Chapter Eight #2
I click through a blur of reds and greens resembling the world’s ugliest Christmas wrapping paper. I turn to him. “I need you to answer one question.” I point to the patio, where the mismatched chairs sit. “What color are those chairs?”
He narrows his eyes. “Pink and black?”
“And that?” I point at the couch.
“It’s gray. Why?”
“Because I’m trying to figure out if you’re totally color-blind, or if it’s just red-green. I mean, that is the most common kind of color blindness, but—”
“I’m not fucking color-blind, Blair.”
“Then I need you to explain why you thought this looked good. Are you Santa’s long-lost grandson?”
He clicks away from the design. “Why don’t you focus on what I’m telling you, and I’ll worry about the way my app looks, okay?”
I shrug, leaning back in my seat, but one grueling hour later, I wonder if I should’ve stowed my design critique where all my other unsaid words go.
Jamie’s assessment of my mistakes is a hard pill to swallow, and he pulls no punches.
But it isn’t only that—it’s tough watching Jamie, of all people, clean up my mess.
He works through LabLab with deft efficiency, clearing away the cobwebs of my errors and buffing the whole thing to a high shine.
I’ve always known Jamie is smart. He might have many things in common with my idiot brother, but Sawyer’s complete lack of regard for school isn’t one of them.
Jamie consistently cleared the top 5 percent of his class, won that award for his capstone project, probably could have gone to better schools if money weren’t a major factor—and it was, of course, since he ended up in ROTC.
But facing Jamie’s brain head-on is uncharted territory. I’ve never had to look him dead in the eye and watch him be smarter than me.
I tell myself it’s the extra year he has on me. He’s an APM graduate—that’s why he knows so much more than I do. But it doesn’t ease that niggling feeling of inadequacy.
Which might be why I have to take a jab at him, if only for my sanity. “Can I ask one question?”
“I’m sure I can’t stop you.”
I give him a bland smile. “Have you considered adding a designer to your team? Or is a retina-burning color scheme a requirement?”
Jamie’s expression flattens, and he snaps his computer shut. “Wait for this to finish,” he says, tapping my laptop, where he has LabLab running a final test case. He used my computer because it’s allegedly faster, but I get the feeling it’s more that he’s sick of me looking at his stuff.
Which, of course, just makes me want to crack his rib cage open like an oyster shell and root around for a pearl.
“So how’d you end up in this apartment last year instead of the dorms?” I ask as Jamie reaches for his second cup of coffee. I’m still on my first, but only because the caffeine is making me jittery.
He pauses, his mug suspended halfway to his mouth. “Pretty sure we made a deal about three days ago that we wouldn’t talk.” He tilts his head, giving me a lazy look. “Did you forget that already?”
“Excuse me for trying to be polite while we’re just sitting here in silence.”
“You’re excused.”
I scowl at him as he picks up his laptop, then his coffee.
“Finish letting that run,” he says, nodding at my computer. “I’ll email you something else soon.”
I twist in my seat, watching him walk away. “What if I get stuck again?”
He pauses outside his bedroom and shoots me a tight, closed-lip smile. “Try not to.”
LabLab finishes its review with a “No errors found” pop-up that I click away around the same time I hear the ding of Jamie’s next email coming in.
I promise myself I’ll check it tonight, once all my nervous energy about my first class at Stone I know about her mother—a Haitian woman who worked in hotel cleaning services while Deonne, an only child, was growing up.
Her father, who emigrated from Vietnam as a baby, passed away when she was in middle school.
Deonne did a whole series on her parents while living in Vietnam for a year with her extended family, and that collection is what launched her career.
She used the money she made to open her own studio right here in her hometown and has since helped her mother retire early.
“She’s a true natural talent,” Deonne says now, referring to her mother.
“Never took a class. Put my ass through art school, though. Now she gets to paint all day. She’s even sold a few.
Her art reminds me a lot of Préfète Duffaut in its colors, but Hulda Guzmán in style.
” She leans on the broom, focusing on me again. “What do you like to sculpt, Blair?”
“I do a lot of miniatures. I don’t have a ton of space to work with.
” Doing miniatures is also strategic—something I can make at my desk without it seeming like a big commitment to my parents, but also a way to figure out how to do art without worrying if my own ideas are good or worthwhile.
Something low-stakes that only I care about—until now, when my idol will be weighing my work.
“Clay?” Deonne asks.
I nod.
“We mostly work with clay in my classes. Have you ever done marble? Or plaster casting?”
“Definitely not. I can’t afford marble, and I don’t know anything about plaster.”
She tilts her head, looking thoughtful. “And you’ve never made anything big?
Anything like that?” She jerks her chin to the back of the studio where a group of large clay figures sit, all clearly modeled after the same person.
I imagine it was a live model, and judging by what they’ve crafted, a nude model, which makes my face flame.
I’m suddenly grateful for the mask. I don’t want Deonne to think I’m immature.
“No, only miniatures,” I answer. “I don’t have a studio at home or anything. This is my first class.”
Deonne nods slowly, continuing to sweep. “Well, Blair,” she says after a long stretch of silence, her eyes crinkling with another smile, “I think it’s going to be very fun to challenge you this summer.”