Page 22 of Roses & Ruin

Well, joke’s on him. Painting sounds pretty wonderful right now, actually. I’ve spent my life as an observer, marveling at images like a movie: The spill of bright pink raspberry ice cream on my mother’s white sweater. Her beaming smile as she held me close, the silver filaments in her hair.

I never thought I’d like creating the images myself. I never thought I’d be good at it. I’m not, yet, but I love putting the pieces together, taking the simplicity of red and orange and blue and making something I can recognize.

And if I go to the studio now, I can do this in blissful solitude, without the scrape of Julian’s flinty-eyed judgment.

I take five minutes to shower away the nightmare sweat, French braiding my wet hair. I dress quickly, pulling on jeans and my favorite sweater, borrowing Delia’s charcoal peacoat (“I have three, and it looks better on you anyway”).

By the time I step outside, I’m feeling a little bit better. Campus is quiet in the early dawn. Peaceful. I’ve dressed for the brisk early morning, so the cool air isn’t punishing, but cleansing. I can still smell the hint of burning wood in the air. As I walk across campus, taking deep breaths, it’s infinitely easier to clear my head.

When I get to the arts building, I punch the code into the keypad by the front doors. A thrill rushes through me when the light turns green and the door buzzes. I’m a real college student, using a secret code to get into a real college building! It’s a silly thought, but I’m giddy all the same as I walk into the dark lobby, the hallways lit only with emergency lights.

I set my bag on a side table when I get to the studio. I tie on my painting apron and set to work gathering my materials. After deliberating in front of the shelves of acrylic and oil paints and glazes for a good ten minutes, I finally know what I want to paint. I gather the colors I want, the brushes and mason jar of water, and set up my workspace.

There’s a peek of pink in the sky outside by the time I’m putting in my earbuds and mixing my first color. This will be tricky, so it’ll take all my concentration. Which is exactly what I need.

Mom used to tell me there was a difference between loneliness and solitude. I’m feeling it now: how good my own company can be. When the brush whispers against the canvas, leaving the exact shade of magenta I wanted, I feel the corner of my mouth lift. Maybe this is why I’ve taken to painting too. It’s made it easier to become friends with myself.

“Are you painting a pigeon?”

I gasp, startling so badly, my earbuds fall out and I knock my elbow into my jar of mud-colored water. Julian manages to grab it before it shatters on the ground. He shoots me an apologetic look.

“Sorry.” He carefully sets the mason jar back on my small side table. “I should have flashed the lights. That’s how Professor Brown gets my attention when I’m in the zone.” Julian stoops to pick up my earbuds off the scuffed tile, offering them to me with a tiny, closed-mouthed smile. Dazed, I pluck them from his fingers, and he takes a small step back, shoving his hands in his pockets.

The last time Julian Hughes addressed me this directly, he was basically telling me I’m a disgrace to the name of art. He hasn’t looked at me since. Needless to say, I’m caught a little off guard.

“I…” I turn to my canvas, frowning at the narrow splash of glossy violet, cerulean, and Payne’s grey. “Yeah. My version of a pigeon, anyway.”

“I could tell.” The room’s so quiet that when he rubs his chin, I can hear the soft scratch of the faint scruff lining his jaw. He’s usually clean shaven.

Not that I’m looking too closely.

“Why a pigeon?” He crosses his arms and nods his chin at my canvas.

I stare at my iridescent blob of paint for a minute. “Recently, I learned that pigeons are pretty misunderstood. They used to carry messages across wars, and now everyone acts like they’re a nuisance.”

“Never really thought about that,” Julian says quietly. “I suppose they deserve better.”

I don’t know why, but this makes me angry. Why does he think he can be so nice to me right now, like he didn’t completely ruin my very first day of college? I reach behind my back and untie my apron.

“Of course they do.” I shoot to my feet, stool scraping. Julian, surprised, blinks at me as I gather the paint, brushes, and mason jar in my arms. I dump everything into the sink and begin to scrub at my paint-splattered hands.

“Rose.”

I go still. A memory of another boy saying my name flickers like a firefly in my belly. I quickly shake the thought away. Julian walks over and gently turns the water off.

“I owe you an apology.” He fiddles with one of the dirty brushes scattered in the sink. “I was a terrible prick to you that first day of class. I was nervous. Professor Brown’s brilliant. I wanted to prove that I have what it takes to lead this class. That I’m worthy to…” He winces, drops the brush. “I shouldn’t have said what I said, and I should have said sorry sooner.”

“Why didn’t you?” I say softly.

“Because I was embarrassed? Awkward? Total rubbish? All of the above?” Julian gives me a shy, crooked grin. It’s distracting. So is the rest of Julian, though, so I choose to study my fingers instead of meeting his eyes.

“Not gonna lie,” I say. “You…are not exactly what I pictured when I imagined my professors.”

“That’s because I’m not. I’m your TA.” He sighs. “I’m not even old enough to drink in the US yet.”

“Seriously?” I knew he was young, but not this young.

“Don’t get me started. I was gutted when I remembered the drinking age here. Won’t matter soon. Turning twenty-one in a month.”