“Eventually.” He grins and points at the empty chair next to me. “Can I sit?”
I nod, so Noah folds his tall body down and rakes a hand through his hair, a movement I watch for a split second longer than normal. I glance at him side-on as he messes with an old leather satchel, trying to decide whether he has been blessed with naturally gorgeous eyes or if he’s helped them along with a bit of black eyeliner. They can’t look like that on their own, can they? He points at the heavy vintage camera. “I’m mostly here for the photography lecture. What about you?”
I start to open my mouth but another boy slinks through the door. If Noah is faux teen angst personified, this guy is the complete opposite. He looks as though he just parked his Range Rover and is heading to play a round of golf.
“Am I late?” he asks, sliding into the seat on the other side of Noah. I’m half annoyed and half grateful for the interruption,because as soon as Noah started to speak, my mind emptied of coherent thoughts.
“No, I think the teacher is almost ready to start, though.” Izzy points to a small woman with a warm complexion and the longest silver braid I’ve ever seen. As she moves to the center of the circle, Izzy leans across both me and Noah and smiles at the new guy. She has a thing for preppy boys, and there’s already a twinkle in her eye as she takes in his carefully styled blond hair. “I’m Izzy. Here for textiles, mainly.”
“Ford,” he offers curtly, nodding at her. His plummy accent is slightly more obvious as it wraps around his name. “Here because I have to be.”
Interesting.
Before I can introduce myself, the course instructor pulls a small triangle from beneath her colorful poncho and taps it so the sound rings out. I stifle a giggle, and Izzy pinches my leg in warning as the room falls quiet.
“Good morning, everyone.” The woman’s voice trembles with excitement and the triangle disappears back where it came from. “My name is Ramona. Thank you for joining our creative arts summer program here at Blackwood. This introduction day is all about settling in and getting a sense of all the different forms of self-expression we will cover over the next two weeks. The aim of this course is not just to entice you to apply for a degree with us, but to explore your interests and strengths, whether that is in traditional art, performance or writing, and perhaps even unlock new ones. The creative arts are for people who tell stories, however that may be. I know many of you are here to explore aparticular discipline, which is why you will have the afternoon sessions free to work on your own personal projects. These will be presented to your peers on the final day, so it would be wise to start them as soon as possible, even if the related class is not until next week.” My shoulders relax a little. “Let’s start with a few moments of introduction to the people closest to you and then you may roam freely and investigate the different stations to give you a taste of what to expect.” She gestures to the other side of the studio, where a variety of activities have been set up, including a table full of stage makeup and a pottery wheel.
“Maybe I can make a wonky fruit bowl or something and give it to Dad and Kim as a wedding present,” I joke to Izzy, who smirks.
“Pottery, seriously?” Ford rolls his eyes. “Isn’t that for middle-aged women who paint mugs while getting embarrassingly drunk?”
I open my mouth to argue with him, but Scarlett chimes in before I can. “All forms of art are valid,” she says dreamily, twisting a lock of white-blond hair around one finger. My mom would diplomatically call her a free spirit, but that would be mom-speak for hippie. “People can find beauty in anything.”
“You’re right.” Izzy agrees with Scarlett. She pushes Ford’s shoulder playfully and I marvel at how easy she is in these social situations. “Don’t be such a snob.”
“I’m not!” Ford protests. “But it hardly captures the raw, unfiltered emotion of a scene, does it?”
“So what do you do, Ford?” I ask curiously. He hardly looks the artistic type compared to the others in the room.
“I paint.” He shrugs. “Portraits mostly. It’s sort of a familytradition, but I don’t paint quite the way my father would like me to. That’s why my parents enrolled me.”
“Cool,” I say as silence descends on the group. My brain whirs, looking for something to say to fill the void. “My dad just bought a really weird portrait,” I add, cursing my social anxiety when I can’t think of a sentence to follow it.
Izzy comes to my rescue. “Her dad works here, at Blackwood. He’s an art history professor.” She pulls out her phone and brings up the photo I sent her of the portrait. “This is the painting. Fliss is going to do some research on it for her personal project. She’s an amazing writer.” I squeeze her arm in thanks.
“What the hell is that?” Noah chokes out.
I don’t look at the phone, but I understand his reaction. The image is practically seared into my brain, so I know he’s staring at the hollow eyes, the madness bleeding onto the page from the subject’s withered face. Scarlett’s eyes grow round, and if possible, she goes a little paler than she already was.
“Good technique,” Ford says, his face deadpan.
“It’s some big deal, apparently,” I say. “Have you heard of The Four?” I’m met with a couple of “maybe” shrugs, but Noah nods. “Well, this is the missing fifth. That’s what I’m going to write about. They’re unveiling it tonight at the Heywood Gallery.”
“You know the paintings, Noah?” Izzy asks, putting her phone away.
“Course I do. Everyone in Blackwood does. The gallery opening was a big deal a couple of years ago.”
“I haven’t been yet,” I admit. “I just got here yesterday. We’re helping out there tonight, though.”
“You should come and see it!” Izzy chimes in. “Fliss said it’s even creepier in the flesh. The reception starts at seven.”
“I think it’s just meant to be faculty and donors and stuff, Iz,” I protest, not wanting anything to get back to Dad. But she waves me off and stands up, stretching her arms behind her.
“It’ll be fine,” she says, holding a hand out to me. “Come on, let’s go uncover your hidden artistic talents.”
SEVEN
Izzy and I only hadtime to grab a quick sandwich after class, which ended with Ramona announcing that we really will be trying pottery tomorrow. We spent the afternoon discussing and outlining our project ideas, and now I’m more curious than ever to see The Four alongside the self-portrait. I didn’t look at Professor Williams’s articles in the end, even though I’ve had my notebook with me. It feels like something I should be doing alone.
