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My folks weren’t over the moon about my choice of major, and this sudden notoriety and attention vexed them. Their main issue was a general concern about me acquiring a tendency for living on the street, which wasn’t a baseless concern, mind you. The tuition and lodging costs were substantial. But I was determined to attend anyway, and so I did.
Despite all his lawyerly objections, my father couldn’t deny I had artistic talent. Oh, he initially grumbled and sputtered to my mother about potential future vagrancy, but I assured him that I would also find gainful employment, and when I actually did, it allayed most of his larger fears.
Dad was a glass-half-empty type, but he was also a pragmatist. He grudgingly gave me his blessing, although I always wondered what my mother sacrificed to get him to do that.
There was a group of art students smoking and talking outside the classroom.
“Late again?” I asked Jake, who had to be gay.
I could tell because he was always dressed impeccably. There was no way a straight dude could pull that off.
“Not yet. He still has three minutes,” Jake said, checking his watch.
It was a Rolex, and a pair of tiger-eye beaded bracelets bracketed it. I made a mental note that Jake probably didn’t have too many issues with his parents, unlike yours truly.
“Think he’ll make it?” I pried.
Jake intrigued me in a certain way.
“Nope.”
“Want to bet?” I asked.
“Sure, five bones?”
The way he tossed in a fiver like that made me a tad wistful. My father always used the word “bones” when I’d ask him for money. As if he’d pried them from the cold, dead fingers of some wealthy skeleton.
“Deal.”
We shook on it.
A gentleman’s agreement. I smirked inwardly, even though the term didn’t really apply to either of us.
Just then, the echoes of chrome-heeled dandy boots clinked on the polished floor.
The instructor, Professor Hernandez, approached.
“Shit,” Jake swore.
I just laughed.
“You can buy me a latte, next time we’re both in the cafeteria, doll,” I grinned.
Jake grinned back at me.
And now it was time to do what I’m come to this over-priced school to do— make art.
Chapter Two – Ashe
Professor Hernandez arrived at the door, his goatee styled to resemble the villain in a silent film. He looked like Gary Oldman in one of his more evil roles.
He carried his lean frame with an air of cool that had gone extinct in 2000. His dark poet garb, black poufy shirt and all, was testament to his creative style.
His demeanor was spiced up with just a dash of anarchism, and he owned a roguish swagger that would have seemed affected by anyone else without his sense of drama and poise
“Right, gang, let’s do some damage,” he promised.
Everyone nodded, pumped up by his cheerleading.
The mighty doors parted on their automatic mechanisms, revealing a veritable Utopia for young visual artists. Once more, I thanked the gods of luck that had smiled upon my lazy, though talented, ass and allowed me acceptance into this school.
Jake primly stuck a note in the back pocket of my shorts. Most guys would have probably copped a feel, but he was cool.
Once again, I had that intuition that my good buddy, Jake, was possibly a friend of Dorothy. Not that I minded. As a card-carrying member in the committee of eccentrics, I accepted anyone who would accept me.
We walked into the workspace, Jake and I returning to our dedicated corners, and began our projects.
As we attacked our individual works, the room filled with all manner of sweet cacophony. Mostly, it was installation artists, muttering or quietly swearing under their breaths. They actually built things! Not like we stodgy illustrators, who sat as motionless at our drawing tables as vultures. No, these stalwarts were looking forward to real jobs after graduation.
What sellouts we artistes were! More like whores, to be honest. There we were, selling our sacred skills to the private sector. Of course, we weren’t really selling out our principles, because we didn’t have any to begin with.
Then again, everyone knew that the “real artists” were pretentious wasters sponging off their rich parents, so it was a wash.
“Wow!” Professor Hernandez exclaimed, as he skimmed past my table on his rounds.
I could swear he was wearing anti-gravity boots.
“Is it good?” I asked, timidly.
I was surprised by my sudden lack of confidence. Usually, I bordered on cocky.
“No,” he said gravely.
“Oh.”
I felt deflated. To get a reaction like that, my project must have really been shit. Most people didn’t ‘Wow!’ something that was just mediocre.
Professor Hernandez paused, gazing at my effort from several angles. He looked up and away from it, then shook his head.
My heart sank. I was a failure! It was just a piece of crap.
“Miss O’Connell, it is transcendent.”
Professor Hernandez’s facial expression looked as if he had gazed upon the face of Jesus himself.
