Shades of Darkness (9 page)

Advanced Painting Studio was my bastion of sanity, save for the few painful hours when we had critiques. Sure, I loved my other art classes—who didn't like making jewelry or getting dirty in ceramics?—but painting was my heart's calling. The moment I opened the ginormous black wooden door leading to the studio space, the moment the scent of oil and ether and paint washed over me, I felt like I was finding Zen. The classroom only had two white walls; the other two were floor-to-ceiling windows, overlooking Islington's forested backyard and letting in what little winter light we got. We even had skylights. Massive red and white pines stretched out into the distance, dotted with small wooden cabins used in the summer for camps. Being in here always made me feel like I was sitting on the edge of a fairytale, an adventure waiting for its heroine to take the stage.

I wandered over to my easel, which was arranged with the others in a semicircle around a table laden with a variety of oddities: broken porcelain jester dolls and papier-mâché masks, silver candlesticks and plastic fruit. It was a completely different still life from last week, but damn if I wasn't getting sick of inanimate objects.

Ethan wandered in a few seconds later. He set up his paper on an easel and scattered tubes of paint on the small table between us.

“I'm starting to think she was lying when she said we'd be painting figures soon,” he muttered.

“Me too.” I paused. “I still can't believe you invited him along.”

“What?” he asked. He looked over to me. “Oh right. Well, listen. It's nothing. It's the three of us going to a school production. Not a date.” He shrugged. “Chris just really looked like he wanted a reason to hang out. I couldn't leave him in the dust.”

“Sometimes I think you're too nice for your own good.”

He pressed a hand to his heart.

“It's my cross to bear. And I do so willingly.”

“You aren't setting us up,” I whispered.

“I know,” he replied. “But you have to admit, there are worse candidates to spend your Saturday night with.”

“I know. I'm already spending it with you.”

“I'm still cuter,” he said.

I didn't have the chance to refute him, as Chris came in then and I busied myself with looking through my bag for absolutely no reason beyond avoiding eye contact.

“I hate you,” I made sure to mutter to Ethan.

“You're welcome,” he responded.

The rest of the class came in and began setting up in silence. There were only eight of us in the class; you had to submit a portfolio to be considered, which meant I was either a cut above the rest or no one applied and they needed to fill a seat. I was kind of hoping it was the former, but the other classmates were leagues above me. Except for maybe Tamora. Her vag paintings were definitely one extreme of the bell curve—I hoped she didn't actually do them naked and just lied so we'd take her seriously, but I also wouldn't put it past her.

Art kids are weird. And no, I'm not an exception to the rule.

Chris sat at his easel across from me. I half expected him to come over and make some awkward small talk, but he didn't. Just nodded and smiled when our gazes caught and went back to focusing on setting up his paints. First minor crisis averted.

I took out a pencil and scribbled on the cover of my drawing pad, angling it toward Ethan,
You owe me for this.

Ethan looked over, smiled, and wrote on his own pad,
Call me Cupid.

I glared, but didn't have any time to bitch him out. Helen came in, a thermos in one hand and a canvas shopping bag in the other. Everything about her just screamed “painter.” Today she was wearing blue overalls liberally splattered with multicolored paint, a faded teal rock T-shirt underneath, and at least a dozen bracelets and malas on her left wrist. Her long, dirty-blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail. As usual, she wasn't wearing any makeup, which in my humble opinion made her look more attractive than the painted-up dolls that tended to haunt the drama department. Not that I could say much, seeing as I'd drawn three lines under my left eye and applied a terrifyingly vibrant purple lipstick.

“Afternoon, guys,” she said. She was one of those teachers who insisted you call her by her first name and didn't believe in letter grades. I'd had her for an introductory painting class last term; the entirety of my final critique had been us sitting in her office, drinking espresso and chatting about Renaissance influences in postmodern art. It was the only time I could say “postmodern” without flinching, which just shows the sort of relationship she and I'd forged.

She set her thermos on her book-laden desk and leaned against it, addressing us. “As you can probably guess, we're doing another still life this afternoon. You'll have the first two hours of class to start, and the rest of the weekend to finish. And before you start groaning, because I know how much you all love drawing inanimate objects, I found a way to spice things up a bit.”

She held up the canvas bag.

“Within this bag is a collection of paints. You will pick two tubes, and you will only use these two colors, along with white and black, to finish the piece. Blending will be key, and you will be graded on proper shading and gradation. Think of it as a grayscale on LSD.”

Ethan raised his eyebrow, perfectly conveying both
she's insane
and
this might be fun
. Ethan was a master of eyebrow-raising. He practiced often and to great effect.

Helen began wandering around the easels, letting us blindly choose our colors.

“No peeking, Kaira,” she said when she got to me.

I closed my eyes and pulled out two tubes. She chuckled when she saw what I drew.

“I'd hoped you'd get one of those.”

No question what she meant by that: One of the tubes was purple sparkle paint. The other was neon orange. Well, at least they were close to complementary colors.

Ethan eyed my tubes. He'd drawn pthalo blue and a particularly nasty brown. Another eyebrow raise, this one of envy and displeasure. He wanted my sparkle paint.

“Okay,” Helen said. She walked back at her desk and tapped at her laptop. “Two hours on the clock. Let loose the hounds!” On cue, AC/DC blared through the classroom speakers.

I glanced at Ethan, who was already mixing colors on his glass palette. Then, after a flicker of a glance toward Chris, I picked up my paints and began preparing my colors. I didn't look up again, but judging from the occasional chills I felt, I could guess that Chris wasn't so good about keeping his eyes to himself.

