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I bent away from him, my lip curling at his off-putting remark, but I had to admit my curiosity was piqued by all these ‘rumors’ everyone kept referencing. The look on his face suggested he was expecting me to ask more, and I forcibly reminded myself that I didn’t care. I wasn’t staying here, and the last thing I needed was to be dragged into drama on my second day, especially with a creep like Drew.
“Whatever,” I said, and was saved from his response by the arrival of my teacher.
To my immense relief, it seemed Drew wasn’t actually in the class, but had been passing through on his way to another class in the Graysen-Billings Fine Arts Pavilion—what the students seemed to refer to as G-B Arts. Inside the classroom, I was heartened to see twelve easels set up in rows, with boxes of supplies lined up alongside thick pads of paper. I opened the box immediately, not waiting for the teacher, and my eyes lit with glee at the contents inside. There were sticks of charcoal, graphite pencils, boxes of oil pastels and conte crayons, pens and ink and brushes, erasers and small sketchbooks and sponges and rags and clips. I felt like a kid in a candy store, lifting each item out carefully to examine before placing it carefully back in the box.
“If you’re this excited about the supply boxes, you’re going to lose your mind when you see the supply closet.” The voice was low and gravelly and thick with an undercurrent of humor, and I looked up with surprise, slamming the lid onto the box guiltily, causing another rumbling chuckle to sound from next to me.
My eyes widened further when I saw who had spoken. It was one of Garrett’s crew, the mysterious guys I was apparently supposed to stay away from if I knew what was good for me.
I couldn’t remember his name, but it was the clean-cut, all-American-looking one with the glasses and black hair. The one that looked like he’d just stepped out of a magazine, except for one not-so-minor detail—the ridged, bold line of a scar that started on his left cheek, slashed through his lips, dividing the soft pink flesh, and disappearing beneath his jaw. It was an old scar, white and faded with time, but it clearly hadn’t been treated well when it was fresh, because it was even more vivid up close, drawing my attention like a neon light.
“Aren’t you gonna ask what it’s from?” he asked. “Everyone does.” But his voice wasn’t mocking or accusing. Just stating a fact.
“Micah,” I blurted out, remembering. That was his name. He was the one Frank said had been in jail for breaking and entering over the summer. This close up, between the towering height, the lean, ropy muscles and the scar, I could believe it. Though when he smiled, it was friendly, and reached all the way to his eyes, somewhat ruining the scary effect.
“And you’re Camilla,” he said, then offered me a mocking bow, spreading his hands wide. “Welcome to Lost Lake Academy.”
Before I could respond, I noticed the glares of the students in the row in front of us and realized the teacher had taken his place at the front of the class and started talking. He was an older man with round glasses and a somewhat abstracted air, and he had a syllabus open, a copy of which was leaning against my easel. I hastily grabbed it and flipped it open, ignoring the soft chuckle next to me.
“…variety of different techniques, over the course of the semester,” the teacher was saying. “There will be segments on still-lives, figure drawing, portraits, and landscapes, as well as plenty of discussions on materials and theory. You will work alone and in groups, and will learn how to effectively critique each other’s work.”
Micah shifted on his stool to my right, and I found myself losing focus again. I did want to know where he’d gotten that scar, but I sure as hell wasn’t going to ask.
The teacher clapped, bringing my attention to the front again. “Anyway, let’s get right to it,” he said. “You all have a pad of paper and a box of supplies in front of you. Let’s get warmed up. For today, just start drawing. Whatever you want—something in the room, something in your head, just get used to the space and the materials. You can use whatever you want, and anything in the supply closet is available as well.”
He turned, opening a door set into the wall behind him that I hadn’t noticed, and gestured to the class. “Everyone come take a look and familiarize yourself before you get started.”
The students crowded around, and I had definitely died and gone to heaven. There was no other explanation. The supply ‘closet’ was really another room, narrower than the classroom but easily two or three times as deep. On the far end was another door, all the space in between taken up with shelves stacked high with more supplies than an art store.
“Drawing supplies are down at this end, so everything you need will be here,” the teacher said, gesturing to the shelves by the door. “We share this closet with the painting studio and the ceramics studio as well. Anyway, everyone get to it. We’ll stop about fifteen minutes before the end of class so I can see what you’ve all gotten done.”
Dimly I noticed as he went back out into the classroom and I heard the other students shuffling around, grabbing items off the shelves before heading to their easels. I was caught, though, my eyes wide as I tentatively lifted my fingers and ran them across a shelf lined with colorful bottles of acrylic ink. I knew the brand, too; this wasn’t cheap stuff. There must have been tens of thousands of dollars of art supplies lining the shelves here…
“And they just let us take whatever we want?” I wondered to myself, lifting a kneaded eraser from the container on the shelf below.
“There are perks to this place,” a low voice sounded from right behind me, “you just have to know where to look.”
I spun around and found myself face to face with Micah Hartsough. He was standing close—too close—and I went to step back only to find I was already pressed flat against the shelves.
The closet was empty save the two of us, but before I had the chance to reply, or duck under his arm, or anything, he leaned in toward me slowly, and my mind went blank.
Holy shit, was he about to kiss me? This guy, who I’d met no more than five minutes ago and spoken two words to, who everyone else I’d met had warned me away from? What the hell was happening?
Without my permission, my eyes dropped to his lips as he moved very deliberately further into my space, and I suddenly wondered how his lips would feel, bisected by that scar. Would I be able to feel it when my lips pressed against his? His eyes were on my face, and this close I could see they were hazel behind his glasses, with lighter golden flecks creating a ring around his pupils. I froze, mesmerized. I couldn’t quite bring myself to care how weird or inappropriate this was, I just really wanted to know how his lips would feel.
His presence surrounded me, crowding me in and overwhelming my senses. My breathing sped up as his eyes locked with mine, and I couldn’t stop myself from leaning forward ever so slightly, ready to meet him halfway. His eyes were serious and intense, my heartbeat a pounding tattoo in my chest, his mouth an inch away, and then—
“Excuse me,” he said, ducking slightly and reaching to the side around me to pluck something off the shelf. When he straightened, he was holding a box of graphite pencils, and his eyes were glittering with what looked like amusement. Then he turned without a word and left the supply closet.
6
I stood there, stunned.
I wasn’t sure which feeling burned stronger in my chest—embarrassment or anger, but by the time I gathered myself enough to leave the closet, it was with a firm reminder that I was not here to get involved in any petty drama or mind games.
I had enough shit to deal with. I just had to keep my head down and ride this out for another couple of months until my birthday, and then I was on the first plane back to California. As a legal adult, Ian could take me on as a tattoo apprentice, and I could put this whole chapter of my life behind me and throw myself into my art. And my parents wouldn’t even be there to protest that I never finished high school. It was a bitter thought, but I couldn’t imagine anywhere I would feel closer to them than my mom’s old studio.
Back in the classroom, Micah had his head down and was hard at work on his drawing—the bastard already had graphite pencils in his supply box—and ignored me as I began to set up next to him. I ignored him right back.
