Chapter Six
Ms. Wilcox wasn't even there when Val arrived at her classroom, and yet the door was wide open. Probably because of the janitor. Technically, students weren't supposed to be alone in a classroom without the teacher present but Val was pretty sure nobody had seen her, and even if they had, she could always say that the teacher had only stepped out for a second or that she thought the janitor counted as faculty — which they did, surely?
She sat down at an empty table, inhaling the smell of paint. More important, she needed the time and silence to contemplate how she was going to talk to Gavin. She had a feeling that, Hi, are you the guy stalking me on Facebook? wasn't going to cut it.
Maybe she should just ask him if he had a Facebook and work from there.
Do you cosplay? Do you participate in historical reenactments? Do you like putting on creepy costumes while scaring the hell out of your classmates?
She really was terrible at this, wasn't she? She sucked at being manipulative. If Gavin was guilty, he'd know immediately what she was getting at, which would be bad. If he wasn't guilty, he'd just think she was a freak, and that would be bad, too.
Grateful that nobody was around to see her embarrassment, Val set her backpack down on the desk and basked in the silence. Without the new-age music Ms. Wilcox was so fond of playing, Val could focus on the details she generally ignored in the face of the sensory overload which resulted from a large class-size. The sour tang of paint, the earthy wood of the carving blocks, the way the trees outside caused the light on the floors to dapple. Dust motes in the air caught and reflected the early morning light, sparking like burning embers and reminding Val of faerie dust.
Magic.
Art was magic, in a way. Each drawing was a window into the mind that created it.
Val pulled her sketchbook from its canvas prison and fished around the bottom of her backpack until she located her fine-tipped pens and charcoal pencils. Expensive, the lot of them, but the difference in quality from ordinary pens and pencils was extraordinary.
The first drawing in Val's sketchbook was her earliest attempt at sketching: a very sad-looking animal which resembled a horse but was actually supposed to be her neighbor's black Lab, Chocolate. If it were up to her she would have balled it up and thrown the drawing away, but Ms. Wilcox said that throwing away mistakes was forbidden.
“Otherwise, how can you be sure you won't do it again?” She said, when she caught Val trying to tear out the page. “Keep it. Learn from it.”
So the ugly picture, partially torn from her book, continued to remain in Val's portfolio to taint the rest of her collection and embarrass her every time she looked at it. She stuck out her tongue at the dog-horse, whose tongue was also sticking out, and flipped through the pages — flowers, hands, feet, tree — until she came to the sketch that she wanted to work on.
This drawing, also unfinished, was of an old warehouse that lay on the edge of the town perimeter. Mrs. Kimble thought the building was an eyesore that ought to be replaced by a new, sparkling facade similar to that of Derringer's newly renovated downtown, which had been refurbished to look like what The Derringer Tattle referred to as a “west coast Cambridge.”
But Val liked this building, rundown as it was. The crumbling roof tiles and boarded-up windows gave it character; it was a building one might take a picture of on Instagram and then tag with an inspirational quote. She also liked her drawing, in spite of its flaws. It might not have the same charm as a saturated photograph, but it was hers, and contained part of her in it.
She selected one of the sharper pencils and began shading in the grass in the shadow of the rusted chain-link fence. She was aware of someone sitting down in the desk besides hers, but only distantly, and she didn't look up. She was too intent on trying to recapture that juxtaposition of shadow and light, of color and contrast, in her mind's eye.
“Chiaroscuro.”
The word rolled off the speaker's tongue with easy fluency.
Val jumped, and all the red that had vanished only minutes before flooded back into her face with a vengeance as she realized who was sitting beside her. He was leaning on his hand, watching her draw, though his eyes went back to her face when she stopped.
“What you're doing there. That's what it's called.” He nodded at her drawing. “Chiaroscuro. The contrast of light and dark. I didn't mean to startle you. You've ruined your drawing.”
Val cursed when she saw the scribble she'd inadvertently scratched into the pad. “It'll erase,” she muttered, rubbing at it, hoping that it would. “I'm surprised you remember.”
“There was an assignment on it just two weeks ago.”
Oh. He was right. Val stopped rubbing. Crap.
“Then again, I am TA. It's my job to remember.”
“TA?” She stared at his sketchbook, then at his face. “That's right. I remember now you told me in the ….”
Wait. He was TA — so did that mean he'd graded her work? She thought of all the assignments she'd turned in and tried to remember if any of them were stupid or lame. God, he probably thought she was a total idiot, regardless; she couldn't come up with anything to say.
“You're still allowed to participate?” she said at last.
“I draw for fun. I've taken this class twice before — I can't take it for normal credit anymore.”
“Oh.” She stared down at her white freckled hands, smeared black from the charcoals. Chiaroscuro. She wouldn't be forgetting now.
