leading to the podium at the front of the hall was a million miles long as I trudged past rows upon rows of bored and restless students. The Headmaster looked relieved to see me as I at last made my way towards him. He shuffled his feet impatiently and pushed his spectacles up his nose as I slowly climbed the Himalayan mountain range of steps to stand beside him on the stage.
Embarrassed beyond redemption, I allowed the Headmaster to take my hand in his large dry paw and pump it enthusiastically. He thrust a white envelope into my hand and I heard his words of congratulations dance in the air around my head. I was flustered and confused. My artwork was not good enough to earn a scholarship. I enjoyed art classes and I had some creative ability, but my paintings paled beside the artistic harmonies of my fellow students. Following the Headmaster’s instructions, I stepped back and stood with the line of other youths, winners every one, who now stood to one side of the stage. The stiff card of the envelope felt foreign and wrong in my hand. I did not deserve to win an Art Scholarship. I did not deserve to stand here on the stage in front of the school and smiling accept this tribute.
Finally, we were released from our enforced display of triumph to return to our seats. The walk back to my row, sandwiched as I was between the student in front of me and the student behind as we filed from the stage, was thankfully fast as I floated with relief back into obscurity. I pushed past the other students to my empty spot on the bench, banging against knees and tripping over identically shoe-clad feet. I fell giddily back into the safety of my seat.
“What did you win?” My friend Jackie, seated by my side, pressed into me and looked at the envelope with interest.
I stared down at the envelope. I was an impostor. “Open it,” the boy seated on the other side of me prompted. I could not look at him. I was a phony, a pretender to this unasked-for accolade. Instead I stared at the graze on his knee, wondering at the poetic blend of grass stain and brown dirt and starkly reddened skin that colored his flesh like an alien sunset.
I exhaled, feeling the knot of tension in my chest. I knew that I would open the envelope and find someone else’s name inside. The Art Teacher would realize that yes, she had made a mistake, I would laugh with my friends ever after about the day I was nearly awarded an Art Scholarship in error, and the whole episode would correct itself. Taking another deep breath, I carefully opened the envelope and pulled out the certificate and check contained within the crisp paper pouch. The tiny paper cut which the edge of the envelope flap inflicted on my finger felt just and fitting, its sudden sting an echo of my pseudo acclaim.
I stared at the document in my hand. My full name was written in pretty calligraphy on the beige-toned certificate. The check too was written in my name, the princely sum of $86.00 printed in curling figures beside it. This was 1980, I was 15 years old, and I had suddenly and bizarrely received a windfall. Even in black and white this made little sense to me.
I eventually bought myself a secondhand black Remington Rand typewriter with the money. The Art Teacher and the Headmaster could play out their own little fantasy, but I could not ever admit that I was an art scholar. It would only confirm my status as a rip-off artist if I was to purchase art supplies for myself with the money, and I was not willing to do that.