There’s a dim gold sunset on the horizon; the rest of the world is a gray drizzling rain. The bus is crowded and late.
Brakes, the doors open, fresh night air, the sidewalks are glistening orange under the streetlamps and slippery.
And then I’m back in the hallway of Nine Five Four, passing MR. GREG’s door.
The figure drawing class is probably almost over by now.I’m not sure what I’m expecting. Maybe Daniel packing up a messenger bag and clicking the light off for the night, me catching him at the last second to share a private word.
But instead, the door to the art room bangs open and people come streaming out.
“Fifteen-minute break, people!” Daniel shouts from inside the room. Apparently this class is a lot longer than I thought it would be. “And Imeanfifteen minutes. You’re locked out if you’re late. Oh, and don’t bring any halal from the cart back with you! It makes the model hungry.”
The class participants are stretching and chatting as they make their way past me out into the night.
The guy Lauro stops cold in front of me. “Oh, look. Knee Socks is back.”
His smile is charmingly poisonous. He looks like he’d feel so good he’d hurt.
“Who?” Daniel pokes his head out the door. “Oh! Roz! You made it.”
“Yes.” The words are so sharp I almost don’t believe them. “I made it.”
Daniel lays a gentle hand on Lauro’s shoulder and firmly foists him down the hallway. Then he steps back and sweeps a hand through the door of the classroom.
“Welcome.”
Four
Hopefully I lookcool enough this time to wipe those knee socks from the record. I’ve got a smoky eye you can’t even see behind my bangs and glasses. I’m in vintage Kaliko trousers I found at Buffalo Exchange, a handsewn button-down Raff bought me for my birthday last year, and what I’ve chronically (and ironically) referred to as my “art school boots.” Yes, they are combat boots and yes, it almost always gets a laugh.
My goal here is to effortlessly conveyyeah, I drawvibes. Essentially this is Halloween and I’m winning the costume contest.
I think.
Everyone but me and one other student is out enjoying the fifteen-minute break.
The other student doesn’t look up when I walk over to the easel next to hers.
“Hi. I’m Roz.”
She’s looking through a drawing pad of what I assume are her drawings, though I can’t see any of them. She glances up with bright eyes that don’t quite focus on me. “Hi. I’m Em.”
And then she returns to her drawing pad, not a word more.
I’m not getting shy or unfriendly vibes, more that she’s in the middle of a massively important thought.
“Can I sit here?” I ask (it’s the last time I’ll interrupt her, I swear).
“Yes.” This time she doesn’t even look up.
I immediately sit down in the chair next to hers, surreptitiously glancing her way. She’s got a severe face. Pale skin. Big, hooked nose, thin lips, square jaw, inset eyes, and eyebrows so pale they’re almost invisible. Her strawberry blond hair is wavy, parted down the middle, and braided down her back. She’s got overalls over a tight black T-shirt. On the back of her chair is a coat that looks like it was sewn out of an old patchwork quilt.
She’s the most interesting type of attractive. The is-she-or-isn’t-she type. The way some fashion models are. Every feature turned up to 11, she’d be the girl next door if you happened to live next to a crash-landed spaceship.
I notice her easel is a very different height than mine, so I quickly fiddle around and match hers. I put my blank white drawing pad up and then examine my brand-new pencil bag (stopped at the art supply store on my way here).
The door bangs open and in gallops an extremely long-legged youth in wildly short cutoff jeans and a cropped turquoise football jersey that simply readsSports!They have shiny, dark brown skin and a mega-wattage smile, grinning from across the circle of easels.
“Hi! Oh, you were here for a minute last week, right?”
