Music might not have ever been her forte, but creativity still coursed through Rinoa's veins. It flourished out of boredom to replace lecture notes with whimsical doodles. In between margins of her journals, she found solace and ease. Plenty of teachers caught her. No matter how many held her back after class to reprimand Rinoa, she resumed her antics, bringing life to the blank, boring pages.
Only a few adults, however, suggested she try an art class.
She hadn't attended one since she was a child. It served more as a break from the tedious textbooks, just as sought out as lunchtime. Come middle school, the classes were optional and deemed by many a means for an easy A.
After one week into a class, Rinoa realized it would be anything but a breeze. Long gone were the days of finger painting and sculpey—there was even homework! The teachers taught her of anatomy, perspective, and color theory. As Rinoa practiced new techniques, the process clicked in her head better than any lecture had. Endless sketchbooks and canvases overflowed with charcoal, pastels, oil paints, and markers, each page another exploration of the medium. And when she ran out of pages, she learned how to use the pottery wheel, kiln, looms, silkscreens, cameras, and more.
What once was a scribble to entertain her during class transformed into a means to express herself when words failed her.
She forgot all of her struggles with her other classes upon walking into the art room. No one judged her or her ideas there. It still wasn't enough to keep her from criticizing herself. Others surpassed her skill and deserved praise more than she did. Nothing she created was worthy of a museum or gallery.
"You're still young, Rinoa," her teacher said with a soft smile, "and have much to learn. You never stop learning, really. That's the beauty of art—it's always evolving and we as artists must learn to adjust our craft to meet with the times. It would be boring if nothing ever changed."
She liked that idea—she was only challenged to better herself.
What excited Rinoa even more was the book her teacher gave to her. Come to find out, it wasn't exactly a book, but an informative guide about one of the art schools in Deling City.
"I know you're still too young to be thinking about applying to universities," her teacher said, "but it's something you should consider. You have a lot of potential, Rinoa, and you'd only grow more under the right professors."
Rinoa tucked it away with the rest of her textbooks and binders. With two periods left, Rinoa itched to yank that book out and flip through it. How had it never occurred to her that there were, in fact, schools dedicated to art and nothing else. Of course, it meant surviving college prep first, but it had to be worth it. Anything but the mundane garbage she tolerated day in and day out.
Upon returning home, Rinoa rushed to her bedroom. Forgotten homework spilled out of her backpack. Rinoa curled up in bed, legs drawn close to prop up the art school book and devour its contents.
Pages upon pages dedicated to the various concentrations relating to the arts, including areas even her private academy didn't cover. She longed to learn the secrets of glassblowing, metalsmithing, and calligraphy. Even if she wished to focus on traditional 2D studies, the options were endless: illustration, painting, drawing, printmaking, and more. Rinoa fluttered her eyes upon discovering a list of professions accompanying every major. It was more than an alternative form of expression or therapy; it was a valid way to live life. She gazed out her window, lost in reverie over the endless paths her art could take her.
The only downsides were the admission requirements: the artist statements, the academic recommendations, the entrance essays, and the daunting minimums for grades. Yeesh, I'll be lucky if I get close to grades like that the end of middle school, never mind senior year, Rinoa mused with an annoyed sigh. But there were four more years before that and thus four more years to improve, both academically and artistically. If admitted art students were able to balance both homework with drawings and paintings, then so could Rinoa.
In the back of her mind, she imagined her mother discovering Rinoa lost in the art school book, beyond proud of her daughter. It might not have been music, but it was nonetheless art. Rinoa only hoped she could make an impression on the world with her drawings and paintings as Julia had with her voice and piano.
"What is this?"
Fury held up the letter in the middle of dinner. His abrupt question shattered the typical silence Rinoa was long accustomed to those nights he made an effort to appear. Still chewing, Rinoa flicked her eyes up. She hadn't read the letter, but she knew what it was.
"Dad," Rinoa said once swallowing, "I can't read it." She extended a hand, albeit limp. "Just... let me see—"
"Dear Mr. Caraway." He jerked his hand back and flicked his wrist to the straighten the paper. "We are happy to inform you that your daughter, Rinoa Caraway, has been selected by an elite committee of renown artists to be one of the few privileged students chosen for the Shining Stars Artists Exhibit. We believe Rinoa exemplifies the qualities we are looking for and wish to showcase her work. Her paintings are vivid, complex, and evocative. It is clear she possesses vast talent and a unique vision, thus leading to the committee unanimously agreeing on her selection. It would be an honor to have her here. Please write back if she is able to attend and we shall plan accordingly. If not, then we can only hope to see more from Rinoa in the future. Sincerely, the Shining Stars Artists Exhibit Committee."
Fury slammed the letter to the table and pinned it in place, leaving his face visible once more. Rinoa struggled to maintain eye contact.
A part of her reasoned that she couldn't hide it. Nonetheless, Rinoa stashed away sketchbooks in place of texts on science and history when Fury was present. Maybe if she tried hard enough, he'd never find out. Anything to keep him from crushing yet another thing which she loved.