A sudden bustling at the door made both teens look up. Ms. Wilcox, who had always reminded Val vaguely of Ms. Frizzle from the Magic School Bus, was incapable of entering a room quietly. Her blonde hair was frizzy and wild, held in place with a plastic purple clip in the shape of a daisy.
She set her battered satchel down in its usual spot behind her desk and inserted one of her all-instrumental CDs into the player. Panpipes and lutes filled the classroom and Val lost the nerve to keep talking. “Good morning,” their teacher sang out. “You two are early today.”
Val realized, with a jolt, that before Ms. Wilcox had entered she and Gavin had been the only two people in the classroom.
“Gavin, I know. And you are … Valerie?”
“Valerian. Val.”
“Val,” Ms. Wilcox agreed. “I knew that part, at least. That picture you did of the little kittens was absolutely wonderful, Val. You've improved so much since the beginning of the semester.”
“Thank you.”
“I hope you'll consider taking my advanced class.”
Val was painfully aware of Gavin's appraising stare. “We'll see. I've got a lot of, um, required classes to take.”
“There's certainly no rush. You have years ahead of you, yet. And on that note, Mr. Mecozzi, I've just about finished with your letter of recommendation. Three sealed copies, and one for your own personal viewing pleasure.”
“You're too kind.”
“Such politeness. It's like a comedy of manners.” Ms. Wilcox glanced at the door. “I hope the other students show your foresight in coming early. Today's assignment is going to be rather time-consuming. It may well cut into tomorrow's lesson. If you like, you can start on it now.”
“What is it?” Val asked.
“Since we worked from wooden figures last class I thought it might be nice to draw actual living, breathing figures today.” Val nodded and turned to a blank page in her sketchbook. That sounded innocent enough.
“Oh, but you'll need a partner. You'll be drawing someone from this class, so I suppose you will have to wait, after all.” Her eyes lit on the boy beside Val. “Unless … Gavin, would you mind terribly being Val's partner for today?”
“It would be my pleasure,” he said solemnly, rising.
“I don't want to bother — ”
“It's no trouble,” Ms. Wilcox assured her. “Is it, Gavin?”
“Not at all.”
“There, you see? Why don't you two go outside. The light's better. It's a lovely day out.”
Val was relieved. She wouldn't have to deal with James. She had been afraid of him asking her about his still-unread Facebook message and making her look like a total hypocrite to boot. Now she could avoid him for another day.
She had to trot alongside Gavin to keep up with his long strides. It made her feel as if she were one of those annoying little dogs, nipping at his heels. “How tall are you?” she asked.
“Six-four,” he replied.
Around them, students milled about, biding their time until final bell. Val tried to find a quiet place for them to draw; it gave her a good excuse not to look at him.
“Do you have a Facebook?”
“Were you looking for me?”
She ducked her head. “No. I mean — I was just wondering.”
Gavin shook his head. “I don't have the time to bother.”
Now that sounded like a brush-off. Maybe he isn't interested in me, after all. He seemed distracted, his eyes distant. At least that would mean he's not my stalker.
But she couldn't help feeling a little disappointed.
“Where would you like to sketch me?”
“How about the grass between the six-hundred and seven-hundred buildings? There's some interesting light there. I can do you against the tree.”
She regretted the words the instant they were out of her mouth. Gavin's eyes widened, and then he throw back his head and laughed. Not one of those quietly sardonic chuckles that had annoyed her so much in the cafe, but an out-and-out guffaw.
“Stop it,” Val snapped, trying not to fixate on how sexy his laugh was. “That isn't what I meant.”
His laughter subsided somewhat and he said in an amused tone, “I gathered.”
“Good.”
“I'm surprised you're speaking to me.”
Val was beginning to question the same thing. “How do you mean?”
“Didn't your friend warn you away from me?”
Well, that was unexpected. She was thrown. “Why do you care? You weren't very nice to her.”
“I like knowing what people say about me behind my back.”
That made him the only one then. She shrugged her shoulders. “She tried.”
“It didn't work?”
“I like finding things out for myself.”
His head swung in her direction; for better or for worse, she'd managed to get his attention. A slow smile crawled over his lips like a spider, and it was both frightening and seductive. “Curiosity can be a very dangerous thing, my dear.”
My dear? “Why? Are you saying she was right? Are you going to take a turn at in now?”
“At warning you away?” His lips twitched back into a normal semblance of a smile and she wondered if what she had seen — or thought she had seen — had been nothing more than an illusion caused by the throw of shadows on his face from the curtain of leaves above. “I believe I'd rather let you, oh, what was it — do me against the tree.”
Val didn't trust herself to speak. Unwilling to set her sketchpad down on the slightly damp grass she juggled her drawing supplies, trying to find the most comfortable position to draw. She ended up sitting with her legs folded crosswise, so she could balance the sketchpad on her knees.