•  •  •

Critiques weren't nearly as painful as I'd feared; Tamora had not, in fact, painted her still life with her ladybits, and Chris wasn't too obvious in his glances at me when critiquing my piece. I did find myself a little tongue-tied when talking about his painting (which was stupid because it was a picture of plants— nothing remotely romantic there), but it could have been much worse. I made sure to linger after class, slowly covering up my carefully mixed paints and ensuring nothing in my painting would drip or smudge. Mostly though, I just wanted to make it awkward for Chris to wait around for me, which worked—he left with Jane and gave me a little wave on the way out. She grinned like a madwoman, in an
I told you so
sort of way.

“I'm pretty certain it's not going to run away,” Ethan grumbled from his stool beside me. He was fully dressed to enter the Michigan night, his beanie scrunched up in his hands. “Though my stomach might, if you don't get your ass in gear.”

“I'm stalling,” I muttered. I counted slowly in my head, imagining Chris and Jane walking down the hall, potentially lingering to look at the senior theses. “Because
someone
invited
someone else
to come to a concert tonight, and now she has to fend off all the awkward interactions before then.”

“
Someone
needs to stop talking in third person,” he said as I slid on my coat. “Seriously, girl, what's your problem? The boy's cute and interested. You've worked hard. Don't you deserve a little senior fling?”

I knew he was trying to be funny, and I knew he had my best intentions in mind, but his words pissed me off more than he knew.

“I told you,” I said slowly, trying so hard not to grit my teeth. “I'm not dating. I'm not sleeping around. I am off limits. And I would appreciate you respecting that and not trying to set me up with a stranger.”

He actually leaned back a little.

“Sorry,” he said. “I just . . . I don't know, I'm sorry. I thought it might be fun for you to have someone. Because, you know, I'm always with Oliver now and I feel bad making you be the third wheel.”

I shook my head. “I don't mind. I love Oliver. And I love your stupid face. I don't need anyone else.”

And I don't want anyone else. I don't want to be hurt again.

I pushed those thoughts away, suddenly reminded of the crystal on my altar. Mom had always been spot on in her premonitions. Why hadn't she been more on target that night? Why hadn't I? My anger ebbed, replaced with a numbness I'd spent years cultivating.
You deserved what happened, that's why. And that's why you don't deserve to date.

“Fair enough,” he said, breaking through my inner diatribe. “Still friends?” He held out his arm and I took it, slinging my bag over my other shoulder. I hated the fact that it reminded me of taking Brad's arm. I hated that it almost made me miss him.

“Till the end,” I replied.

Together, we wandered down the hall, my feet dragging and Ethan practically pulling me along. He did, however, let me stop near Tina's display of rings. I'd passed by it every day this week without actually giving it any pause. Then again, I
had
spent the last few weeks putting up with her crazy K-pop music in the studio while she frantically hammered and sawed and drilled her rings to perfection. We weren't in silversmithing together—she was in the advanced class, and I was just in intro—but I'd seen her in the studio during open hours. Her work was good. Really good.

“She's improved a lot this term,” I said, almost but not quite touching one of the rings carved into an ornate teacup and adorned with tiny ruby swallows. “I mean, did you see what she was putting out before?”

Ethan shrugged, glancing both ways. The hall was empty and open, the sky outside so dark it was impossible to tell the time. I knew he didn't like critiquing work out in the open, and I felt the vibe too—it was almost sacrilegious, in a way, especially in here.

“It
is
pretty impressive,” he said. Which was an understatement. Last term, the girl could barely solder copper. Now she was blending fine silver and even gold into her pieces, both of which were notoriously temperamental to work with.

I looked over to one of the more intricate rings, which was a delicate lace of silver wire.

“Jesus H. is she using diamonds?” I asked. Because there, in a nest of filigree, was a stunningly cut stone as clear as ice.

“Probably not,” he replied. “Even here, I can't imagine her leaving anything that expensive out in the open.”

Islington didn't have a theft problem. I mean, really, where would students run? Lost computers always showed up the next day, either exactly where they were abandoned or at the student's door with a note saying, “You left this in the library.” But still, all this silver and gold in the open was kind of . . . well, asking for it. Which wasn't a phrase I used lightly.

Ethan glanced at his watch. “We should get moving. Oliver's going to be pissed if we miss the concert for anything.”

“Fair,” I said, and let him guide me down the hall. As we walked, I paid a little closer attention to the seniors' work lining the halls. My own would be up there in two weeks. Some of the kids had put up a good fight (and gone down swinging) while a few others were just stunning. Would I be one of the stars like Tina? Or would I be like Jeremy's crappy line drawings?

My stomach flipped at the thought of all the students walking down this very hall and judging my culminated work in judgey-judgey silence.

Despite the stupid descriptor, I still felt inferior.

“We're finishing our theses this weekend,” I said, squeezing Ethan's arm. “And then we're going to critique the shit out of each other so we have time to polish.”

“Done,” he replied. “Though I don't know what sort of brain state I'll be in after tonight.”

“Tonight?” I asked, glancing at him.

“Tonight,” he said, and wiggled his eyebrows surreptitiously.

“Oh! Sleepover,” I said. “Yes, well, get
some
sleep, please. I need you at peak brain capacity.”

“No promises.”

He opened the door for me. Outside, the air was static and dry, a cold snap waiting to shatter. The sky was crystal clear, stars shining brighter than I'd ever seen them in the city. It was one of those nights that felt like possibility could sweep down at any moment, everything clear and pristine and on the edge of perfection. Even the nerves of my upcoming thesis got sucked out into the ether.