I didn’t look at him, but I did look at Harry, and Harry was looking right back at me.
“Nice painting,” he said, which was ironic considering it was probably the worst painting I’d done in my entire life. The lines were messy and erratic, and not in a good way. It was sloppy and lazy and dull, and terrible. It was a terrible painting.
“Thanks.”
He turned his canvas towards me and his was worse.
“Nice work,” I lied.
“Thanks. It’s inspired by Dali.”
“Picasso,” I said. “Guernica was by Picasso. I finished mine the other week.”
He didn’t look bothered by my correction. “Yeah, can’t really get into it. I don’t like painting like other people. What’s the point in it?”
I could have launched into an impassioned monologue about the beauty in the masters and hoping to learn through even the slightest successful emulation of their work. Normally I would have, but my soul had dried up. I said nothing, just smiled and carried on jabbing paint on top of paint.
He didn’t stop looking at me, and I felt myself burning up. “Guess you like Picasso, then?”
“I love Picasso.”
“Yeah, so do I. He’s cool. I like all of them… Picasso, Leonardo, Raphael, Donatello… Michelangelo…”
I couldn’t stop the smile. “The artists or the turtles?”
“Both. I like the rat, too. Used to watch them when I was a kid.” I had nothing to say to that, and he grew twitchy, flicking his paintbrush back and forth between his fingers. “Say, Helen, are you going to the ball?”
My heel tapped against my stool, knees juddery. “I, um… don’t know.”
“I’m going,” he said. “I was thinking maybe you could… if you wanted to… we could…”
I couldn’t even look at him. My cheeks were burning up.
“…I was thinking… if you wanted…” He sighed. “Do you want to come to the ball with me?”
Everything in me said no. No, I don’t want to come to the ball with you. I don’t even want to go to the ball. I don’t want to be sitting here, talking to you and painting a shitty picture. I don’t want anything but the feeling of Mr Roberts’ hands on me again, of him looking at me the way he did before, of him talking to me like I meant something.
And then I felt him, the familiar heat of him, the way he smelled, the way he moved. He stepped between our stools and stared at my canvas.
“I hope you aren’t distracting Helen, Harry.”
“No, sir. Just talking.”
“Less talking, more painting, if you want to finish that painting this term, that is.”
“Yeah, sir, I’m doing it.” Harry looked at his canvas, communication over.
I felt Mr Roberts staring, but I didn’t look at him. “Your wrist is too tense,” he said, and his hand was on mine, taking the brush from me.
“It’s fine.”
“Shake it out,” he said.
“It’s fine.”
He placed my brush on the palette and took hold of my wrist. “You’re tense. Distracted.”
“I’m not having the best week.” My voice was petulant, and I cursed myself.
“If we relied on a sunny disposition to produce our best work, Helen, I think you’d find art galleries would be considerably less impressive affairs.” He grabbed my shoulder and turned me towards him, and then he crouched, so he was looking up at me. He balled a fist to his stomach. “Dig deep,” he said. “Take it, all the crap inside, take it and mould it, and forge it… make it something beautiful. Make it something that means something.”
“It does mean something.”
“Transform it, Helen. Use it.”
I could feel stupid tears pricking. “But I can’t use it. I don’t know how.”
“You do,” he said. “I know you do.”
“What if I don’t want to?”
“You do want to.”
“Don’t tell me what I want.”
Harry’s neck twisted, eyes wide at our exchange. Mr Roberts saw it, too, and it stopped him in his tracks. He got to his feet and handed me back my paintbrush. “Ok, Helen. If you need some help, you know where I am.”
I jabbed the brush back on the canvas and didn’t even answer. I felt him leave, defeated.
Harry leaned over. “What was all that about?”
I shrugged. “Nothing.”
“That was weird, don’t you think?”
“I don’t know.”
“It was well weird,” he said. He flashed a stupid grin. “He’s weird though, isn’t he? Roberts? He’s such an oddball.”
“The weird people are often the best,” I said.
He laughed, like I was joking. “Yeah, gotta love the weirdos. He’s gay, you know.” He slid his stool a little closer and lowered his voice, and the whispering started up again, I could hear them, talking about us, talking about Harry’s arm on the back of my stool. “So, what about it? Will you come with me?”
“I’m… I’m not sure I’m going…”
“Come on,” he said. “It’ll be a laugh. I’ll be wearing a suit, all proper like.”
“I’ll think about it…”
“Yeah?”