Beneath The Skin (A College Obsession Romance) (37 page)

“And you think I’m loud and dangerous?”

“I think you could own the world, if you tried.”

I squint at her, appraising her supposed (and rather sudden) bout of artistic courage. Can I trust her? Are we really seeing eye-to-eye, or is this some sort of unsubtle act of self-destruction that she’s skillfully inviting me to partake in?

“I want them to see us,” she emphasizes. “I want the whole campus to know our names. Nell … Iris … We could
own
them. Are you in?”

After a glance at my blank canvas, I feel the corners of my mouth pull up. Meeting her ruthless eyes, I give her a curt nod.

BRANT

“Dude. Are you shitting your pants right now?”

I let out all my breath at the mirror, adjusting my tie. “Do I look like a fuckin’ penguin with a stick up my ass? I feel like a penguin.”

“You look hot.”

“Calm your tits, Dmitri. I’m not gonna fuck you.” I dodge him swinging a fist into my arm for that comment. “Just kidding. I know you’re trying to fake a relationship with this imaginary Riley chick. Don’t mean to blow your gay cover.”

“She isn’t imaginary, you dickwad. She’s coming tonight. So’s Sam and Clayton and Dessie,” he goes on. “Everyone’s coming.”

I freeze. “Really? Everyone?”

“Yeah, dude! They all want to see your work.” Dmitri slaps my back, then leans into me. “Even Eric wants to come. I guess he was able to pencil you in between all his twink hookups.”

“Twink? You gay guys are into Twinkies? What do you do with them? Because you obviously ain’t eatin’ them.” I dodge another timely whack from him, laughing as I slip out of range. “Just kidding! Chill, bro. Shit, you’re so tense, you’d think it was
your
damn showcase we were attending tonight.”

Dmitri chuckles, shaking his head and righting his glasses which had gone crooked in his effort to hit me. “So, like … is Nell …?”

“Nah,” I grunt. “I doubt it. I mean, well, maybe she’ll come. I don’t know. Shit.” I draw closer to the mirror, inspecting a spot on my face. “Is that a bruise?”

“Mosquito bite, maybe. So wait, dude. Have you even talked to her since …?”

“Nope.”

“Not a peep? Not even seen her at the school?”

For some reason, I can’t bring myself to say it out loud, but I did take a day to go down a few streets “in the bad side of town” and found myself at the Westwood Light, where I was met by the woman who supposedly hates Nell, yet lets her continue to come and spend time with the children.
“It’s important for them to be exposed to the arts. I always had a soft spot for that,”
the woman explained to me. I asked if Nell was around, though the answer was clear when I went into the room with the kids and didn’t find her there. The next two hours were spent at the circular table creating art with the children and feeling my own inspirations flare up inside me at the sight of their unadulterated joy.
“Are you Nell’s friend?”
a girl asked.
“Do you and Nell kiss?”
asked one of the older girls, inspiring a bunch of grossed-out reactions from the littler ones. I laughed so much that day, I almost forgot the reason I’d come to the Westwood Light in the first place. After a quick talk with the supervisor on duty that day, I got special permission to engage in a different sort of artistic activity, in which I pulled out my camera, got the kids gathered around, and collaborated on a fun, impromptu sort of project. I had wished Nell was there with me.

“No,” I answer, my response much delayed. I pick up two buttons from the lip of the sink, confused. “What in gay hell are these?”

“Cufflinks. Dude, you’re a lost cause. Gimme.”

Dmitri swipes them out of my hand and grabs my wrists, directing me to hold them steady as he puts my cufflinks on for me. Once again I followed Eric’s expert advice and invested in a full-on tux, complete with a black bowtie, fitted white starched shirt, and a measured-to-my-every-sleeve-and-inseam jacket and slacks.

“Your hair …”

“Yeah, yeah,” I mumble, cutting him off. “I’m not used to the whole tuxedo thing. Figured I should be all business and formality from neck down, then all party on my head.”

I run a hand through my hair to ensure it’s still the precise level of out-of-control I want. The trick to proper bedhead is making sure, after spending hours styling it, that it looks like you took no time at all.

“I think you’re ready,” Dmitri decides, giving me a onceover.

I feel like something’s missing. My nerves seem to be charged with some kind of electricity I don’t remember putting there, and my heart thumps like I’m back from a five mile jog, yet all I’m doing is standing here in front of the mirror.

“Something’s missing,” I decide to voice.

“Like what?” There’s a knock at the door. “Oh, she’s here.”

“Who?”

“My imaginary date you think doesn’t exist. You look perfect, dude. Just chill and take a few deep breaths or something and we’ll, y’know … we’ll go in and, like, own the place or something. Practice your spiels and stuff. Everyone’s going to ask you what your exhibit
meant
and what
inspired
you and blah, blah … I’ll be right back.”

Dmitri leaves me in the bathroom to stare at myself. I swallow hard, right my bowtie again, then wonder what the hell is missing.

I’m still wondering when we’re walking to the art school. Riley is walking ahead of me with Dmitri as we go. She actually
does
exist, by the way. Who knew? I’m staring at the backside of her pretty blonde curls the whole way there. She’s a dainty thing, this Riley, which is a curious contrast to Dmitri’s dark, punkish look. She’s like the rose and he’s the thorn colored in black guy-liner.

