Page 9 of Roses & Ruin

My hands curl into fists at my bouncing knees. The room stays silent as he walks slowly to the center of the room, his scuffed oxfords clicking on the tile floor.

“I’m Julian Hughes,” he says, “and even though most of you were probably the best artist in your little town, this is Payen University, and this is my classroom. I’m only a third-year and I’ve already won the Bright Artists’ Fellowship twice. Do not waste my priceless time.”

Julian Hughes. I feel dizzy. He’s the one who painted that incredible mural outside. And apparently is this insanely huge, award-winning artist. I have watched a few Bob Ross tutorials on TikTok to make happy clouds and trees.

I am so screwed. I glance at Delia, and she clocks my pale, sweaty face and rolls her eyes. She leans over.

“Please,” she hisses in my ear. “This guy is the artist equivalent of the dudes who hang fake testicles on the back of their Ford pickups. Oh, look at me, I painted a dying blade of grass, I’m so bloody talented.” Delia’s impression of Julian’s accent is spot-on. I clap both hands over my mouth to stanch my laughter.

“I’m sorry, is something funny?” Apparently, I didn’t stanch it well enough. I look up to find Julian’s sharp green eyes burning a hole through me.

“No!” I yelp, mortified. “Of course not? I—”

“One warning,” he seethes, holding up a finger. “This isn’t secondary school anymore. Grow up or get out.” Julian turns away, continuing talk of the syllabus and class expectations, but I am mortified.

“I’m so sorry,” Delia whispers, squeezing my knee. “He’s an asshole.”

It only makes me feel a tiny bit better.

By the time I feel okay enough to lift my head to the center of the class, there’s a new guy around Julian’s age walking to the platform. He’s wearing a robe, is barefoot, and has a strong jaw.

“This is Antonio,” Julian says. “He will be modeling for us, and you will be painting him.” Antonio steps up onto the platform, arranges the folding chair, and drops the robe.

He’s completely nude.

“Is that allowed?” I squeak, gripping my chair. There’s rustling and murmurs as some of the other students are a little taken aback. I’m grateful it’s not just me.

“God, I love art,” Delia sighs.

Julian claps his hands, a single, sharp sound that shuts us all up.

“You have fifty minutes to show me what you’re capable—or incapable—of. Get to it.” The classroom dissolves into the sound of chairs scraping, brush handles clicking, and low voices. I hang my head, swallowing hard.

“You okay, Rose?” Delia asks.

“I really, really want to not suck.” I bite my lip. “But that’s impossible. I’ve never seriously painted in my life.”

With a thoughtful toss of her ponytail, Delia taps her chin. “What did you like best about his mural outside? You were mesmerized.”

“The color,” I immediately say. “He captured the exact sort of muted light on the library steps at twilight on a foggy day.”

“There,” she says. “Just focus on color, then. You seem to have a knack for that.”

A tiny knot of nerves unwinds in my chest. Something about that feels true. I go to the array of shelves housing half-empty tubes of acrylic paints. I select a wide variety of browns and blacks, some yellows too, glancing every so often at Antonio to get a sense of the burnt umber of his coif of curls, the difference between the tan lines on his skin.

I breathe through my nerves and, with Delia’s bolstering presence at my side, try and take her advice. I could never re-create his bone structure, but I feel good about capturing the exact reflection of the afternoon light against Antonio’s messy curls. There’s a surprising purple luster I didn’t expect, and a hint of dark blue. I’d never have noticed it if I wasn’t studying him quite so thoroughly. Distantly, it occurs to me that I’m no longer shocked or distracted by his nakedness. I only see a rainbow of a person, an image made of the color of the aged planks of the Santa Monica pier, the hue of almond skin.

My nose is inches from the canvas. I’m so focused, I don’t realize I have an audience until it’s too late.

“Name?”

My head springs up, and I’m suddenly staring into the cool jade-green eyes of Julian Hughes. “Um—”

“Name?” he repeats.

“Rose?” I say.

“You asking or telling me?”