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I fill a bowl with soapy water, grab a washcloth from the kitchen, and reenter my room to find Foster exactly where I left him—half-naked and partially covered in plaster. Approaching him, I wring out the water from the rag, set the bowl aside, and then lightly begin to blot away the drying plaster on his face.
“Sorry about this—again,” I say, having to rub his cheekbone a little harder than might be considered gentle.
“Don’t worry about it.” He twinges slightly when I add pressure to remove the substance from the delicate space under his eye. “It was an accident.”
With a few more blots, all the white markings are removed, leaving his face as pristine as it was when he arrived. I then take the opportunity to clean up the rest of his body, wiping anyplace where the plaster accidentally touched unintended skin. Within the time it takes to remove the unwanted splatters, the cast has set to Foster’s body and is beginning to warm from the chemical process.
“It’s time,” I tell him, setting the cleansing wet cloth into the bowl. “Are you ready to get that thing off?”
“You have no idea,” he says, relief filtering through his voice.
“Was it really that bad?”
“No, but I’m starting to sweat—and not in a good way.”
“That doesn’t sound sexy.” I giggle, slowly slipping my fingers under the edges of the hardened mold to begin the process of breaking it away from his body.
“Yes.Sexyis not the adjective I would use.”
Finding a good grip, I wiggle and pry the cast from his chest, popping it off like a bottle cap, in one solid piece. Foster, still in his model position, gazes almost proudly at the finished product.
“You can see the details of my fingers,” he remarks, slowly lowering his hand away from his chest.
“Pretty cool, huh?” I question, holding out the replica for him to inspect.
He gently runs his palm along the inside of the mold. “More than cool.”
I smile, amused by his childlike fascination with such a simple process. Setting the hardened plaster mold in a safe place near my closet, I collect a towel from the clean laundry supply and hand it over to Foster, so he can wipe off the remaining layer of petroleum jelly from his skin.
“At least you’re moisturized,” I say as an offering in regard to the goopy substance.
“That’s an understatement.”
Foster wipes off the gooey mess the best he can, hands the towel back to me, and then crosses my bedroom toward where his things lie on the floor next to my desk.
“I need to get going,” he says, unzipping his bag and pulling out his clothes.
“Sure. I hope I didn’t make you late.”
He glances at the time on his phone, sets it on the desk next to his glasses, and then stands up with denim in his hands.
“It’ll be close, but I should be able to make it to class on time,” he says as he dresses, rapidly pushing his legs into his jeans. “No worries.”
Foster slips the T-shirt over his head and then his sweater, straightening them both out as he turns toward my desk to retrieve his other items. He places his signature dark frames over his face and then grabs his phone. His hand stills for a moment over the screen, and then he shoves it into his back pocket. Reaching back toward the desk, he grabs two sheets of paper.
“Are these what I think they are?” he asks, spinning toward me.
I step forward and peek at the early acceptance letters between his fingertips—one from Yale and the latest from Dartmouth that arrived just yesterday. Both are for their MBA programs.
“They aren’t recipes for apple pie,” I say, thumbing the top of one of the letters.
“You got into two really great programs at two amazing schools.”
“They must not have had enough art history majors as applicants and needed to fill a quota.”
“I wasn’t doubting why you got in.” He sets the papers back from where they came. “You have the grades, and I’m sure you’re…eclectic enough for their needs. I’m just really surprised you applied. You made it sound like you didn’t even want to go.”
“I don’t. Not really.”
