Page 35
Pushing through the heavy door a few minutes late, I stop short at the figure in my peripheral vision sitting in the back row. Meg is here? I don’t know what I expected, for her to be in witness protection or to have run a thousand miles away by now. At the very least, I thought she’d be packing up to head home or back to the rehab. The last thing I expected was to see her sitting in class two days after she was questioned by police.
Taking my stool, I drop my satchel onto the desk and lean over it, pretending exhaustion is the reason I look like shit. Let her notice the stubble on my jaw, the creases in my black tee, the dark smudges beneath my eyes. Let her assume I spent the weekend brooding over art instead of wrapped around the man she unintentionally keeps pulling into her orbit.
Clasping her hands together at the front of the room, Liz begins the class with the chime of her silver bangles.
“Good morning, creatives. I hope you all managed to get some rest yesterday. Today we’re doing something mildly terrifying,” she announces, perching on the edge of her desk. Uneasy laughter moves through the room, and even I manage to hide a smirk behind my satchel. ‘Rest’ is an interesting word, considering I didn’t get any. Liz tilts her head, the pencil in her graying curl threatens to fall out before she rights it.
“Given that we’re focusing on self-expression this semester, and we’re our own worst critics at the best of times, I’ve decided you’re going to come to the front one by one and explain the concept behind your current piece. Not the technique. Not the aesthetic. The why. Art without intention is decoration. I want intention, and as artists, you need to learn to take feedback and implement it into your work.”
My smirk disappears. Of all the things I want to do today, explaining my inner workings is not one of them. Luckily, I catch Liz’s eye, and she gives me a sly wink, effectively giving me an out for the rest of the lesson. We have an agreement from back when I started. Liz doesn’t pressure me, and I promise to come to her when I have a problem. Clearly, I’m not holding up my end of the bargain, but I used to. Back when I was able to articulate that the boy I loved has his eyes on someone else, Liz would offer an ear and give better advice than most therapists I’ve had. I couldn’t use names, couldn’t say anything that would give Everest away, and Liz never pressed. It’s probably my favorite thing about her.
Around me, the room comes to life. Stools creak, sketchbooks open, nervous hands tuck hair behind ears. I follow suit, opening my sketchbook and pushing in one headphone, effectively tuning myself out as students take turns at the front of the studio, pouring their hearts out. Suckers. I’ve been smart enough to keep my canvas covered.
Instead, I turn my attention to the next blank page before me. The pencil glides absently, steadily forming an outline of a man sleeping. His mouth appears, lips puffy and bruised, hand gripping the sheet as if he intended for it to be my T-shirt. Lashes lay upon porcelain cheeks, the straightness of his nose mirroring the sharp line of his jaw.
Suddenly, the graphite renders him in such a true likeness that I have to catch myself and add a scar across his cheek for effect. That scar grows, shading turning it into a crack. Another diverts across his nose, another breaking away over the forehead.
Soon, the entire face is covered in fixtures, the mask splintering until the man underneath can break through. A man free of responsibilities, free of obligation to keep me concealed in plain sight.
For a single weekend, I was able to repay Everest the favor, hiding him away instead. I slipped out to get food when he slept, I massaged his shoulders when the tension returned, I even took a call from Nicholas, telling him to back off and wait until Everest is ready to call him back.
Sighing against the beat of the bass in my ear, I vaguely hear Meg’s name being called. My body locks before I can stop it, the studio coming back into focus around me. Heads turn, but mine doesn’t, my eyes remaining on the edge of my sketchpad. Beneath the table, I subtly switch off my music, keeping up the pretense that I’m not listening. However, my entire body seems to be attuned to the scrape of her stool and the echo of her boots moving across the room.
I don’t look up until she reaches Liz’s desk, noting how she isn’t holding a canvas. Her blue eyes find mine almost immediately, and a breath sucks in through my parted lips. I’ve been avoiding this exact moment, in which we are forced to address the other night. Her body against mine. Her fingers in my hair. My hand on her hip. My lips on her neck. The cup I drugged her with. The invitation to meet upstairs.
Her gaze flickers, heat and embarrassment crossing her face before she forces it down, and my stomach twists with something I refuse to call guilt. Guilt would require a conscience, and mine was beaten out of me before I hit my teenage years. There is no good and evil, no even balance of the scales. Only men who try to slap the gay out of their stepsons and still expect them to grow into functional human beings. In hindsight, I never stood a chance.
