Kc's Arc

Chapter 1 of 5

Kc wanted to be an artist, but her paintings weren't good yet. She knew it. Her hands knew it. Still, every morning she set up her easel by the front window of the weathered log cabin and tried again. Today she painted a bird for the man who lived down the path. She smiled the whole time, even when the wings came out crooked. It came from the heart, and that was what mattered to her. She carried the wet canvas outside. The bald man in the white shirt stood near his porch, arms crossed, muscles like carved stone. Kc had painted for him three times now. Each time he grunted and set the picture aside. "I made you another one," Kc said. She held it up with both hands. "It's a bird. See? I know it's not very good, but I tried really hard." Mr. Clean looked at the crooked wings. He looked at the smudged blue sky. He did not smile. "Kid," he said, "you keep giving these away for free. Nice doesn't make you an artist. Nice makes you a doormat." The words landed hard. Kc's smile shook. She had been kind to everyone. She had drawn for anyone who asked. She had never once asked for anything back. Something snapped inside her. "Fine," Kc said. Her voice came out flat and cold. "Then I'm done drawing for free. I'm done being sweet so people like me." Mr. Clean's eyebrows lifted. He had never heard that tone from her. Kc pulled the canvas back against her chest. "You're right. If I want to be a real artist, I have to get good. Not nice. Good." She turned and walked back toward the cabin, her jaw tight. Inside, she set the crooked bird on the table. She stared at it. The wings were wrong. The sky was flat. For the first time, she let herself see every mistake without an excuse. She grabbed a fresh canvas. Her hand did not shake now. She dragged her old paintings off the walls, the sweet ones, the gift ones, and stacked them in the corner face-down. "No more presents," she said to the empty room. "I learn. I practice. I sell." But the moment she picked up her brush, a new fear stopped her cold. She did not actually know how to get better. She had only ever known how to be kind. Being nice had been her whole plan. Now that plan was gone, and she had nothing to replace it. Kc looked out the window at the man walking away. Somewhere past the trees, another cabin sat quiet, and she had heard a cruel man had come back to these woods. If she wanted to earn a living from art, she needed a real teacher. She did not have one. She pressed the brush to the blank canvas anyway. The kind girl was gone. The artist did not exist yet.