Chapter 3 #3
A tiny knot of nerves unwinds in my chest. Something about that feels true.
I go to the array of shelves housing half-empty tubes of acrylic paints.
I select a wide variety of browns and blacks, some yellows too, glancing every so often at Antonio to get a sense of the burnt umber of his coif of curls, the difference between the tan lines on his skin.
I breathe through my nerves and, with Delia’s bolstering presence at my side, try and take her advice.
I could never re-create his bone structure, but I feel good about capturing the exact reflection of the afternoon light against Antonio’s messy curls.
There’s a surprising purple luster I didn’t expect, and a hint of dark blue.
I’d never have noticed it if I wasn’t studying him quite so thoroughly.
Distantly, it occurs to me that I’m no longer shocked or distracted by his nakedness.
I only see a rainbow of a person, an image made of the color of the aged planks of the Santa Monica pier, the hue of almond skin.
My nose is inches from the canvas. I’m so focused, I don’t realize I have an audience until it’s too late.
“Name?”
My head springs up, and I’m suddenly staring into the cool jade-green eyes of Julian Hughes. “Um—”
“Name?” he repeats.
“Rose?” I say.
“You asking or telling me?”
“Telling?” I grimace. “I’m…telling you.” Julian’s un-impressed stare surveys my face. He shifts, and I catch a whiff of expensive cologne, something smoky and delicious.
“Well, then. Tell me.” He waves a hand at my canvas. “What the hell is this, Rose?”
His voice cuts through the room. There is a sudden, unbearable silence. I can see Delia shift uncomfortably out of the corner of my eye. My stomach is wrenched to the bottom of my feet as I inspect my canvas through Julian Hughes’s eyes.
It’s an absolute mess. Globby mishmashes of color in the very, very vague shape of a body. Apparently, it doesn’t matter how accurate the colors are. Right now, it just looks like someone puked on a canvas and tried to pass it off as art.
“Sir,” I begin in a wretched voice. “I—”
Julian leans close, eyes narrowing. His silky gold hair brushes across his brow. “Perhaps next time—if, indeed, there is a next time—you might try something other than splatting brown and black paint on a blank canvas and calling it art.”
I cast swimming eyes across the classroom and hunch over my stomach, my face on fire. People are either keeping their eyes down, terrified they could be next, or giving me the sorriest looks they can manage. Delia’s body is rigid beside me. In my periphery, I see her clench her fist.
Maybe that’s what gives me the guts to defend myself, even a little. Julian’s already turning away from me.
“It’s not just brown and blacks, sir,” I whisper.
Julian throws a surprised look back at me. “Sorry?” he says.
“His birthmark isn’t brown, it’s the color of a cup of milky English breakfast, and his hair, while it looks just black, has at least three shades of violet undertones.” I tuck a piece of hair behind my ear and lift my eyes to meet his. “Sir.”
Julian narrows his eyes. A notch forms between his perfect brows, and he studies me like he’s not quite sure what to make of what I’ve said. I can’t tell if I’ve made him rethink his opinion of me or pissed him off more.
The bell tower at the center of campus rings, the great chimes signaling the end of this class period. Julian startles at the sound. Without another look at me, he turns away, heading to his desk.
“Come ready to wow me next time, class,” he calls out distractedly.
When we’re finally outside the building, Delia gives me a big hug.
“Julian,” she hisses, “is the biggest asshole in the world.”
“Sure,” I mumble into her shoulder. I want to crawl into my bed and never get out.
“Seriously, don’t listen to anything he said.” She pulls back and holds me at arm’s length. “I’ve got chemistry now—kill me—but afterward, you wanna grab food at the dining hall?”
“Sure,” I say again, forcing a smile.
I’ve got two hours between classes. I’d planned to go to the library, try and read more Thomas Hardy for lit class, but I’m feeling so awful, I think I might go lick my wounds in the safety of my own bed.
I hunch against the insanely cold wind, clutching my books to my chest, and start the long trudge back across campus. I don’t think this day can get much worse, I think.
And then I round the brick wall of a building. What I see across the green lawn makes me stop walking.
Stop breathing.
It’s him.
Him.
Leaning against a tree, just across the quad, is a tall boy: onyx hair, dark shirt and jeans, an impossible face.
It can’t be. No way.
I’m already moving fast, my feet sinking into the damp grass as I break into a jog. The boy’s head turns, and our eyes meet. Something dark and startled passes over his face. He pushes off the elm tree.
“No!” I call. “Don’t go! Wait!”
I slam hard into a girl, sending us both to the grass, scattering our books and bags across the lawn.
“Jesus, watch where you’re going!” she cries. I scramble to my knees, wide-eyed, frantic.
“Did you see him?” I gasp, pointing. “You saw him, right?” I grab her shoulder. “Look!”
She shoots me an irritated glance, and I know, I know what she’s gonna say as soon as I point, as soon as she turns her head.
“See who?” she says as I stare, wordless and annihilated, at a lone tree.