Noah came, as well as my parents. “Your stuff is the best here,” he said, ignoring the fact that everyone seemed clustered around Zach the charcoal boy and Aneni, a woman who painted strange animals with miraculous detail.

My work wasn’t the best. I knew it, and so did everyone except Noah. Dad told me he was so proud of me and couldn’t wait to see what was next . . . which, in my funk, I interpreted as “keep trying and maybe you’ll get better someday.” My mother bought one of Zach’s paintings. “Imagine what this will be worth in ten years,” she said, and I wanted to bite her.

I latched on to one woman who owned a gallery in Greenpoint, my voice high and fast as I tried to describe the references to Warhol and my love of Venice in my sculpture, only to find that her gallery had closed last month and she was going back to school to become a physician’s assistant. The art critic from the Village Voice glanced at my display as she moved across the space and didn’t even slow. My heart cracked.

I didn’t sell a single piece, except to my dad.

My parents were staying at a hotel; Noah came back to my dorm room. My mind buzzed and fretted as I swallowed the sharp tears in my throat.

I hadn’t been discovered. All those trips, the thousands of photos I’d taken, the open heart and mind I’d kept for four years had resulted in the Village Voice reviewer walking right past and my father pity-buying the Zach knockoff.

I’d have to keep working. Be more daring. Be different. It would be hard, but wasn’t it better this way? Who cared if you were discovered at a school show, especially at Pace (which had been good enough until this moment but had now completely failed me as an institution).

No. A much better story would be of Sadie Frost who, believe it or not, was told she was unoriginal by her own art professor! I’d be in the same league as J. K. Rowling, who was rejected a zillion times, or Gisele Who Married Tom Brady, once told her nose was too big for modeling. Bill Gates. Oprah. I’d be in great company, goddamnit.

Then Noah got down on one knee.

“I know we’re young,” he said. “But I’ve loved you since I was fifteen years old, Special. Marry me. Come home. I promise we’ll be happy.”

The timing . . . it really sucked.

“Are you kidding me?” I asked, my voice squeaking with disbelief.

His dark eyes lost their light. “No.”

“Noah. Honey. Come on. I haven’t accomplished one thing I want to. I can’t marry you! I can’t quit before I even get started!”