Chapter Three
Chapter 3
SIENNA
WE FILE INTO THE ART room quietly, a flurry of shuffling bags, sketchbooks, and squeaky sneakers. I walk to one of the large wooden easels that circle the middle of the room and drop my backpack on the tile. Then I pull out my box of charcoal sticks and flip to a clean sheet on my giant pad of newsprint.
It’s the second Monday of the month, so my classmates and I all know the drill: we’ll be sketching a live nude model today. I don’t care who this morning’s model is as long as it’s not the old guy who always falls asleep. His snoring irritates me.
As everyone prepares, our teacher starts wandering and observing, stroking the long end of his lavender and yellow scarf. His eyes dart around the room like a hawk.
I try to ignore his presence, but the hairs on the back of my neck stand up when he glances my way. I pray he doesn’t look too much at my easel when I start sketching.
Shifting focus, I shake out some vine charcoal sticks onto the easel’s painting tray. I hate using them because they break easily and make a mess on my hands and clothes, but I’ll make do. Next, I select a few graphite pencils I’ll use when the model does a long pose at the end. I almost grab my set of watercolor paints, but they’re high quality and expensive, like fine china—only for special occasions.
A male model, probably in his mid-twenties, strides in wearing a satin white robe. He has a mop of curly dark hair and his eyes are trained on the wall, ignoring everyone. We all snap to attention as he drops his robe and enters the middle of the classroom. There are a few giggles and whispers from some of the less mature students, but most of us just pick up our charcoal and get to work.
I mean, I understand why there are giggles. The man is, um, very endowed. And fit.
While I’m sure his sexual partners are extremely happy, I’m excited about his body for a different reason. My skills with capturing the correct bend and curve of human muscles are lacking—I drape my figures with a lot of fabric to hide my weakness—so having a model with such a sculpted physique will help me see how everything connects.
The man takes his first 2-minute pose, standing on one leg and bending like he’s suspended in the middle of a run. I scratch the charcoal across the paper like my life depends on it. When the man switches to his next 2-minute pose, my fingers are black and itchy, but I continue on, flipping quickly to a clean sheet. My charcoal stick snaps, so I grab one of the pieces and scratch out the curve of a shoulder.
For the next fifteen minutes, the model moves through more poses, including two 5-minute ones. At the halfway mark, I’m preparing for him to take the longer 30-minute pose, but instead, he grabs a water bottle as the teacher walks over to him.
After a sip, he asks my teacher, “Maggie is still coming, right?”
My fingers clamp over a charcoal stick as my breath catches at the name. The stick snaps, pieces falling to the tile, and I grip the edge of my stool so I don’t fall off.
The world is suddenly wobbly.
Maggie. Margaret. I haven’t heard either one in forever.
Margaret was my name once, a lifetime ago.
The teacher nods as he grabs two folding chairs and sets them up for the models. I exhale a slow breath, my hand shaky as I reach up to finger my silver locket. Most everyone from my old life called me Margaret, but my grandfather always called me Maggie. I liked ‘Maggie’ and the way his warm, weathered voice always said it through a grin.
He died when I was twelve, and for a few years I could still hear his voice saying to me softly, “Why, there’s my Maggie. My little Maggie girl with sunshine in her smile.”
I stopped hearing his voice after I turned 21. That’s when Margaret Diane Ariti officially died.
Someday, if I’m brave—or stupid—enough, I’ll visit my grandfather’s grave in Chicago. Legally, I’m not allowed to go back to that city, but I want to introduce grandpa to who I am now: Sienna Bishop.
“Here she is,” the male model says when a tall, blonde woman walks in.
She drops her robe, revealing a lean, fit body of pale skin, and sits on a folding chair next to him. The two models then drape their bodies into one another in an elegant, romantic embrace.
“Thirty minutes,” the teacher speaks up. “Make it count. Focus on capturing the essence of the form, the play of light and shadow. Don’t get bogged down in the details at first. Only see the shapes.”
A realization hits suddenly, and my gaze snaps down to my locket. The engraved flowers and swirls are now covered in black charcoal.
No…I touched it with dirty hands? A loud broken noise slips from my throat and a few classmates glance over. The teacher does an exaggerated “ahem,” reminding me to shut the fuck up.
I wrap part of my T-shirt collar around the locket to clean the mess, but I think it’s too late—black has invaded the tiny hinge and crevices. I don’t dare open it, afraid I might dirty the only picture of my grandpa that’s left.
