“Shush,” I say, pressing my hand over Izzy’s mouth as I try to dissociate. “I need to forget what she said before I attach a mental image to it.”
“Fair,” Izzy mumbles from behind my hand. I remove it and wrinkle my nose. “Too late?” she asks.
“Too late,” I confirm sadly. “Please tell me you have a way to distract me from this hellish moment?”
“Why don’t I treat you to a coffee?” Izzy grins, grabbing my hand and dragging me back to our room so we can collect our bags. “I saw a café on Insta that apparently does the most amazing lavender lattes.”
SIX
We make it to themain quad ten minutes early. There’s a room number and a welcome note for the creative arts program scratched onto a chalkboard in front of the Hurst Building. We’re not far from the gallery, and I remember that everything in Blackwood is just around the corner.
“This is it, right?” I ask.
“Looks like it. You ready?”
“As I’ll ever be,” I say, nerves starting to get to me at the thought of all these new people.
I follow Izzy inside. I wonder if all the lectures will be in here or if we’ll get to go into the main building—I always loved it in there. It’s all old stonework and exposed wooden beams. This building is pretty too, though, and Izzy points out the vaulted stone ceiling as we walk down a long corridor toward a bank of glass windows. They look in on a large, airy studio space set up with plastic chairs arranged in a circle.
Most of the chairs are filled with bodies, and Izzy charges ahead as I linger at the threshold, wishing I had her confidence or, you know, just one iota of artistic ability. I drag my feet and swirl the remnants of my annoyingly delicious lavender lattebefore finishing it. Kim was right, damn it. I drop the paper cup into a recycling bin by the door and follow Izzy, sitting down in the empty chair next to her as she chatters away to a girl on her other side.
“This is Fliss.”
Izzy introduces me to the girl, who looks tall and willowy even though she’s sitting, and I put it down to the gauzy maxi dress she’s wearing. Her skin is translucent, and her brows and lashes are so blond they’re even more see-through than mine. She holds a delicate hand up in a wave, and the layers of her sleeve fall away as she pushes a curtain of straight blond hair over one shoulder. That’s when I spot the bracelet made from tiny doll heads on her wrist.
Yikes.
“Scarlett,” she says, “I’m here to elevate my installation work. Marina Abramovic is my muse.”
“Erm, I’m Fliss.” I wave back, and raise my brows at Izzy, who nods knowingly, but I have no idea who Scarlett is talking about. “Here for the shenanigans,” I joke.
Scarlett tilts her head, a blank look on her face as she clearly wonders if that was meant to be funny. I watch her for a second as Izzy continues to babble away about art and textiles, and decide that at first glance you could easily think Scarlett was a bit ditzy, but actually I reckon she takes in more than most people.
I scan the rest of the room—there are two empty chairs next to me and a couple more dotted around, making twenty seats in total. I’m surprised to see that the age of the group varies massively, from teens like us to an older man wearing a tweed suit. Iwatch him for a second, noting the way he cradles a canvas roll on his lap. Paintbrushes, I bet. He looks like an oil painter.
“I thought this was a pre-degree taster program?” I ask Izzy. “Some of these people are older than our parents.”
“I guess you can do a degree at any age?” She looks around the room as someone takes the seat beside me. “You’re right, though, I was expecting it to be mainly people our age or—”
“Izzy?”
Izzy whirls around with a “dude, we’re talking” face, but her eyes light up as she clocks the olive-skinned boy. He has a tangle of dark brown hair, and there’s a retro camera hanging from a worn leather strap around his neck. I try not to stare, because he’s so close I can smell his shower gel, but I can’t help it.
He ishot.
He’s dressed head to toe in black, and his jaw is far too chiseled for someone our age. He ducks his shoulders slightly, as if he’s apologizing for being taller than everyone else. He completely ignores me and grins at Izzy, and that smile gives it away. Weknowthis guy.
“Itisyou! What are you doing here?” he asks.
“Noah!” She stands up and he looks awkward as she gives him a hug and he quickly rescues his camera from being squished. “Same thing as you, obviously. You must be starting university next month, though, right?”
“Yeah, but I got a place in this program for free because Mom still teaches here.”
“Oh, cool, us too!” His brow furrows in a question but Izzybarrels on at a million miles an hour and points back at me. “Look who I’m with! Please tell me you remember who this is?”
“No?” He holds my gaze for a second longer than necessary, and it makes me slightly breathless, though my heart sinks a little. Noah Devlin, my childhood crush, has no idea who I am. I start to look away, but then his eyes clear in recognition and his jaw drops slightly. “Fliss?!” His eyes travel over me, and I’m so scared of blushing that I do actually break eye contact thistime.
“Hey, Noah,” I say, looking slightly over his left shoulder instead of at his face. “You got your braces off.”