But she didn't make it until graduation; she made it to the middle of freshman year.
"Dad, look," she began, softening her tone more than she wanted, "let me explain—"
"I thought the only reason you were taking those stupid classes was because everything else conflicted with your core curriculum. Or did I mishear you when you spoke those words?"
Well, you're not wrong, Rinoa kept to herself. How else was she to continue taking art classes? Stretching the truth ensured his signature of approval on her class selection every semester; in her eyes, it was better than withering from the inability to create.
"I really like them, Dad," she started with; not a lie, but not the entire truth. "It's a nice break from the rest of—"
"So you entered to be in an exhibit?"
"Okay, technically, my teacher nominated me to maybe get a chance to—" Not a muscle twitched on his glowering face. Rinoa exhaled and shrugged. "So?"
"So? This has nothing to do with your education."
"How do you know that? Dad, if every kid was to be some super intelligent person, the world would be boring. Maybe I'm not cut out for any of that."
"Your grades as of recently say otherwise."
Shit. The one time I actually put some effort into any of that and all you take away is that I'm now suddenly an academic. "Good grades or not, I don't want to spend my entire life with my nose in a book."
"But messing with paints and clay is far better?"
Rinoa huffed out a groan. "Dad, I like art! I like drawing things! And I like painting and sculpture and so much more. This... this makes me happy. I feel like I can be myself when I do this and apparently—" She gestured to the letter with a roll of her eyes. "—I'm half decent enough to be accepted into this exhibit. If you even bothered to read whatever pamphlet came with that letter, you'd see it's not just a place where people can glorify their children's finger paintings; it's for people who current artists think are the future wave of the art scene. That... that means a lot. There are seniors who applied to this and didn't make it, Dad. And yes, I care more about that than my studies. I want to create. I want to make something for everyone to see. Maybe it'll make them smile or cry or scream, but I'd rather do that than never make an impression at all.
"So... please, don't be upset. I'm not doing it to hurt you; I'm doing it because it's the only thing that keeps me from hurting inside. I feel alive. I love it, Dad. I don't want to lose this."
The silence overwhelmed Rinoa. The beats of her heart and shallow breaths thrummed in her ears. The tick-tock of the grandfather clock down the hallway and the distant roll of cars on the streets lived in the dining room instead of hundreds of feet away. Fury never flinched. He could have morphed into a statue for all she knew. When he did stir, he stood from his seat and beckoned to Rinoa.
"Show me this art of yours."
No warmth lingered on his tongue, though the bitter cold didn't chill Rinoa. She rose and led him to her bedroom.
She unearthed the canvas and parchments she set ink and paints to. Each one she handled with care while Fury stood inches from the doorway, arms crossed and lips pursed. Rinoa didn't explain any of her pieces; her works could speak for themselves. Her subjects ranged from structural drawings to still lifes of people, but her favorites were those of scenes she conceptualized on her own.
It was because of that imagination which she earned a revered spot in the exhibit.
Tucked in the back of her closet, resting along Julia's framed posters, was a painting on stretched canvas. The vibrant colors depicted a flower field underneath a starry sky. In the middle was a woman with her back to the viewer and angel wings spreading to the edges of the canvas. Flower petals and feathers alike swirled about her while shooting stars marked the night sky. Rinoa handled the painting with care, settling it on top of her bed.
Only then did Fury move into her room to further inspect the painting. Rinoa stood off to the side, one arm flat against her body with the other crossing her stomach to cling to it. Was this what it was like to have a renown critic approach her work to judge it? She tried to read his face, but the words screaming there vanished years ago. All Rinoa could do was wait.
"It's... based on a dream I had," she explained, licking her trembling lips. "Well, keep having. I titled it Angel Wing. Nothing too elaborate. Short and sweet, right? I figured the painting itself would speak more than a title—"
"This is what you're wasting your time with?"
The words died in Rinoa's throat.
"After all the money I've spent on private schools and personal tutors, this is what you have to thank me with?"
Her eyebrows knitted together. "Dad, I'm not trying to—"
"You really think you can get by without an education with this half-assed attempt at art?"
Fingers fidgeted over one another. "I'm... still learning."
"Well, as far as I'm concerned, you're done with learning."
"What, do you expect me to perfect at this on my first shot?! Geez, Dad, I'm freaking fifteen! How am I suppose to get better if you won't even let me?!"
"You're better off spending your time—"
"Where?! Not doing something I love? Didn't you and Mom used to tell me—"
"Rinoa."
"All the damn time: just be happy. Do what makes you happy. So long as you aren't hurting anyone, it's okay. So suddenly it's not okay?!"
"I'm not going to let you throw away your future for—"
"You're the one throwing away my future! You're the one who won't let me be anything more than what you will let me be! I'm not you, Dad, and at this rate, I hope I never have to be! If anything, I'm more like Mom when it comes to the creative—"
"You are not your mother." His voice echoed in the room, akin to an officer issuing an order to a subordinate. "You are not an artist. You are more than that, Rinoa. You're a Caraway. I expect more from you and it's not in this." He gestured to the painting. "You are not going to this exhibit and you are not taking any more art classes. Come the end of the school year, you'll be enrolled in a different academy and hopefully, you'll learn that life isn't all about wasting it away on trivial delights. Am I clear?"
