“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.
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