My nose stings as I release my stretched-out shirt collar, but I certainly can’t start crying in the middle of class. I cycle a few positive mantras through my head, pinching my nostrils.
Mistakes are human.
I give myself permission to be human.
The biggest mistake is never admitting you made one.
Sniffing, I release my nostrils and grab a graphite pencil so I can sketch something before time runs out. Later, I’ll figure out a way to carefully clean the locket, my only memento from my old life. I’ll fix this mistake, just like I fixed all the previous ones.
I make the first mark on a clean sheet of paper, my hand shaky at first and then smoothing into a rhythm. Listening to the scratch of pastels, pencils, fingers across pages in the classroom, I allow myself to get lost in my drawing with no judgments. Just pure expression. I need to work through the emotions the name Maggie just brought to the surface.
My graphite seems to move with its own consciousness, capturing the couple loosely on three-fourths of the paper, then shifting to the surrounding white. Their romance bleeds into mounds of bones, a twisted black staircase, a doorway with menacing, watchful eyes peering out from the shadows.
Then, almost without realizing it, I sketch a male figure on the top step. A rose blooms from behind him and obscures one of the ominous eyes. The man, gazing down at the embracing couple, isn’t the usual sinister presence that appears in my work, but something different. Something…protective. He’s blocking the eyes, creating a barrier with his body to shield the couple from everything threatening to rip them apart.
As I work on the finer details of the naked couple, a flush creeps up my neck. My mind flashes to the text exchange with Declan last Friday. He certainly didn’t hold back, his words filthy and charged, sparking heat in my core. I haven’t felt that kind of heat, well, maybe ever.
I knew messaging him would be a conflict of interest. I just really wanted to return his jacket. It’s been nagging at me.
But seriously, I just had to ask, “What thoughts?”
The last thing I wanted was to lead him on, to start something I couldn’t finish. Yet that’s exactly what I did. Even after I ghosted him when I realized I was getting in too deep, the man still had the decency to apologize for his part and send me contacts that might actually get my art program off the ground. The contacts are phenomenal—a mix of local arts organizations, community leaders, and potential funding sources.
Declan must’ve spent a few hours curating that list, and then to tell them all to watch out for my email…just me, some unknown student who doesn’t even fit in the art world…
I’m still speechless.
“That’s time,” the teacher says, jarring me back to this cold, stuffy classroom.
The models put on their robes as the teacher wanders, glancing at easels and offering comments. Normally, this is the point where I scramble to grab my shit and bolt before he has a chance to make some cruel but honest assessment of my work. He has never liked anything I’ve done, saying that my pieces are “too illustrative and surface-level in a program meant for serious arts.”
Today, though, I’m too drained to move, as if this drawing took more out of me than I realized. I also feel good as I gaze at what I’ve drawn. This came out of me?
The teacher’s shadow falls over my easel and my stomach tightens, preparing for the worst. He strokes the end of his lavender and yellow scarf, then his goatee, as he studies my creation.
“Hmm,” he finally says. “Inspired. Good work, Sienna.” With that, he walks off.
With a slack jaw, I stare at his retreating figure. My eyes then scan the room, noting the pads of dense sketching paper around me, the heaps of quality compressed charcoal sticks, the top-tier paints and brushes and portfolio cases of other students. Clothes that are name brands. Skin that’s supple and sun-kissed, barely older than twenty.
Then there’s my station: broken charcoal, nubby pencils, inexpensive flimsy newsprint, paint that took an entire semester to save for…
My fingertips are stained black, skin freckled and dry and blotchy from the sun. I’ll be thirty soon, practically an old lady in this college environment.
Yet my arms prickle with goosebumps as I grin. Inspired?
He’s right.
AFTER AN AFTERNOON SHIFT AT one of my three jobs—this one as a beauty consultant at a retail store, though I rarely wear more than mascara—I come home to find Jada and Mystical on the couch eating popcorn. The space is completely Jada’s style—vintage mismatched furniture, vibrant throw pillows, colorful artwork of street scenes, and an assortment of potted plants scattered everywhere . I often trip over them.
Jada hops up to give me a hug, looking too comfy in a pair of pink booty shorts and a tank. Today’s eye color is violet, which I’m happy about—she tried white contacts yesterday and they freaked me out.
“Cheers, babe,” she says. “Left yah pizza in the fridge.” She smacks my hip playfully. “Now get your jim-jams on cuz we’re doing an 80s movie marathon.”
Mystical, who’s a music major and changes his name every month to reflect his inner child’s journey, lifts his hand to acknowledge my presence. His bald head is new, along with the red robes and rosary beads.
