Chapter Six
SIX
We make it to the main quad ten minutes early. There’s a room number and a welcome note for the creative arts program scratched onto a chalkboard in front of the Hurst Building. We’re not far from the gallery, and I remember that everything in Blackwood is just around the corner.
“This is it, right?” I ask.
“Looks like it. You ready?”
“As I’ll ever be,” I say, nerves starting to get to me at the thought of all these new people.
I follow Izzy inside. I wonder if all the lectures will be in here or if we’ll get to go into the main building—I always loved it in there.
It’s all old stonework and exposed wooden beams. This building is pretty too, though, and Izzy points out the vaulted stone ceiling as we walk down a long corridor toward a bank of glass windows.
They look in on a large, airy studio space set up with plastic chairs arranged in a circle.
Most of the chairs are filled with bodies, and Izzy charges ahead as I linger at the threshold, wishing I had her confidence or, you know, just one iota of artistic ability.
I drag my feet and swirl the remnants of my annoyingly delicious lavender latte before finishing it.
Kim was right, damn it. I drop the paper cup into a recycling bin by the door and follow Izzy, sitting down in the empty chair next to her as she chatters away to a girl on her other side.
“This is Fliss.”
Izzy introduces me to the girl, who looks tall and willowy even though she’s sitting, and I put it down to the gauzy maxi dress she’s wearing.
Her skin is translucent, and her brows and lashes are so blond they’re even more see-through than mine.
She holds a delicate hand up in a wave, and the layers of her sleeve fall away as she pushes a curtain of straight blond hair over one shoulder.
That’s when I spot the bracelet made from tiny doll heads on her wrist.
Yikes.
“Scarlett,” she says, “I’m here to elevate my installation work. Marina Abramovi? is my muse.”
“Erm, I’m Fliss.” I wave back, and raise my brows at Izzy, who nods knowingly, but I have no idea who Scarlett is talking about. “Here for the shenanigans,” I joke.
Scarlett tilts her head, a blank look on her face as she clearly wonders if that was meant to be funny.
I watch her for a second as Izzy continues to babble away about art and textiles, and decide that at first glance you could easily think Scarlett was a bit ditzy, but actually I reckon she takes in more than most people.
I scan the rest of the room—there are two empty chairs next to me and a couple more dotted around, making twenty seats in total.
I’m surprised to see that the age of the group varies massively, from teens like us to an older man wearing a tweed suit.
I watch him for a second, noting the way he cradles a canvas roll on his lap.
Paintbrushes, I bet. He looks like an oil painter.
“I thought this was a pre-degree taster program?” I ask Izzy. “Some of these people are older than our parents.”
“I guess you can do a degree at any age?” She looks around the room as someone takes the seat beside me. “You’re right, though, I was expecting it to be mainly people our age or—”
“Izzy?”
Izzy whirls around with a “dude, we’re talking” face, but her eyes light up as she clocks the olive-skinned boy.
He has a tangle of dark brown hair, and there’s a retro camera hanging from a worn leather strap around his neck.
I try not to stare, because he’s so close I can smell his shower gel, but I can’t help it.
He is hot.
He’s dressed head to toe in black, and his jaw is far too chiseled for someone our age. He ducks his shoulders slightly, as if he’s apologizing for being taller than everyone else. He completely ignores me and grins at Izzy, and that smile gives it away. We know this guy.
“It is you! What are you doing here?” he asks.
“Noah!” She stands up and he looks awkward as she gives him a hug and he quickly rescues his camera from being squished. “Same thing as you, obviously. You must be starting university next month, though, right?”
“Yeah, but I got a place in this program for free because Mom still teaches here.”
“Oh, cool, us too!” His brow furrows in a question but Izzy barrels on at a million miles an hour and points back at me. “Look who I’m with! Please tell me you remember who this is?”
“No?” He holds my gaze for a second longer than necessary, and it makes me slightly breathless, though my heart sinks a little.
Noah Devlin, my childhood crush, has no idea who I am.
I start to look away, but then his eyes clear in recognition and his jaw drops slightly.
“Fliss?!” His eyes travel over me, and I’m so scared of blushing that I do actually break eye contact this time.
“Hey, Noah,” I say, looking slightly over his left shoulder instead of at his face. “You got your braces off.”
“Eventually.” He grins and points at the empty chair next to me. “Can I sit?”
I nod, so Noah folds his tall body down and rakes a hand through his hair, a movement I watch for a split second longer than normal.
I glance at him side-on as he messes with an old leather satchel, trying to decide whether he has been blessed with naturally gorgeous eyes or if he’s helped them along with a bit of black eyeliner.
They can’t look like that on their own, can they?
He points at the heavy vintage camera. “I’m mostly here for the photography lecture. What about you?”
I start to open my mouth but another boy slinks through the door. If Noah is faux teen angst personified, this guy is the complete opposite. He looks as though he just parked his Range Rover and is heading to play a round of golf.
