Which was a lie. We had a good ten minutes before class. I just didn’t want to stand out here, staring at another senior’s thesis. Kai had applied to many of the same colleges I had, albeit for a different department, and I hated comparing my work to his. Especially since my paintings would soon be dotting this very hall. Ethan didn’t protest as we walked away. Probably because he, too, was facing an upcoming exhibition and, like me, was entirely unprepared. At least he had a month to finish; his thesis went up two weeks after mine.
We headed down the maze of a hall toward the back of the building. A few other seniors had their final projects on display deeper in—Tina had her funky silver-and-found-object rings scattered about on a few pedestals; Jeremy displayed a collection of rather tasteless line drawings that almost but not quite resembled genitalia; Kah-Yee showcased a textile exhibit that involved one large crocheted web over the ceiling, bits of found objects dangling from it like old memories—which just made the usually comforting walk more stressful than it should have been. My time was ticking. Soon, too soon, I’d have to compete with the big guys. And I couldn’t convince myself I’d pull this one out of my hat. Not even the scent of oil paints drifting down the corridor could help. We took a stairway off to the side and headed toward the top level.
“We should go fishing tonight,” Ethan said when we reached the big black door leading to the drawing studio. He pushed it open and gestured grandly for me to enter. “If, you know, you aren’t terribly busy.”
“You’re the one with the boyfriend,” I said, giving him a half curtsy as I walked past.
“I know,” he replied. “And yet I’m choosing to spend my Friday night with you. Feel the love, Winters. Feel the love.”
I blew him a kiss and let my brain switch over to class mode.
The drawing studio was probably my fourth favorite place on campus. Only one of the walls in here was glass, but since it was on the second story and overlooked the forest, that was okay. The other three walls were white and as pristine as a giant studio can be when said room hosts charcoal drawing classes. Easels and stools were set up in a half circle around an overstuffed armchair. Thankfully, the armchair was empty; our model stood in the corner by our instructor’s desk, still fully robed. It always felt awkward walking in when he was already naked.
Ethan and I settled onto our respective stools. I flipped to the first clean sheet of paper on my easel and took one last sip of my short-lived mocha. The Dark Note seriously needed to invest in thirty-two-ounce cups.
The rest of the class—twelve of us in all—was already there and settling in. Another reason why I hated being even a fraction of a second late.
Jane sat down beside me. Her family was Korean, though she’d lived in the States for so much of her childhood, her accent was flawless. She was also seriously the only painter I knew who didn’t have at least one splotch of paint on every article of clothing she owned. I glanced down to my own ensemble: faded skinny jeans covered in patches and hand-drawn runes (not my doing), pink long-sleeve shirt covered in ink smears (admittedly my doing), studded black vest with some alchemical wheel drawn on the back (again, not my doing). Paired with the magenta streaks in my hair (definitely not my doing—Ethan demanded I let only him touch my hair) and the burgundy eye shadow and Eye of Horus spiral I’d drawn under my right eye, I definitely bordered on the edge of “trying too hard.”
But hell, if growing up in the Midwest taught me anything, it was that people stared at me no matter what. Probably because I was some unknown blend of Native American bloodlines. Makeup was my mask; it gave people a reason to stare for nonracist reasons.
“How was the still life?” Jane asked the moment she settled in.
Despite the coffee, the very thought of last night’s last-minute homework made me yawn.
“Same,” Jane said, smiling. “I feel bad for Cassie. She’s the one who really suffers when I’m up till two drawing eggs.”
“No wonder she and Elisa are friends,” I said. “They always have something to commiserate over.”
Well, I’m sure there were many more reasons Cassie and my roommate, Elisa (pronounced ah-LEE-zah, because she said it made her sound refined), got along, but having visual artist roommates definitely gave them cause to bond. The girl beside Jane asked her something, so I turned back to Ethan.
“Are we really on tonight?” I asked. I didn’t want to get my hopes up in case he changed his mind last minute to hang out with Oliver. It was Friday night, not that it meant anything (because yes, our school ran Tuesday to Saturday—don’t ask, I swear they only did it to be different), but Oliver often took Ethan to the movies on Fridays so they could pretend they were a normal high school couple. But I could really use getting off campus, even if only for an hour.
“Totally,” he said. He rubbed a hand across his nose and left a charcoal smear. I said nothing—it just added to the charm. “Oliver’s roommate’s finally out of town, so I’m staying at his place tomorrow night.”
My jaw dropped.
“No way. How did . . . ?”