“Thanks for the heads-up,” I said, and threw an extra dollar in his jar for tips.
Ethan snatched his drink from my hand as we walked toward the visual arts building. There weren’t many kids out and I couldn’t blame them; the morning sky was the usual overcast gray that Michigan seemed to favor and tourists detested. I kind of loved it, though—it made the fir trees stretching up between the school buildings a little greener, the snow a little whiter, as though everything was pushed to the edge of living and stillness, caught in the perfection of its prime. We wandered down the winding path, the hem of my patchwork coat trailing in the dusted snow at our feet, while I tried to figure out how I’d best capture the shade of brown of the cafeteria’s log staircase. Probably a mix of umber and yellow, with a definite need for sharp white and black framing to make it pop. . . .
“I’ll take that as a yes, then,” Ethan said, nudging me nearly into a snowdrift.
“Hm?”
“That when we’re both old and decrepit we’ll never force high school students to draw our private bits.”
I chuckled and said, “You’re already kind of decrepit.”
“And you’re already kind of old,” he retorted, flashing me a winning grin.
“Touché, young’un, touché.”
Ethan was only four months younger than me. Apparently that meant I was a geriatric.
“Ugh,” Ethan muttered into his cup. “You really are old. You say things like ‘young’un.’?”
I punched him in the side, gently—can’t mar my delicate flower—and said nothing.
We wandered down the long asphalt drive, the academics concourse stretched out to our right and rows of house-like dorms on our left. Even with all the windows closed, I could hear someone blaring pop music from Graham (all the dorms were named after famous artists, which was often unfortunate, seeing as artists rarely had happy endings—case in point, the other female dorm: Plath) and someone else practicing tuba in the basement practice rooms of Rembrandt. Everything on campus was the same rustic style, all bare wood and raw stone, which meant it all looked like one big Christmas card when covered in snow. And, being in northern Michigan, it almost always was.
The arts building loomed at the end of the road. Nearly every wall was made of glass, including large chunks of the ceiling. It still had the rustic log-cabin charm, but with a little more Frank Lloyd Wright mixed in, complete with odd-angled corners and a second story that sat atop the first like a slightly offset block.
“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.”