Gavin leaned back against the tree trunk, facing her, with his long legs stretched out. He bent one, off which to hang his arm, and said, teasingly, “How do you want me?”
Those words made the heat rush to her face again — God, he was a jerk, wasn't he, trying to fluster her on purpose like this — and she said, gratingly, “Relaxed. Natural.”
“Those aren't necessarily mutually inclusive.”
“Whatever is natural for you then.”
Val braced herself for more dalliance and teasing. To her relief he said only, “I can do that. May I?” Without waiting for a response he removed his glasses, setting them carefully down on the ground beside him before reassuming his position. His eyes closed, his breathing slowed, and his posture — it changed. She couldn't say how — it was a subtle change — but noticeable nonetheless because he no longer looked the same ….
A breeze blew through the grass, ruffling his hair and making ripples in his white shirt. Beneath his unbuttoned collar she could make out some kind of necklace composed of heavy silver links. He regarded her through half-closed eyes, and while he seemed perfectly content in this lackadaisical slouch his entire body seemed a heartbeat away from springing into motion.
He was striking.
Much too unusual-looking to be considered handsome in the classical sense, but eye-catching all the same. He had the kind of face that would cause her mother to nod at and say, knowledgeably, “He'll grow into his looks.”
Val swallowed and lowered her eyes to her sketchbook, no longer able to keep contact with his. Not while he was looking at her like that.
Soon she had a pretty good outline of his body. Broad shoulders, finely corded throat. She looked at him in pieces, too afraid to see the whole. High cheekbones. Roman nose. His eyes had gradually wandered up the tree to watch the small sparrows cavorting in the branches above but apart from that he was eerily still. But alert, she thought, almost like a predator at rest.
Silly thought. But then his eyes snapped back and she felt her heart flutter uneasily as some innate fear responded to her unsettling perception of him.
Didn't your friend warn you away?
Why had he said such things to her? Didn't he know about the rumors? Yes, of course he did. He'd admitted as much himself. So then why would he bring it up? To clear the waters?
Or to drag her under?
“You have an intriguing expression on your face, Val.”
“It's nothing. Don't talk.”
“Is something wrong?”
“Everything's fine. I was just thinking about something I have to do.”
“Against the tree?”
“No.” Val blushed angrily. That was just a little too close to the truth. “Stop talking.”
“You blush very easily,” he remarked, stretching and subsequently causing the fabric of his shirt to pull taut against his chest in a movement that seemed far too graceful and calculated to be accidental. “It's rather hard to resist, you know.”
It's not the only thing. It felt like all the saliva in her mouth had evaporated. I do like him. Oh God. This is bad.
“I think we had better get back to class,” he said, still watching her with amusement.
“But the bell hasn't rung yet,” said Val.
“It will any second now.”
A splitting blare cut through the quadrangle, muffling his last word. She looked at him. “How did you do that?”
“Magic.”
“Really.”
“A magician never tells. May I see the drawing?”
She cursed whichever Irish ancestor gave her this mood ring of a skin condition. “When it's done. A magician never tells.” She raised the pitch of her voice, mocking him.
He smiled. “Fair enough.”
She watched him pick up his glasses and adjust them on his face. “So what do you draw? Since you can't take this class for credit. Do you get to draw whatever you want?”
“Within reason,” he said, “though I try to follow the lesson plan along with everyone else.”
Val had trouble believing that. He did not strike her as a rule-follower. Or any kind of follower, for that matter. “What do you draw?” she asked, “for your own entertainment?”
“Animals, mostly.”
“What else?”
He gave her a sideways grin. “The chessboard Ms. Wilcox used in her chiaroscuro lecture.”
Haltingly, she said, “That was yours? I thought — ” I thought it was professional, real.
“I played.” He admitted this as casually as other boys owned up to sports. “It was easy.”
Val caught herself bobbing her head in agreement and checked herself. She wasn't supposed to know that he was a master. “Chess, or drawing it?”
His smile widened. “Both.”
“Do you draw people?”
“Not usually.”
“So sometimes, then.”
“When I find a subject that arouses my interest, then yes. But I prefer animals. They don't have the same unfortunate tendency to pose, and are much easier to work with. The next class will be an exception to my rule, however.”
“What's the occasion?”
“I'll be drawing you.”
“Me?” It came out as a yelp.
“We trade places, remember?” He placed her pens, which she had forgotten in the long blades of grass, into her hand, closing her fingers lightly around them. “It'll be my turn to do you against the tree, or other applicable surface.”
Val, at this moment, understood suddenly what the life of a radiator must be like.
“Careful,” Gavin said. “If you keep blushing like that, I may do more than just draw you.”
And with that one remark he turned, leaving her standing there in the quad as it slowly began to fill up with students as she watched his departing back. It sounded like a suggestion. It also sounded, vaguely, like a threat. That was when Val knew that she was in trouble: because she didn't really care, either way.