“Am I late?” he asks, sliding into the seat on the other side of Noah. I’m half annoyed and half grateful for the interruption, because as soon as Noah started to speak, my mind emptied of coherent thoughts.
“No, I think the teacher is almost ready to start, though.” Izzy points to a small woman with a warm complexion and the longest silver braid I’ve ever seen.
As she moves to the center of the circle, Izzy leans across both me and Noah and smiles at the new guy.
She has a thing for preppy boys, and there’s already a twinkle in her eye as she takes in his carefully styled blond hair. “I’m Izzy. Here for textiles, mainly.”
“Ford,” he offers curtly, nodding at her. His plummy accent is slightly more obvious as it wraps around his name. “Here because I have to be.”
Interesting.
Before I can introduce myself, the course instructor pulls a small triangle from beneath her colorful poncho and taps it so the sound rings out. I stifle a giggle, and Izzy pinches my leg in warning as the room falls quiet.
“Good morning, everyone.” The woman’s voice trembles with excitement and the triangle disappears back where it came from.
“My name is Ramona. Thank you for joining our creative arts summer program here at Blackwood. This introduction day is all about settling in and getting a sense of all the different forms of self-expression we will cover over the next two weeks. The aim of this course is not just to entice you to apply for a degree with us, but to explore your interests and strengths, whether that is in traditional art, performance or writing, and perhaps even unlock new ones. The creative arts are for people who tell stories, however that may be. I know many of you are here to explore a particular discipline, which is why you will have the afternoon sessions free to work on your own personal projects. These will be presented to your peers on the final day, so it would be wise to start them as soon as possible, even if the related class is not until next week.” My shoulders relax a little.
“Let’s start with a few moments of introduction to the people closest to you and then you may roam freely and investigate the different stations to give you a taste of what to expect.
” She gestures to the other side of the studio, where a variety of activities have been set up, including a table full of stage makeup and a pottery wheel.
“Maybe I can make a wonky fruit bowl or something and give it to Dad and Kim as a wedding present,” I joke to Izzy, who smirks.
“Pottery, seriously?” Ford rolls his eyes. “Isn’t that for middle-aged women who paint mugs while getting embarrassingly drunk?”
I open my mouth to argue with him, but Scarlett chimes in before I can.
“All forms of art are valid,” she says dreamily, twisting a lock of white-blond hair around one finger.
My mom would diplomatically call her a free spirit, but that would be mom-speak for hippie. “People can find beauty in anything.”
“You’re right.” Izzy agrees with Scarlett. She pushes Ford’s shoulder playfully and I marvel at how easy she is in these social situations. “Don’t be such a snob.”
“I’m not!” Ford protests. “But it hardly captures the raw, unfiltered emotion of a scene, does it?”
“So what do you do, Ford?” I ask curiously. He hardly looks the artistic type compared to the others in the room.
“I paint.” He shrugs. “Portraits mostly. It’s sort of a family tradition, but I don’t paint quite the way my father would like me to. That’s why my parents enrolled me.”
“Cool,” I say as silence descends on the group. My brain whirs, looking for something to say to fill the void. “My dad just bought a really weird portrait,” I add, cursing my social anxiety when I can’t think of a sentence to follow it.
Izzy comes to my rescue. “Her dad works here, at Blackwood. He’s an art history professor.
” She pulls out her phone and brings up the photo I sent her of the portrait.
“This is the painting. Fliss is going to do some research on it for her personal project. She’s an amazing writer. ” I squeeze her arm in thanks.
“What the hell is that?” Noah chokes out.
I don’t look at the phone, but I understand his reaction.
The image is practically seared into my brain, so I know he’s staring at the hollow eyes, the madness bleeding onto the page from the subject’s withered face.
Scarlett’s eyes grow round, and if possible, she goes a little paler than she already was.
“Good technique,” Ford says, his face deadpan.
“It’s some big deal, apparently,” I say. “Have you heard of The Four?” I’m met with a couple of “maybe” shrugs, but Noah nods. “Well, this is the missing fifth. That’s what I’m going to write about. They’re unveiling it tonight at the Heywood Gallery.”
“You know the paintings, Noah?” Izzy asks, putting her phone away.
“Course I do. Everyone in Blackwood does. The gallery opening was a big deal a couple of years ago.”
“I haven’t been yet,” I admit. “I just got here yesterday. We’re helping out there tonight, though.”
“You should come and see it!” Izzy chimes in. “Fliss said it’s even creepier in the flesh. The reception starts at seven.”
“I think it’s just meant to be faculty and donors and stuff, Iz,” I protest, not wanting anything to get back to Dad. But she waves me off and stands up, stretching her arms behind her.
“It’ll be fine,” she says, holding a hand out to me. “Come on, let’s go uncover your hidden artistic talents.”