By Layla K.

1989

When the bookshelves were mountains and the carpet was shrubbery, Eve would explore the rooms of her grandmother’s house, admiring her collection of ceramic figurines. Rooted to the wood, ensconced on bookshelves and console tables, the figures had sat untouched for decades–birds, mice, ducks, fairies, and gnomes collecting dust. With no one to play with, Eve explored, seizing the miniatures in her hand, rubbing off the dirt, the colors turning more vibrant as the heat of her hands warmed the cold porcelain. Once she found a snow globe with silver and gold sparkles in the water and rabbits in the center. After she excitedly grabbed it from the shelf, the small glass planet slipped through her hands and shattered on the ground. Glittering water spilled over the wood floor; the rabbits dismembered. She brought the destroyed snow globe to her grandmother, positive she could mend the damage she had done. 

The old woman glared down at Eve, broken pieces of glass in her hands and glitter stuck to her skin. Her grandmother sighed before yelling, “How could you break that, Eve, it was so expensive!” 

Meaningless words. She did not understand the value of a snow globe, but nonetheless Eve was shattered. For the first time that she could remember, her grandmother was angry at her, her wrinkled face contorted with frustration and scary, like a witch. Eve’s fallen tears mixed with the specks of glitter and shards of glass. She wondered why someone would own toys that were not meant to play with. 

But in a way, she was not so naïve. She knew that fragile figurines were not meant to be touched. She knew that the porcelain could shatter into hundreds of jagged fragments that could never be glued back together. Although she knew better, Eve wished that the small, lifeless figures were waiting for her to polish off the dust and play with. She wished for the fairies to spring out of her hand with a flutter of their wings and fly around the living room. She wished for the small animals to jump around like the rabbits and mice in Cinderella. They could follow her around the quiet house, sew her beautiful dresses, and talk to her when she was alone. Maybe they could have fixed this horrible mess she had made. But this was not what they were. The miniatures were supposed to remain in the same spot year after year after year, stationary, only to be admired. They were not meant for sticky hands to aggressively grab and throw around like stuffed animals. Eve learned to keep her hands to herself, that the bookshelves are bookshelves and the carpet is carpet.

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2001

“They’re gonna catch us, Eve.”

“Shh. Just crouch down.” 

Eve had been planning to bring her friends to the secret lake. She waited for an opening, when her parents were not fixated on her every step and the door alarm was disarmed. Sometimes her home felt like a prison, her parents watchful guards waiting to catch her attempt at a jailbreak. At home, the opening of the front door echoed through the ominous silence. But on the lake, the silence was peaceful, with serene willows and oak trees lining the edges. 

There was no path to the lake except through the lavish backyard three doors down. Most of the houses in the neighborhood were elegant, but this one was particularly beautiful. It was mountainous, white, and pristine. The columns stretched up like redwood trees and the large windows arched like sideways crescent moons. It seemed like no one ever entered or exited the house, so Eve assumed the owners were rich and old, rotting inside the large empty house. The girls ducked under the windows of the mansion. After scurrying through the backyard and hopping over the picket fence, the five tumbled into the dirt. With a glistening body of water in the distance, they began their trek down the hill. She led her friends through the weeds and dirt, into the valley. The girls were giggling as they tripped over branches and held on to each other for support. 

With scratched knees and dirt on their clothes, the gaggle of teenage girls finally reached the lake. Perched on the edge of the dock, they kicked the water around and laughed. She admired the lake water and basked in the California sun, making her parents feel miles away. Shutting her eyes, focusing on the faint rustle of small animals and the trill of birds, she smiled.

Soon, Eve could no longer pay attention to the glittery water or the animals. She could almost hear her parents’ scratchy voices yelling for her back at home. They probably wanted her to finish that history essay or vacuum the floors. She had been out for too long, immature and careless. She stood abruptly and began to walk back home, abandoning her friends who were familiar with her parent’s antics. Eve’s parents would be waiting, ready to yell at her for apparently the millionth time. Tired and worried, Eve rushed to her house and ran through her front door while she braced herself for a lecture. She knew she was caught.

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2013

Summer in Manhattan was too hot for Eve. As she rushed through Chinatown, the trash from the apartment buildings cooked in the sun. The smell made her head feel like she had just spun around a hundred times in her father’s desk chair like she did when she was young. As she ran through the melting city, the three heavy canvases under her arm seemed to grow heavier. Her heart was beating in her head as she sprinted, barely breathing. With hurting feet and bright red skin, Eve finally reached the thin door with the words “Lower West Art.” 

The gallery was anything but perfect. It was truly a hole in the wall, with grime coating every surface. Old fluorescent lights, dim and yellow, flickered every few minutes making the unframed artworks barely visible. The walls were covered from top to bottom with paintings, sketches, photos, like a scrapbook of art that did not match. Eve despised the small exhibition, squished in between two competing Chinese restaurants. Eight months into the move Eve was already behind on rent, wishing to afford a meal at these restaurants. Sweet and delicious, the aroma of food wafted into the poorly-ventilated gallery which always smelled of oyster sauce and sweat. Despite Eve’s problems with the gallery, it was her only exposure. She had originally thought that making it in the city would be similar to what she watched on television, with a beautiful apartment and beautiful neighbors, but reality quickly caught up to her fantasy.

Eve’s nightly dill pickle and ginger ale for dinner left her stomach empty, but the cheap six-dollar grocery receipt from the bodega every twelve days kept Eve in the same routine. Her shoebox apartment was only slightly nicer than the gallery which her whole career depended upon. Most nights, as she lay in her bed, the summer heat burning her skin, Eve cried. 

On this night she cried about everything that she regretted: dropping out of college, cutting off her parents, tattooing an ugly apple tree on her shoulder. She felt stupid, like she had fallen for a horrible prank. Nothing would be better than for everything to be fixed, and she desperately wished for her life to return to what it used to be. Across from her bed, the painting on her easel was still wet, shining in the moonlight. She did not feel lonely with a painting by her bed. Art kept Eve in the city day after day. She loved creating entire universes with her paintings; universes where she was successful, happy, and the temperature was just right.

About the Author

Layla, 15, began creative writing when she was young. She enjoys writing fiction, specifically about female characters. This is inspired by her favorite childhood author, Louisa May Alcott.