Shades of Darkness (2 page)

“How do you think they got the name?” Ethan asked as we walked.

“What?” I asked.

He nudged my shoulder and gestured up, to the power line laden with crows.

“A murder,” he replied. “I mean, a flock makes sense. Or even a clutch. But a murder of crows? I don't get it.”

I took another long drink of coffee, suddenly colder from all those beady black eyes staring at me.

“No clue,” I replied. “Maybe it's symbolic or something.”

“Speaking of,” Ethan said, “how's your project
really
going?”

“Well, it hasn't killed me yet.”

“Yet?”

“Yet.”

He didn't inquire further as I opened the great glass door to the arts building for him. The moment that first draft of warm air embraced me, I felt at home. The floor was slate slats and the walls flat white. Yesterday the walls had been blank. Now, the foyer was filled with black-and-white photographs. I slid off my coat and wandered up to the nearest photo.

“Beauty,” Ethan muttered, and took a sip of his coffee.

And he was right. The photo was slightly surreal, clearly a double exposure and some darkroom manipulation, showing an abandoned clapboard house with a figure floating in front of it, but the figure—a small child holding a balloon—was upside-down, as though she was floating and the balloon held her to the Earth. Below it was a small piece of cardboard with the piece's title and artist.

“
Untitled thirteen,
” Ethan said. “How original. I dread to read the artist's statement.”

I shrugged. Truth be told, I hated the whole “untitled” thing too . . . but then again, I still hadn't settled on a title for my own upcoming exhibition.
Untitled
was becoming a strong contestant.

“Kai never was one for words,” I replied. “Come on, we're going to be late.”

Which was a lie. We had a good ten minutes before class. I just didn't want to stand out here, staring at another senior's thesis. Kai had applied to many of the same colleges I had, albeit for a different department, and I hated comparing my work to his. Especially since my paintings would soon be dotting this very hall. Ethan didn't protest as we walked away. Probably because he, too, was facing an upcoming exhibition and, like me, was entirely unprepared. At least he had a month to finish; his thesis went up two weeks after mine.

We headed down the maze of a hall toward the back of the building. A few other seniors had their final projects on display deeper in—Tina had her funky silver-and-found-object rings scattered about on a few pedestals; Jeremy displayed a collection of rather tasteless line drawings that almost but not quite resembled genitalia; Kah-Yee showcased a textile exhibit that involved one large crocheted web over the ceiling, bits of found objects dangling from it like old memories—which just made the usually comforting walk more stressful than it should have been. My time was ticking. Soon, too soon, I'd have to compete with the big guys. And I couldn't convince myself I'd pull this one out of my hat. Not even the scent of oil paints drifting down the corridor could help. We took a stairway off to the side and headed toward the top level.

“We should go fishing tonight,” Ethan said when we reached the big black door leading to the drawing studio. He pushed it open and gestured grandly for me to enter. “If, you know, you aren't terribly busy.”

“You're the one with the boyfriend,” I said, giving him a half curtsy as I walked past.

“I know,” he replied. “And yet I'm choosing to spend my Friday night with you. Feel the love, Winters. Feel the love.”

I blew him a kiss and let my brain switch over to class mode.

The drawing studio was probably my fourth favorite place on campus. Only one of the walls in here was glass, but since it was on the second story and overlooked the forest, that was okay. The other three walls were white and as pristine as a giant studio can be when said room hosts charcoal drawing classes. Easels and stools were set up in a half circle around an overstuffed armchair. Thankfully, the armchair was empty; our model stood in the corner by our instructor's desk, still fully robed. It always felt awkward walking in when he was already naked.

Ethan and I settled onto our respective stools. I flipped to the first clean sheet of paper on my easel and took one last sip of my short-lived mocha. The Dark Note seriously needed to invest in thirty-two-ounce cups.

The rest of the class—twelve of us in all—was already there and settling in. Another reason why I hated being even a fraction of a second late.