Jada notices me giving him a confused look. “There’s a note on the fridge about his month-long vow of silence,” she comments. Her voice and faux British accent lower. “But I heard the twat singin’ in the shower this morning.”
With a laugh, I finally drop my backpack next to the sectional couch, taking a moment for some daily gratitude. Every time I come home, I give myself a second to just feel so overwhelmingly thankful. Regardless of everything, I’m lucky to be here, with Jada and Mystical, with food to eat and a cozy bed.
Safety. I’m thankful for safety.
San Francisco wasn’t where I was supposed to end up. The authorities first dropped me off in Utah to start a new life. Then they got shady and someone started stalking me, so I fled. I knew San Francisco was expensive; I also loved the art scene. I arrived with pretty much nothing except some idealistic dreams and enough money to live in a motel for a month.
Thankfully, before I ended up on the streets, I met Jada. She was at a bar celebrating her 21st birthday alone. She looked so sad and hopeless that it struck a nerve, and I just couldn’t live with myself unless I tried to cheer her up. We started talking, I bought her a drink, and we hit it off.
For the last five years, we’ve been besties. I completely lucked out, not only because she’s an amazing friend, but because her parents bought this house in the 80s and gave it to Jada when they moved to Seattle.
My rent is so low, people would literally kill for it.
“I’d love a movie marathon,” I tell her, “but I have an evening shift at the record store. Can I show you something?”
She plops down on the back of the couch, her crimson and blonde braids bouncing with the movement. “Always.”
“Okay, well”—I flip through my large sketching pad and peel back the tissue that’s protecting my drawing—"I got my first compliment today. Teacher said it was ‘inspired.’" I carefully turn the pad to show Jada and Mystical my work, biting my lip in anticipation.
Jada inhales slowly, her violet eyes lighting up as she takes in the sketch. “Oh, babe, that’s beautiful.”
Mystical glances over and gives me a “not bad” head bob.
I feel like hugging my sketch pad, but I resist—I need to spray my drawing with fixative so the charcoal doesn’t smudge. “Thanks. I can’t believe it. I actually made something decent.”
Jada frowns and tips her head to the side like trying to shake off my comment. “No, you always make amazing shit. I love your paintings. This is just…” Smile lines spread around her eyes as she studies my drawing again.
“The best?”
“Crackin.”
I’m not exactly sure what that means, but it sounds good, so I’ll take it. “Kay, well, I’m going to spray this and get ready for work. Thanks for saving me pizza. I’m…knackered?”
Jada shakes her head. “Proper hungry. Need some nosh.”
I laugh and escape to my room, the hardwood floors creaking as I navigate the narrow hallway. Jada follows, watching me lay my sketch pad on the worn wooden floorboards. I grab the fixative off my cluttered desk. I should probably do this outside, but…it’s San Francisco. We’re lucky to live in an actual house, so asking for a backyard is too demanding.
Jada pops open the window, letting in a breath of cool, foggy air. It’s a challenge, but I squat in my constrictive beauty consultant pantsuit and spray a thin coat over the paper, preserving every inspired line and shadow. The next step is to buy a small canvas and do a color study; I’m definitely turning this into a larger watercolor painting.
“Hey, what’s this?” Jada asks, so I glance behind me.
Crap. I left the jacket out, hanging on a hook near the closet.
I haven’t told her about Declan and I’m not sure I want to—I don’t want to make him real in my life. I haven’t even Internet-stalked him. He’s just…a fun dream.
I try to pretend the jacket is nothing important by waving my hand before capping the fixative. “Oh, uh, I was at the thrift store an—”
“Sienna,” Jada says, dropping the British accent and turning to me with a hard look that weirds me out. “Where did you get this?”
“Uh…thrift store.”
“You did not get this at the thrift store.” She opens the jacket and begins searching the seams and pockets for any clues. Then she touches the gold rose pin on the lapel. “Don’t bullshit me. Explain.”
I straighten, still feeling weirded out by her reaction to a simple garment. I ditch the fixative on my desk, then move to the closet, kicking a pile of dirty laundry out of the way. The record store doesn’t care what I wear, so I grab a pair of ripped jeans, an oversized beige sweater, and vintage black boots. Calling the boots ‘vintage’ is a nice way of saying the soles are barely clinging to life.
I start undressing, happy to get this scratchy pantsuit off. “You’re acting like it’s a big deal. It’s just a jacket.”