“Meg, I see you haven’t made a start on your first piece yet,” Liz starts cautiously, giving Meg a small nudge when no words seem to form. “Tell us what you’re thinking.” Clearing her throat, Meg keeps her focus on the floor, but her spine doesn’t crumple the way I expected.
“Um…well, I figured I would tap into some profound, traumatic feeling and the art would just…happen. So I suppose we’re just waiting for that.” No one reacts, and Liz doesn’t show any pity. She simply gives Meg her undivided attention.
“I agree that sometimes, we need to take a step back and allow the emotion to surface,” Liz nods gently, “but we must also be mindful that we’re not simply procrastinating either. Is there something holding you back from chasing down that feeling yourself?”
“Well, I’m not the artist.” Meg blinks, a tiny shrug moving between her shoulders. My brows pinch and all pretense that I’m not listening dissipates.
“What do you mean?” Liz asks, as genuinely curious as I now am. Meg’s gaze drifts across the room to her blank canvas, and I follow despite myself. The white surface is empty, like an accusation of failure mocking her from across the room. I think of the canvases in my room that are full of her, full of all the emotions she is struggling to convey. Oblivious to anyone else, Meg sighs, directing her answer to Liz alone.
“You’ve asked for a piece on self-expression, but I’m not the artist. I’m the backdrop. I have no control over the emotions that surface. They’re controlled by the man who took me, who stole everything from me.” A ripple of discomfort rolls through the room, and my good mood disappears as if it’s been ripped directly out of my chest.
I stare at her, and this time, she looks back. Wide eyes of steady blue that cut straight through the bullshit. This look isn’t like before. Not filled with irritation and a challenge to back down first. Not tainted by the awareness of our bodies moving too closely beneath party lights.
No, this look strips me down as if Meg somehow knows how much I resonate with what she just said. I understand what being controlled feels like, what having a man take everything hurts like. She was with Harrison for a few weeks, while I was living in close proximity to Nicholas for over a decade, and even here, he’s still a lingering presence in my life.
“You believe your captor to be in control of you,” Liz comments evenly. For a moment, I forget who she’s talking to. We could have been in one of our old impromptu counseling sessions for all I know. Meg breaks her stare first, turning her head toward Liz.
“Of course. He defines me. His accomplishments are all the media talks about, the how and the why. They want the gory details and another headline to print. The students around here treat me as if I asked to be taken and tortured, as if I deserved it. It’s not like I wanted to know how beautifully I could bleed, but Harrison showed me anyway. I’ve been bleeding out ever since, just no one notices anymore. Survival isn’t interesting.”
No one dares to move, more than a few holding their breath. Me included. My fingers go numb, the pencil dropping aside. I think of Harrison’s hands on Meg’s arms. I think of Nicholas’ hands on mine. Hands I remember in vivid detail, each vein, mole and knuckle that I can replicate with a blunt pencil on any given day. Hands that lay within my sketchpad, alongside images of her. The woman I swore to hate and vowed to shake her loose.
Yet despite my efforts, she’s standing here putting her damage into words more coherent than I’ve ever been able to, and dammit, I resonate with her.
All anyone talks of are Nicholas’ accomplishments, his fortune, his reputation, his one perfect son. Where we differ is that I’m able to disappear into his shadow, while Meg isn’t afforded such luxury. She’s always at the front of everyone’s minds, in their gossip, holding their attention. Everywhere she goes, she’s watched, judged, openly mocked.
The sinking feeling inside of me wishes she’d taken the chance to get out. Despite my own vendetta against her, Everest may have been right in this instance. She’s too good for Hollowbrook Academy.
Remaining at the front of class, a muscle jumps in Meg’s neck, her jaw tight enough to hold back tears by sheer force. She looks down at a chipped groove in the desk, and the numbness that passes through her face is worse than crying. I know that numbness. It’s the place the body goes when pain becomes too much to manage.
“I’m his creation now. I’m ingrained with the narrative he authored. I can’t express myself, and I can’t complete this task.” She murmurs, standing there, hollowed out for us all to witness, and I suddenly understand that I didn’t scare her. I didn’t trigger her. I’ve added another brushstroke to the narrative she doesn’t care to control, but is simply trying to navigate a way through. Meg is just trying to survive like the rest of us. My stomach twists so hard that I have to lean forward to keep my breakfast down.
