Franco asks, disrupting my thoughts, “You were accepted into this year’s sophomore class, right?”
“Yeah. I’m a late bloomer, I guess,” I admit, trying my best to ignore the warmth rising to my cheeks.
“Nice,” Franco says, completely unbothered by my admission, his strides loose and casual as we begin to walk. “I’m a sophomore too, but I doubt we’ll have many classes together. Painting’s not really my vibe. I’m a sketch artist.”
“I gathered that,” I say with a chuckle.
He questions me with raised eyebrows.
“Your hands are covered in charcoal dust,” I explain.
“Well, would you look at that? They are,” he remarks as he assesses his stained hands. “Sorry about that.” He wipes them absentmindedly on his jeans, but to no avail.
“How many students are in the sophomore class, then?” A light, lukewarm breeze tosses my hair about my shoulders, the faint aroma of mums and freshly mown grass enveloping me. I’m grateful to be walking around campus on such a mild, sunny day.
Along the paved path, we pass a large, bubbling outdoor fountain, at the epicenter of which resides a life-size sculpture of the nine muses engaged in song and dance. Their marble faces are eerily lifelike, displaying varying expressions of contentment and serenity.
Franco studies the fountain too as we circle it. “Just under fifty. It’s approximately the same for the other classes as well. Since Lizbeth is so selective, it’s a pretty small university.”
I rattle my head, trying to make sense of a place like this—so beautiful, and so terribly elite. “It’s crazy to think freshmen can even get in here. I knew so much less about art before I started community college.”
“Well, I’ll tell you a secret,” Franco confides, leaning in closer. A whiff of his bright, peppery cologne infuses the air between us. “Most of the freshmen that get accepted straight out of high school are legacies. Non-legacy students usually don’t get accepted until their skills are more developed, so don’t feel like the oddball out ‘cause you’re definitely not.”
“Really?” I ask, my lips bent skyward.
Franco dips his chin with a flourish. “Really, really. And I would know, I’m a third-generation legacy.”
I pause mid-step. “Your parentsandyour grandparents went here?”
Franco turns to me, pushing his hands into his pockets. “Yup. Good ol’ Grandad Giovanni Bianchi was the first. He was a damn good sculptor in his prime. In fact, he and one of his classmates sculpted those muses we just passed.”
“That’s amazing,” I exclaim, looking back to marvel at the statues again. “I’m the only artist in my entire family.”
“I bet you’re not used to being around artsy types then.”
“Nope. Definitely not,” I admit.
“You’re in for a wild ride then,” Franco says as he jerks his head toward the path before us.
I don’t get to ask him what he means by that as Franco goesoff on a tangent about the school’s history, architecture, campus layout, and student resources. He must give these tours all the time, because his spiel is perfectly memorized. He talks for so long and at such a fast pace that I’m impressed he remembers to breathe in between sentences. Before I know it, the hour’s slipped by, and we’re nearly back where we started.
“The campus isn’t very big, but it’s gorgeous,” I say as we finish our lap around the quaint, well-maintained lawn that serves as a quad at the center of campus. “I can’t wait for all the leaves to change color.”
“You’ve got to remember, we’re all artists here, Maeve. We require beauty above all things,” says Franco as he winks a thickly lashed eye at me.
“Right,” I reply, refusing to acknowledge the flirtatious tone behind the wink.
In the next breath, we come to a stop before the Dalí Building once more.
“If you walk right through those doors, you’ll find the receptionist, Sadie,” Franco explains while pointing at a set of large wooden doors. “She should have all of your orientation materials and will let you know where to go from there.”
“Cool.” I return my gaze to Franco. “Thanks for giving me the tour.”
Sure, he’s chatty and a shameless flirt, but after the last hour, I realize I don’t mind. Something in my gut tells me he’s a genuinely kind person, and that’s damn near priceless in this economy.
“No prob. I’m sure I’ll be seeing you around.” He waves a still-stained hand in the air as he walks away.
I turn around and study the building again. A deep, measured breath helps to dampen my nerves, but my hands still bunch into clammy fists as I walk up the steps.
