ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Kathy Vo is a digital marketer based in Santa Clara, CA. Her works have been published by Flash Fiction Magazine and Unbroken.

Bitter Grounds

I’m sketching willow trees at a cafe when my former classmate Brenna waves at me. She squeals in delight, then sits at my table without asking. She doesn’t wait for me to close my sketchbook before dumping her checked Louis Vuitton tote over it, which seizes most of the table space until the rest of her belongings spill out. There’s the latest iPad Pro, sea moss gummy packets, a Tesla key fob, healing crystals. I don’t see a single pen, not even the cute pastel ones she loved back at CalArts. Leaning back into her chair, Brenna starts her usual spiel when reuniting with acquaintances: Oh my god it’s been forever, what movie are you working on, oh you’re still freelancing, so fab I could never. When I finally think it’s my turn to ask about her life, Brenna somehow talks faster. In less than two minutes, I learn much more than wanted to. Brenna did visual development for the latest Oscar winner, bought her first house in Sherman Oaks, traveled to Portugal for a work research trip, had a threesome with Swedish models, and just got promoted to a senior role at Disney Animation Studios. Her lone misfortune is that her workplace got rid of the on-site barista.

“It’s awful,” Brenna laments. “I mean, how do they expect us to work when we have to pay for pour-over?”

“I can’t imagine.” I sip my own burnt espresso, which cost me exactly $3.50. That doesn’t stop me from coming to this cafe every day. Aside from my apartment, I have nowhere else to go.

After a barista announces her caramel macchiato is ready, Brenna doesn’t leave. Instead, she rushes back to my table and rants about her current project. The director hasn’t approved her environments in weeks, her manager axed her proposed color palette, and she already missed a key deadline.

“I could really use your help,” she says, already turning on her iPad. “You’ve always had a good eye.”

“That’s rarely helped me though.” Underneath the table, my fingers drum on my discount sketchbook, displeased with the paper’s gritty texture I didn’t mind moments ago.

“It’ll only take a minute.”

Brenna shows me her current drafts on iPad, and I take well over a minute to admire all the ways she painted the world: sand dunes, lush woodlands, red canyons, frosty tundras, sunny beaches. As she explains her thought process for each environment, I pull her iPad closer to me, secretly hoping her artistry would burn into my palms.

“Sooooo,” Brenna starts, her smile bright and hopeful, “what do you think?”

There’s so much to say about her work. I adore how she made light flutter through bamboo stalks and pierce night skies. I study how she layered precious greens with soft shadows, crafting the most ethereal forest confined to a tablet. Everything is digital but I can still see her delicate brush strokes across each pixel. Her technique is maddening, every little detail successfully bringing her wonderful imagination to life. The only thing I can nitpick is that the longer I get lost in her art, the more I realize I will never create a world as beautiful as hers. I say none of that out loud. All I can spit out is “it’s fine” and delight in how quickly hope dims in her eyes. Her smile wavers but remains. Brenna mutters a sweet “thank you,” tucks her belongings back into her tote, and stands up with a grace that stokes my resentment.

“By the way, the TV department is looking for a background painter,” she adds. “I could put in a good word whenever you’re sick of freelancing.”

My first thought is to dismiss her offer. I’ll convince her I’m fine, how I don’t need her help to prove my art is worth more than my monthly rent. But I can’t help but notice the way her hair gleams, thick and shiny with fresh golden highlights that cover up her natural brunette roots. The lack of orange brass tells me Brenna got it done recently, likely at a fancy salon instead of the Supercuts I went to over a year ago. I long for what she has, but the idea of being in her debt is a casual cruelty. If I did get hired, I would spend the entire time in the cubicle wondering which is more valuable: my art or her validation.

“This is your site, right?” Brenna is already browsing my portfolio on her iPhone, dissecting the house of my insecurities. Too many marketing ads for mid-tier brands, too few credits for legitimate films. It had been a long time since I last visited her portfolio, but when I finally did, envy curled inside me as I scrolled through her work. Hours passed unnoticed. There she was, succeeding where I hadn't—interview clips from a movie’s behind-the-scenes documentary, pages of her environment drafts in another movie’s official art book, polished photos of her speaking at Comic-Con panels, film credits spanning my entire phone screen. Now, as Brenna studies my work with a distant gaze, offering nothing but the occasional nod, I’m certain she won’t waste the same time doom-scrolling as I did.

“You’ll be fine,” she insists. “The art director will like you.”

I bite the inside of my cheek and force myself to smile. Fine, she said, just as I told her. Except hers is saturated with honesty and good intentions, not an inkling of spite.

“That’ll be nice,” I say. “Thanks, Brenna.”

“Anytime.” Brenna waves, effortlessly casual.

She moves through the world with an ease I can’t replicate. I wonder if it’s this breezy confidence, on top of her talent, that’s propelled her so far ahead while I struggle to keep pace. Once Brenna leaves, I crumple her business card, wishing it was her face shriveling inside my fist instead of Mickey Mouse’s cheerful smile.