Her expression eases a little, and the accent creeps back in. “Not trying to freak yah out, babe, but I know this pin. I’ve worked their galas for the past two years.” She pauses until I slip the sweater over my head and adjust it. As if watching me has decided something, she begins taking the pin off the lapel. “You know what? Ride or die. Yah don’t have to tell me. I’ll just return it, no harm—”
“Stop,” I say as I cross the room. I grab for the pin that’s now in her grasp, like she suddenly ripped out my lung and I need it before I collapse on the floor.
She jerks back, holding what I want out of reach, then she presses a palm against my chest to keep me away. “You don’t have to explain, babe. Maybe it was a shit mix up at the coat check, or if you took it on purpose, doesn’t matter. They take these pins very seriously and only a few of the top donors have one. I mean millions in donations.” She glances at the back of it. “But it’s okay, babe. I’ll sneak it back in during an event next week. Leave it on my supervisor’s desk and she’ll take care of it. It’ll be—”
Stretching my arm, I manage to snatch the pin, able to inhale fully again. I glance at the back, noticing the ‘D.C.’ engraving that Jada read. Then I press the diamond encrusted pin to my heart. My voice is tight when I ask, “You think I stole this?”
Is she seeing Margaret right now? After all these years, all my attempts to be better, give back, start an art program to help people…is Margaret still so easy to see?
Jada freezes, her chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. I can almost see her thoughts churning while her mouth hangs open for several beats. The words spill out. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll return it an—”
My nostrils flare. “I did not steal. I might be some broke bitch, and a shitty artist on top of that, but I am not a fucking thief. A guy gave this to me. He…” Clutching the pin, I search the dirty floorboards like they can back me up, but I’m already crumbling under the half-truth of my own words.
Declan didn’t give me the jacket. He lent it to me so I could find warmth for a few moments, then I walked off clinging to it like a child.
My chest squeezes and collapses all at once.
I did steal.
Stealing is something Margaret did; Sienna is supposed to be someone better.
Jada steps forward. “Babe—”
“I have to get ready for work.” My words are a hard warning as I turn away to face the window.
“Sienna—”
“Work,” I bite out.
Jada lingers for a moment, then the floor creaks under her shifting weight. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m really sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking. That was shitty of me.” She leaves, closing my bedroom door.
Quickly, I secure the pin back to the jacket lapel. My hands are shaking, but I get it done. Then I smooth out the fabric with my palms. Good as new. It’s fine. I’m not a thief. I didn’t mean to take the jacket. It was only an accident.
I’m not the person I used to be. I’m not Margaret.
Margaret’s dead.
I’m Sienna now, who never steals or lies or hurts people. Sienna, who has at least one person who cares about her, a bestie who thinks Sienna had a golden childhood. Sienna has hopes and aspirations to become a better artist while also creating an art program one day to help change lives.
Sienna will do good in this world. She’s resilient and pure and doesn’t need anything from anyone, confident in her own worth.
I need to return this jacket and prove all of that.
The moment I think of texting Declan, though, of demanding a drop off location so I can free myself of this accidentally borrowed garment, my body seizes up. With a mind of its own, my hand reaches out, fingers grazing the soft fabric. Almost in a daze, I snatch the jacket off its hanger and swing it around my shoulders. As I slip my arms through the generous sleeves, I’m engulfed by Declan’s scent—a mix of sandalwood, citrus, and something uniquely masculine. It’s intoxicating, comforting, and utterly wrong all at once.
The jacket settles on my frame. It’s too large but somehow perfect. I lean against the wall, wrapping the front around my waist tightly. I imagine Declan’s arms around me and how that might feel. Warm, comforting, a sense of belonging…
Things I’ve always craved; things I once gave up my autonomy for.
I don’t even know Declan, don’t even know his full face. So this is all pretend and completely foolish. I’m taking his few kind gestures and turning them into something more—a shield, the illusion of a safe place where the darkest parts of myself are forgotten.
My tendency to romanticize men I don’t truly know is exactly why talking to him is so dangerous—I will too easily give myself to a man I’m drawn to.
Margaret did and being with that man took everything from her; I’m determined not to let Sienna make the same stupid mistake.
Besides, if Declan is so esteemed that he gets a coveted gala pin, he’d choose better than the broken pieces of a girl still struggling to put herself back together.
With a shaky breath, I force myself to remove the false safety of the jacket, to hang it back in its place. My body feels cold, exposed without its warmth, but I ignore the loss and focus on lacing my boots.
I’m Sienna. Strong, independent, solitary Sienna. This is how it has to be, for my own safety; for the safety of everyone around me.