A teacup reader at the Gypsy Tea Kettle once saw a peacock in the bottom of my cup. She smiled, saying, “You’re destined to walk through life like a peacock.” I was ecstatic. But shouldn’t I be classified as the non-descript peafowl? Peacocks were male. She must have been wrong.

A week later, the annual publication The Nine Muses, at my snotty high school, asked for submissions in art and poetry. The deadline was in two weeks. I was a junior who wanted to make a dent in the magazine before graduation. Since I was an artist and poetry didn’t exist for me then, I decided to draw my special bird.

The peacock rose from lines in constant struggle. It took days for him to develop. I too was in a similar struggle, debating whether to ditch the piece or not. My eraser was busy throughout his birth.

He emerged from the chaos – his feathers dressed in multiple dots and zigzags. I repeated designs and blackened areas for contrast until his presence was finally completed. He looked regal within the parameters. But I never knew that the limited space around him made him look uncomfortable.

I freed him from the pad’s binder and put him in a manila envelope with care reserved for an heirloom.

The next day, I placed him in the submission pile.

Two weeks passed before Mrs. Windstone, the Fine Arts teacher, reviewed the art submissions. Mr. Samuels, the English teacher, did his part for the poetry.

A list of the selected students was posted a week later outside the arts office. I passed by for a glimpse. The long list had the usual favorites – the same kids who achieved recognition or good grades – the same kids who never knew the meaning of struggle other than what was defined by Merriam-Webster. A few ordinary ones did manage to be listed. I guessed life could be kind to some underdogs. However, there must have been an error since my name was missing. I squinted, searched the list, up and down. My name was still non-existent. And no magic from the Gypsy Tea Kettle could ever make it appear.

The Fine Arts teacher was coming down the corridor. She looked surprised when I approached her, asking, “Mrs. Windstone, do you have a moment? It’s about my art submission.” She nodded. I was ready for my confrontation yet unprepared for her rebuttal.

“Patricia, I’m sorry. Your drawing wasn’t good enough for the magazine. Either leave it in the rejection box for the school to sell it for a quarter or simply take it.” It was her decision and that was it.

She picked up a few modern art books and folders. She said goodbye as she hurried out to her next class.

Mortified, I stood by the box, thinking about the quarter and the worth of my effort. The peacock was removed and back in my hands, but my humiliation turned him into confetti. My feelings were fractured without breaking any bones.

As an adult, I recalled what happened and visualized what that peacock looked like – over-dressed, stiff-looking against a background with little room to breathe. I never noticed that back then and now admit that Mrs. Windstone was right.

The Gypsy Tea Kettle disappeared from the corner of 56th Street and Lexington Avenue. The lady who read my tea leaves is probably deceased. She never saw my future.

I’m a peafowl, not a peacock, nor is my life regal or proud. My need to draw is in remission. I write poetry and prose instead.

One of my remaining peacocks, a brass figurine from India, stands on the bottom of my bookcase. He watches me do a headstand or write. The other, made of glass and feather, is perched inside a turquoise bowl on my nightstand. The birds are silent, but at least they have space.