Jane sat down beside me. Her family was Korean, though she'd lived in the States for so much of her childhood, her accent was flawless. She was also seriously the only painter I knew who didn't have at least one splotch of paint on every article of clothing she owned. I glanced down to my own ensemble: faded skinny jeans covered in patches and hand-drawn runes (not my doing), pink long-sleeve shirt covered in ink smears (admittedly my doing), studded black vest with some alchemical wheel drawn on the back (again, not my doing). Paired with the magenta streaks in my hair (definitely not my doing—Ethan demanded I let only him touch my hair) and the burgundy eye shadow and Eye of Horus spiral I'd drawn under my right eye, I definitely bordered on the edge of “trying too hard.”

But hell, if growing up in the Midwest taught me anything, it was that people stared at me no matter what. Probably because I was some unknown blend of Native American bloodlines. Makeup was my mask; it gave people a reason to stare for nonracist reasons.

“How was the still life?” Jane asked the moment she settled in.

Despite the coffee, the very thought of last night's last-minute homework made me yawn.

“Same,” Jane said, smiling. “I feel bad for Cassie. She's the one who really suffers when I'm up till two drawing eggs.”

“No wonder she and Elisa are friends,” I said. “They always have something to commiserate over.”

Well, I'm sure there were many more reasons Cassie and my roommate, Elisa (pronounced
ah-LEE-zah
, because she said it made her sound refined), got along, but having visual artist roommates definitely gave them cause to bond. The girl beside Jane asked her something, so I turned back to Ethan.

“Are we really on tonight?” I asked. I didn't want to get my hopes up in case he changed his mind last minute to hang out with Oliver. It was Friday night, not that it meant anything (because yes, our school ran Tuesday to Saturday—don't ask, I swear they only did it to be different), but Oliver often took Ethan to the movies on Fridays so they could pretend they were a normal high school couple. But I could really use getting off campus, even if only for an hour.

“Totally,” he said. He rubbed a hand across his nose and left a charcoal smear. I said nothing—it just added to the charm. “Oliver's roommate's
finally
out of town, so I'm staying at his place tomorrow night.”

My jaw dropped.

“No way. How did . . . ?”

“I'm old guard, Winters,” he said with a wink. “Four years here and you can get away with murder.”

Before I could ask how Ethan managed to score a sleepover at his boyfriend's, our instructor, Andy, came forward. He was in jeans and a blazer, dapper as always, but there was something about him that seemed a little off. Maybe it was because he was in his sixties and still tried too hard to connect with his students. I mean, all teachers at Islington tried to connect, and most of them succeeded because we're all a little batshit. But something about Andy just made him feel like a doddering uncle. Potentially because he kind of smelled like cabbage.

Our model, Mr. G., took his place on the chair and carefully arranged his red bathrobe to cover his delicate bits. Give him a pipe and a library and he'd look like the perfect English gentleman: thinning white hair in a cunning combover, wispy eyebrows, and skin that didn't appear to have seen sunlight since birth.

“Good morning, everyone,” Andy said. “It's Mr. G.'s last day with us, so we're going to hit the ground running. After break we'll bring out your assignments for critique. Sound good?” My classmates gave a couple of half hearted nods. I couldn't help that skin-crawly feeling I got whenever Andy spoke to us. He just made every interaction so
awkward
.

Without any further forced preamble, Andy nodded to Mr. G. and went back to his desk.

At that, Mr. G. disrobed completely and the work began. Our warmup was simple and familiar: minute-long sketches in charcoal to capture overall shape and tension. I grabbed a piece of willow charcoal and began to sketch, my arm and wrist arcing across the tablet of paper, black lines blooming under my fingertips like curving road maps. I looked over to Ethan only once; beyond that glance, I was lost in the flow of the line.

The figures that formed were simple and clean: Mr. G. adopting
The Thinker
pose, him standing on one leg, him reclining with legs crossed. Figure drawing had always come easily to me, which was a good chunk of the reason I'd sent myself off to Islington in the first place. Not many kids my age cared to go to an arts school that promised an extra two hours of daily class time, extended summer hours, required after-class studios, and double the workload. But I did. I couldn't stand public school, with its stupid cliques and braindead jocks. I couldn't even fit in with the goths or the geeks or the band nerds. I wasn't dark enough or gamer-y enough or into obscure music. Though, if I wanted to be perfectly honest, that was only a small part of the reason I came here. Home was filled with ghosts. And here, hundreds of miles away, their cries were silenced. At least, in theory.