The school glows with the light from the gallery, which is a separate wing that runs in the opposite direction of where all the studios and classrooms are located. When we reach the tall glass doors, I feel a quiver of anticipation in my gut that makes me equal parts sick and horny. I can’t explain the horniness. Maybe
I’m
the sex addict. Maybe everything makes me horny.

Or maybe every time I walk into an art gallery, I’ll imagine Nell pushing me against the wall and covering my lips with hers.

Maybe I feel the cold kiss of each cuff as she bound me to that platform nearly naked, turning me into her
Object
.

Maybe I get the sensation of all my clothes falling off my body, one by one, article by article, until there’s nothing left but skin.

And Nell.

Touching.

My skin.

I shake away the thoughts, figuring that strolling into the End Of Year Showcase with a boner in my tuxedo pants would not be the most fitting first impression for all the stuffy, uppity folk in the art industry who I’m about to encounter. I’m thankful that Dmitri knows where we’re going because I brainlessly follow his and Riley’s lead, snaking through the sprinkled crowds and couplings of people around the gallery, who observe the artwork and make quiet, small-talk amongst themselves regarding how the pieces make them feel and what they think they mean. “What a curious commentary on the state of our educational system,” I overhear some man say. “Oh, an allegory to music and mime. Yes, touching. Cliché, but touching,” says another.

I can’t make sense of any of it. I just follow Dmitri and worry over no one and nothing that I hear.
Am I going to be able to withstand what these pretentious know-it-alls say about
my
work?

“Dude, is this you?”

Dmitri’s voice snaps me into reality. I look up.

Lined along the wall are my five photographs, each strategically placed on the wall to show a sort of sequence. The first photo is of a guy slumped over his kitchen counter in a slightly unflattering posture and he’s eating a bowl of cereal. His hair is messy, his cheeks puffy from lack of sleep, and he’s wearing an oversized t-shirt. The spoon is halfway to his hanging-open mouth.

“Who’s that?” Dmitri asks, leaning in to inspect it. “I know him. Oh my god, is that—?”

“Eric,” I agree. “Doesn’t look like him at all, does it?”

“Hell no. Damn.” He squints and adjusts his glasses, as if his eyes are playing cruel tricks. “He’s gonna kill you for showing this.”

I throw up my hands. “Hey, he signed off on it! Signed the release and everything.”

Dmitri chuckles. “He’s still gonna kill you.”

“I love it,” mutters Riley.

“Yeah,” agrees Dmitri. “It feels so …”

“Personal,” she finishes thoughtfully. “It’s so raw. So … untouched. It doesn’t look posed. I really feel like I’m in his kitchen just … sharing breakfast with him. Waking up with him. Dreading the day I’m about to have.”

“Well, you
are
in his kitchen,” Dmitri replies.

“Thanks for the attitude.” Riley rolls her eyes, nudging him, though I can’t tell if it’s an annoyed nudge or a playful one.

“Oh, wow.” Dmitri notices the next photo. “This one’s yours too? You did all of these?”

“These five,” I confirm.

The next photo is one Sam let me take of her in the music building. She’s practicing a piece in one of the cramped piano rooms with her sorta-boyfriend Tomas standing next to her with his bassoon. I noticed a flinch of discomfort from Sam when Tomas played his first note, and for some reason, my finger chose to capture that moment forever.

Dmitri stares at the photo for so long, I’m worried he thinks it’s crap when suddenly he says, “Never seen her like this before.”

“Seen who? Sam?”

Dmitri doesn’t respond, oddly taken with the photo.

Riley chimes in. “Oh! Is this Samantha? I never met her before. Dmitri, is this the one who used to be roommates with that actress?”

“With Dessie, yes, that’s the one,” he answers distractedly.

Riley turns to me. “These photos are stunning, Brant.”

I can’t help but grin stupidly at that, like a dog that had just been tossed a treat. If I had a tail, it’d be wagging.
I’m so damn easy to please.

The third photo is one I took straight from the collection I’d done at the theater of Clayton watching Dessie from the wing of the stage, except I picked a shot that I captured from the front. His dark, twisted tattoo coils up his neck, caught in crisp detail, and seems to cradle his frozen face, which watches with bewilderment as he observes the performance in front of him. Beads of sweat adorn his forehead, and there’s a streak of grease on the collar of his t-shirt. The fourth photo is from the same series, but it’s of Dessie sitting in her dressing room, all alone. She didn’t know I was there until she heard the click of the camera and by then it was too late—her moment caught by my too-quick hands. She had been fiddling with a charm bracelet on her wrist, studying it with such intensity that it seemed to transport her into a whole world of memories and thoughts and feelings. I remember standing there in the doorway wondering what she was imagining, just before slowly lifting my camera and sealing the moment in a single, forever photograph.

The final photo shows two of the kids at the Westwood Light as they watch Nell melt a single crayon over a large circular canvas. She was drawing a picture with the wax from above—bumpy and wormy-looking, though the photo doesn’t capture the painting; it focuses solely on Nell, the care she takes with the crayon, and the unfiltered fascination in the children’s faces. I made this photo black and white, except for the deep, rich green color of the melting crayon in her hand. I snapped this shot candid-style, just like the four others. The click was so quiet, she didn’t even notice, and the moment wasn’t ruined. It was the first time she took me to see the kids at Westwood Light.

“She
is
here,” Dmitri says thoughtfully, studying that last photo. “Well, in a way.”

“In a way,” I agree, somewhat pained.

“Ugh,” comes a voice from behind.