Her mouth hung ajar. Her eyes twitched about, as if searching for the cracks in his truths. Rinoa blinked, denying to acknowledge the tears stinging behind her eyes. When she hitched her breath, she found her voice again.
"This is about Mom, isn't it? It always was about her. You were fine with destroying every evidence that she ever existed. Not everyone is you. Some people don't want to part with the reminders of what once made them the happiest. Mom and her music used to make me happy, but she's not here to do that anymore, so now I'm trying to do my damn best to make myself happy, because you sure as hell aren't doing anything about it."
Fury shifted and marched towards her. Rinoa stepped backwards; her feet might have stuttered, but her tongue never did.
"Maybe you're just afraid that I'm going to turn into her and I'll be happy, while you continue to be nothing but miserable. Maybe you're scared I'll be successful and follow in her footsteps. Whatever the case, you can't erase what makes me smile and passionate just because you can't get a grip on your emotions."
"That's enough," he snarled.
"No, it's not!" Rinoa's back met with the wall on the opposite side of the room. "I'm not going to be a slave to your every wish and will."
"So long as you live under my roof, you will obey me. I am your father."
"And you're a shitty excuse for a father! Why are you even like this?! I'm not some soldier to boss around! You used to be happy at one point, too. We all were. Sometimes I wonder if you even love me anymore."
And he didn't say anything—just walked towards her with a look in his eyes that promised death. Rinoa focused on her breaths and not the acceleration of her heart.
Her mind reverted back to those times she spoke of—when they were happy. She was so young then, yet the memories rang true. Back when he didn't work himself down to the bone and liberally spent time with his family. As for Rinoa, she followed Julia like a shadow, always hoping to catch her in the parlor to play another song. Another melody to dance to, another moment to lose herself in. She knew every song by heart.
Except for one.
A secret between her and Julia. She promised. Recalling the faint echoes of the memory left her body in a violent shudder: Julia's sullen eyes and pain-riddled voice mixed through the airy, yet lonely melody.
She longed for someone else—someone who wasn't Fury Caraway.
Rinoa stood tall and barked out, "She didn't always love you, either!"
Fury stopped dead in his tracks.
"Did you know any of Mom's songs she never published? She played one for me. Said it was to be a secret between us. Said it wasn't about you."
The anger evaporated from her father's face. The mask he wore for years shattered and crumbled, leaving behind a sadness Rinoa never witnessed before. His lips twitched and his eyes flicked downwards.
And then he turned to leave her room.
Even alone, Rinoa remained glued to the wall. The adrenaline died off, replaced with a fresh wave of anxiety. She clutched her stomach and swallowed both the nausea and thought of the words that had rushed out.
Why did I even say that? To make him angry? To get him to shut up? Rinoa rubbed her arms. But... Mom did love him and he loved her. I just... wanted him to know what it felt like every time he makes me feel insignificant.
Collapsing to the floor, Rinoa curled up into a ball and gazed over her artwork scattered about the room. Maybe he'd think differently about it now or maybe he'd respond to her teenage outburst with a similar, immature hate. She didn't know. The uncertainty flipped her organs over and stained her face with tears.
She knew what she wanted. If only he could come to understand that. If only she had a father who supported her.
And she wondered about the other man supposedly once in her mother's life, leaving enough of an impression for her to write a song about him. Maybe such a person was far better than Fury ever would be. Maybe things would have been different with another father.
Maybe she'd finally be happy.
He never said a word to her come morning. Or that evening. The letter vanished from the dining room table, but Rinoa didn't dare bring it up in conversation.
She also didn't expect her teacher to confront her the next week asking why she had retracted her art entry for the exhibit.
Upon returning home, Rinoa screamed for no one to hear. Fury was never home until dinner, anyways, if at all. She tore through her room, flinging art supplies and paintings alike across the space. Her rage never sizzled as she headed for the one thing she couldn't rid her mind of.
The painting sat in the back of her closet, protected from the elements of the world. The committee loved it—loved her. They found promise within her oil paints and brush strokes. They believed she'd continue to flourish as an artist. The painting was to be displayed in an exhibit next to other prized works of art. Now it never would.
Rinoa hurled it across the room and into a wall, where it split in half.
In the wake of the destruction were her shallow breaths and scattered canvas. Rinoa stared at the remains of the piece she poured her heart into. The countless hours and tubes of paint... all but colorful shreds, like a kaleidoscope. All because of a dream she never ceased to have, where she sprouted wings and flew past the heavens to join the only place she could call home anymore—the stars.
If her father refused to understand the painting, how was he to ever understand anything she ever told him?
And when the consequences of her actions settled in like a dead weight in her stomach, Rinoa collapsed to her knees, clutched her hair, and cried until the world blurred away.