14. Petra #2
Behind me, a deep-voiced guy is grumbling over something. “Man, I just hope this class isn’t a total snoozefest. I heard the project is like, half our grade.”
“Yeah, but Ms. Matthews is supposed to be really cool,” another guy chimes in. “She lets you work on whatever inspires you. I’m thinking of doing something on street art.”
It’s a comforting feeling, this passive way of listening to the opinions and perspectives of others, and I let their words float around me, a background noise that keeps my mind tethered to reality.
I fidget with my stylus almost instinctively, the motion calming my nerves a bit.
Just then, another conversation catches my ear. “You know that party at Elias’s place?” says a girl. “I heard someone fell into the pool.”
My blood runs cold.
“Yeah, Sin Arnoult was there,” her friend responds in a gloating tone. “He’s always where the action is.”
I stiffen and try to return my full attention to my screen, but more gossip about that fateful night starts pouring into my ears. Almost immediately, a wave of nausea hits me as I almost pass out from the light buzz at my temples.
Whether it’s a reaction to the gossip or the physical remnant from that night that still inhabits my body, I don’t care. I have to do something fast.
I’m not going to hurl in my first ever art history class!
With shaky movements, I get up and start moving to the front of the classroom exactly when the door opens and Ms. Matthews walks in.
Dressed in a monochrome red-colored set and sporting the most stylish little pixie cut, she draws everyone’s eyes almost immediately.
“Afternoon, everyone,” she says in a brisk, commanding tone. Feeling thankful for her unwitting intervention, I reach the first desk and start to pull out my chair.
I hear a snicker.
“Teacher’s pet already, huh?” a guy near the back, someone from the football team, says loudly enough for everyone to hear. I am surprised that any of those granite-headed idiots would be interested in Ms. Matthews’s class, but before I can say as much, Sin’s voice fills the silent air.
“Cut it out, Eric.” There it is again, that sudden edge to his voice. “Not everyone needs to hide in the back to coast through class.”
Even Ms. Matthews remains silent, watching this entire exchange with an amused look on her face. I can feel all eyes shifting between me and Sin.
At last, even I am forced to glance at him.
He’s leaning back in his chair, arms crossed casually and body relaxed as usual, but his eyes glitter with the total lack of mercy.
Eric mutters something under his breath, but he doesn’t push back. I sit back in my chair and take deep breaths to calm my heart, stomach, and brain.
Having gained back some of my composure, I finally look at Sin and give him a tentative smile, small and grateful.
He returns it with one of his own, warm and completely disarming.
For a moment, the brooding intensity that has astonished me of late is replaced by something softer, more protective.
Someone clears their throat loudly.
When I see that it’s Ms. Matthews, my face turns almost as red as her attire.
“Shall we begin?”
The class settles down as the lesson begins. Ms. Matthews starts with a slide of Renaissance paintings. Soon, I’m completely lost to the world as the rich colors, luxurious fabrics, and intricate details absorb me.
Throughout the first fifteen minutes, I can’t help sketching quick impressions on my Sketchbook app.
But every so often, I catch movement out of the corner of my eye. It’s Sin.
He’s not just glancing; he’s staring. I can feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, half out of anticipation and half out of curiosity, if I’m being honest.
I am not sure what he sees in me, what he’s trying to find by looking at me so frequently.
Just as I steal a sideways glance at him, our gazes brush against each other, and I turn around so suddenly that Ms. Matthews stops mid-speech and peers around.
I try grounding myself in the lesson again.
“Of course, when we’re talking about the use of perspective in painting, we have to mention da Vinci and his Last Supper,” Ms. Matthews carries on. “Can anyone tell me why?”
A veil of silence drops over the classroom. But I raise my hand without even thinking.
“Yes, Miss . . . ?”
Shit, shit, shit, why did I do that? What if I fuck this up?
Ms. Matthews is still waiting for me, one elegant eyebrow arched in question, so I say, “Valentine, err-Petra Valentine. Umm,” I fumble around with my iPad before resuming in a firmer voice.
“It’s the vanishing point. He-he positions Jesus in such a way that the viewer experiences an illusion of depth.
Our eyes are sort of guided toward the center.
And that was quite unique for his time . . .”
Here, my voice trails away as everybody looks back at Ms. Matthews, waiting to see her reaction. To my greatest relief, she beams at me. “Well put, Ms. Valentine, very well put.”
A warm glow of pride flares in my chest. For the first time in a while, I feel competent, like I truly belong here. I catch a glimpse of Sin out of the corner of my eye again, but this time, he offers me a subtle nod of approval.
It’s not as unnerving as earlier, but I still can’t shake the feeling that his attention is sharper, more directed than anyone else’s.
“And this is why it’s so important to understand the fundamentals of art history,” Ms. Matthews continues, her eyes twinkling. “If you don’t understand the rules, you won’t be able to break them.”
A murmur of agreement ripples through the class, and I relax back into my seat. The lesson transitions into a hands-on analysis, and everyone is tasked with jotting down their interpretation of the different principles of perspective in painting.
As I get lost in my drawing, the class around me feels almost distant. Yet, the times I do glance up, Sin’s eyes find mine too easily.
With half an hour to spare before the final bell, Ms. Matthews packs away the projector and turns on the lights.
“All right, everyone, before you go,” she calls out over the sudden hum of students stretching their limbs and starting to gather their things.
“I’d like to discuss our mid-term project.
If you know anything about me, it’s that I value continuous testing.
You’ve gotta be on. Your. Toes.” She underscores the last three words with three snaps of her fingers.
“So, our mid-term assignment will be big. It will be fifty percent of your grade, to be exact.”
Urgent murmurs ripple through the room. The studious ones look smug, while the jocks who had joined thinking that this was going to be an easy class start looking anxious.
Even I feel a pang of apprehension.
Fifty percent of our grade means this project could make or break my grade in this class.
Cool, cool, cool, no pressure at all.
“Now, I’ve taken the liberty of pairing you up with partners,” Ms. Matthews continues, glancing down at a sheet of paper. “And before you come at me, know that I don’t change my mind once I’ve made it up. Cheers!”
My heart sinks a bit. The last thing I need is to be tied up to someone else’s work habits and preferences, especially given my current mix of nerves and . . . secrets.
“Let’s see . . . Claire and Eric,” Ms. Matthews starts reading off the list. I hear the girl called Claire groan a little next to me. Thank God Ms. Matthews didn’t partner me with that airhead.
I have celebrated too soon because she reads out, “Petra and Sinclair,” next.
My head snaps up so quickly I almost crick my neck.
I must have misheard her.
This can’t be happening.
But Sin is already looking at me, a smile playing on his lips, and Ms. Matthews has finished reading from the list.
You’ve got to be kidding me.
“Right then, class dismissed,” says Ms. Matthews. “We will be discussing the finer details about the project in the next class. In the meantime, get to know your partners, and feel free to come to me with any questions.”
The classroom empties quickly after that. I take my time zipping up my bag so I can compose myself before the inevitable encounter with Sin.
“Get to know your partners,” Ms. Matthews had said, and that’s what we have to do.
“Hey, Petra,” Sin’s voice jolts me out of my buzzing thoughts.
I turn to look at him, trying to appear more collected than I felt. “Hey, Sin. Did you want to talk about the project—”
“Meet me after class,” he cuts me off rather abruptly, and the way he quotes my own words from the note shocks me into silence. “In the gardener’s shed.”
As he walks away, leaving me alone in the classroom, the words loop around my head. A strange day made stranger still.