“But now I have seen it, I’d still like an answer. He’s a teacher. The only time you see him should be in class.”
“Itisin class. He preps at school during the weekends and knows I need time to work on my submission, that’s all. There’s nothing nefarious about it. He’s married for god’s sake.”
Married. As though that was a guardrail against immorality.
My face must broadcast that thought because she plants her hands on her hips, chin jerked high into stubbornness.
The girl who insists she’s weak.
“I know you clashed because Miss Murewa accepted a bribe to get—”
My raised hand cuts her off. “I let you think that, but that isn’t what happened. She let me into the class because she used to be my teacher, that’s all. And you don’t need the extra time. Not now you can use this space.”
Her frown deepens. “But I didn’t know that when he made the offer, and I don’t want to turn him down when he’s doing me a favour. Especially since he’s offered his recommendation without me even having to ask for it.” She runs a hand through her hair. “I know what you were insinuating in class this weekbut you’re the only one extracting sexual favours in return for art.”
When I laugh, she pokes me in the ribs, scrunching her face. “Other people don’t think like that, especially teachers.”
Avon is so adamant I let myself be swayed. And I’ve already challenged her enough times today that I don’t want to start another argument just for the sake of it.
I can always have Ant make a few inquiries and, if necessary, alert Miss Murewa to make the problem disappear.
“You know I’m happy to finance your way through art college,” I say instead, hooking her close again. “Or anywhere you want to go.”
“Says the boy who didn’t even know my name three weeks ago.”
“Names are overrated.”
Her expression turns more serious. “I want to earn a place for myself. It’s important to me to know I’m good enough.”
“You are. I’m sure you’ll smash the competition.” I pause a moment, looking thoughtful. “Unless I apply as well.”
And she bursts into delighted laughter. “Go ahead. You think you’re competition, Mr I-can’t-paint-unless-you’re-holding-the-brush?”
Avon sendsme a text early on Sunday to say her mother has an outing planned, so she’ll see me in school tomorrow.
At first, I worry our time together was too much, stuffing a year’s worth of intense conversations into days. But with every reply to her chatty updates, she sends another—including a selfie with her mother and their lunch on the table in front of them—until I’m reassured.
I’d already straightened the studio by the time she let me know, changing the sheets on the daybed, fluffing up the cushions, packing away the supplies that barely got used after I derailed her concentration.
With nothing else to distract me, I go back in and have a look around, enjoying the slew of memories from yesterday.
The strewn photographs are on the bench, and I sort through them, then move over to where I started the painting using Avon as a proxy. Replacing the canvas, I pin the images to the side of the easel and stare at them, trying out a dozen different designs in my head, casting each one aside.
I hadn’t been lying when I said in class my process was nothing and nothing and nothing, then everything, all at once.
Mum had been fascinated by how differently we worked. She would meticulously add to the canvas, editing, then adding more, editing, then adding more. The same thing happened with me but inside my head. Like paints were made of pure gold and not a single drop could be wasted.
Now, I do the same. Testing, trialling out new angles, shifting the perspective around in my mind’s eye to see if it works, then discarding the lot to start again from scratch.
The light has faded into the dim rays of a wintry afternoon when I finally load up a palette with colours and select my brushes. Before starting, I pull away the polaroids and tuck them into a drawer for safety. Too precious to chance splattering them as I work.
From start to finish is about an hour, bringing Avon to life on the canvas.
The painting is frustratingly distant from what I envisioned; my control having dissipated through lack of use.
Still, the last strokes are far closer than the first; a sign my old dexterity is there for the taking if I let myself practise.
And it is just practise. The finished work is an embarrassment; nowhere near ready to show.
