I sulk through classes, unable to pay attention. Two girls try to pass me notes, which Theo intercepts and reads. He does me a solid by answering them in his own crude way, little stick-figure drawings of people fucking doggy-style or upside down. He flashes them at me before flicking them back.
The second-to-last bell rings, and I unfold myself from the desk. Theo follows me out the door and down the hallway, slapping my hand in goodbye. I’ve done my best to keep this part of my life low-key, and my friends know better than to ask questions about my last class of the day.
I walk into the room, and Mr. Jenkins grins at me. I slide onto a stool at the back of the classroom. I’ve been drawing since I was twelve, but only recently he encouraged me to try other mediums.
“You might be surprised,” he had said, winking.
Eh, how could I resist? Playing with paint for an hour soothes the wild anger inside me. It’s either that or beat people to a pulp on the regular. Since my aggression can usually be handled on the lacrosse field, we breathe a bit easier in the spring. The rest of the time? Well, everyone better fucking watch out.
The classroom slowly fills. Art students, I’ve learned, don’t give a shit about the popular kids. It’s a relief not to be considered a fucking royal here, in the brightly lit classroom, surrounded by other disinterested students. It’s like the art department has a mind of its own.
And then Margo Wolfe walks in.
My blood boils before I even comprehend why.
She bites her lip.
My heartbeat thunders in my ears. I’m overcome with the urge to slam her against the wall.
Mr. Jenkins takes forever to talk to her, and she’s lingering there. She doesn’t even know I’m in the room, and it infuriates me.
Look at me, I want to yell. And if she didn’t, I’d go up and wrap my hands around her pretty throat until she had no choice.
My dick hardens in my pants. I shift, but I can’t take my eyes away from her.
Besides, if anyone glances back, they won’t be staring at my pants. It’s the face that’s the money-maker, at least in a school uniform. Naked… whole different story.
Look at me.
She jerks around like I had spoken out loud, her eyes turning big as saucers.
I hate that she became beautiful.
She was a pretty child, a head of dark curls and big green eyes, but she’s prettier without the baby fat. And the haunted look in her eyes?
It’d be better if I knew I was the one who put it there.
“Go sit, Margo,” Mr. Jenkins says, giving her a little push.
She picks the farthest easel from me, and I narrow my eyes. Abruptly, I get up and gather my things, circling the room and dropping into the seat next to her.
“What am I?” I growl. “Chopped liver?”
She blinks at me. I should’ve called her Owl, because she’s always just blinking those big orb eyes.
“Welcome back,” Mr. Jenkins says to the class. “Let’s start on a fresh canvas today, one of the smaller ones.”
He nods to one of the kids, a smaller boy who’s flown under the radar for the most part. Tim? Tom? The kid picks up a stack of six-inch-by-six-inch canvases and passes them around.
“Quick warmup,” Mr. Jenkins says. “Let’s use one color paint, and I want you to depict the mood you’re feeling. Ten minutes, then we’ll move on.”
I open my paint set and squirt black onto my palette. I ignore Margo and dip a thin brush into it, getting to work. It’s easy to sweep the black across the little canvas, to project all of my locked-up feelings onto it.
And when I’m done?
Well, it’s a self-portrait.
A black monster escaping from the closet, its lower half a vortex of black smoke. The teeth are the best: white against its black face. White eyes.
Mr. Jenkins never looks at these. This is our form of therapy before the real work begins. It’s okay, though. I sign my initials at the bottom and put it off to the side to dry.
He claps, calling our attention back to him. “Excellent. We’re going to start our semester-long project. I know a lot of you are intimidated by oil paints.” There are a few snickers and gasps around the room. “Well, don’t be. Oil paints are persnickety things, but once you’ve mastered it… Beauty. And endless possibilities.” His voice is too fucking dreamy to be talking about oil paints.
Although an image flashes in my mind. Margo, covered in paint. Naked.
Hmm. Not a bad idea.
“A lot like life,” Margo says.
“Fuck no,” I snap. I shift on my seat, and the image pops like a balloon.
Mr. Jenkins ignores us and continues, “We’ll be pairing up and doing portraits. I expect you to look past the person’s exterior and bring out their best qualities.”
“Portraits?” Tim or Tom groans. “Like...”
I think he joined this class to work on his comic drawings, but the little shit would never admit such a thing.
“Like da Vinci,” Mr. Jenkins answers, “or Picasso.”
“Wildly different examples,” another student says.
“And I expect you to explore your options before settling on a technique,” Mr. Jenkins responds. “You’ll turn in one painting on the last day of class. It’ll be your entire grade.”
Margo groans. “Is this based at all on skill?”
“Yes and no,” Mr. Jenkins answers. “Whether you start working on that final piece today or a week before it’s due is up to you. Take time to improve upon skills or learn about your partner…” He shrugs. “Turn to the person beside you and introduce yourself. You’re going to get quite familiar with their face.”
I watch Margo look in the opposite direction, but her neighbor has already paired with someone.
I clear my throat, pulling my lips up in the best imitation of a true smile. “Buckle up, love,” I say. “We’re going to get quite… familiar.”
She swallows, and my pants tighten again. Damn her.
This is pure revenge—I’d do well to remember that. Toying with her, baiting her along…
She stares at me, the fear flashing across her eyes. That’s what I want: the fear.
But first…
“Scared?”