You just need to get out and relax a little,
I convinced myself as I drew.
You're just stressed. Too much work and too little sleep. That would make anyone a little nostalgic and a little . . . sensitive.

After the warmup, we did a few ten-minute poses and worked our way down in time until we ended in twenty five-second traces, each in a different color of oil pastel but occupying the same space. My hands were greasy and looked like a rainbow had vomited all over them, but the resulting explosion of color on the page was fantastic. Andy paused behind my stool and put a hand on my shoulder.

“Nice work, Kaira. Really nice work. It almost looks angelic.”

He moved on and said something to Jane that I didn't really catch because I was too busy trying not to laugh over Ethan mouthing “akwaaaaaaaard” when Andy's back was turned. I tried to focus on the sketch instead. The center of the page had a dark outline of Mr. G. from where his parts had overlapped, but there were strands of color arcing off—arms and legs and arching torsos, so it almost looked like he was sprouting rainbow wings.

“Show-off,” Ethan muttered in my ear. I jerked and looked back. He was standing right behind me, his lukewarm coffee in hand (he wasn't a pro coffee drinker like me). I swatted him in the chest, leaving a light blue smear on his now multicolored sweater.

“Come on,” I said, standing up to stretch. We had a five-minute break before the next set of sketches. “I need to pee, and you need to gossip.”

“Hopefully, not all at once,” he said. I just shook my head and led him from the studio by the cuff of his sleeve.

•  •  •

Ethan waited for me outside the bathroom, leaning against a cardboard Roman pillar. My little sanity anchor. My reminder that the past was the past and this was the present, and the present was pretty fucking great. He was doodling something on his wrist with a Biro pen and leaning beside one student's collage rendition of a Monet, looking like he was waiting for someone to snap his Polaroid and label it
Too Hip for Hipsters
.

I'd known Ethan since I came to Islington. We were given peer mentors before the start of term to help us newbies acclimate to the school's quirks, and Ethan had been mine. He'd attended Islington since his freshman year and knew the place inside and out. During our first meeting, while our group lounged on the leather sofas in the Writers' House with the electric fireplace going despite the late-summer heat, Ethan had presented us with a particular dilemma: Each of the mentor groups had been given a stipend to spend for group activities, and he wasn't interested in doing the usual tie-dyed shirt and movie night thing. He recommended we use the money to fund a weekly café trip in hopes of finding hot men. He affectionately called the project
Fishing for Dick
. Then and there, my love for him was affirmed.

“Come on,” I said. “Spill it.” I nudged up beside him and looked down at the notes on his skinny wrist. Sadly, they were just reminders of upcoming assignments and project ideas. Nothing juicy.

“What?” he said. He glanced around as though we were already discussing his sex life, cheeks blushing. Save for a few girls chatting as they went into the bathroom, the hall was empty.

I grabbed the pen from his hand, grasped his wrist with the other, and wrote in my hastiest cursive: “will u fuk?”

When he looked at what I wrote, he went an even brighter shade of crimson and tried to scrub it off. He didn't succeed.

“You're classy, you know that?” he said. Then he looked up at me, and a stupid little grin perked up the corner of his mouth. “And yes, probably. Maybe. Definitely. Gods I hope so.”

I sniffed and wiped an invisible tear from my eye. “My little boy's all grown up,” I said, making my voice crack.

“Yeah, well . . .” But he didn't say anything else because the girls came out from the bathroom then and it was clear our short break was up. He cleared his throat. “Did you want to go fishing or not?” he asked. Even though the mentor group eventually disbanded, Ethan and I had kept up the good fight: Nearly every Friday we went to the same teahouse, though it had become more a ritual for finishing homework before the weekend than finding men. Especially since Ethan had found Oliver at the beginning of this year.