Beneath The Skin (A College Obsession Romance) (38 page)

I turn, surprised to find Sam standing there with Tomas a few steps behind her. Sam’s wearing an uncharacteristic olive-colored gown, her hair dark and touching her shoulders, curled a bit at the ends. And to ruin the whole bombshell thing she’s got going on, her big ugly black-rimmed glasses cover half her face, enlarging her eyes in an oddly chic-geek sort of way. Tomas, in contrast, just looks pure geek in a pair of jeans and an oversized white polo with a big Atari joystick on the front. Despite him being a total dud of a guy, I gotta give him props for the old-school gamer thing going on with his shirt.

“Ugh?” I retort teasingly. “It’s that bad?”

“I’m just not used to seeing myself.” She smirks unpleasantly at the second photograph, then tilts her head. “I look annoyed.”

“You
are
annoyed,” Tomas puts in.

“I
am
annoyed,” she agrees, looking like a cat who’s folded her ears.

Dmitri shuffles a bit. “You look great, though. I mean …” He clears his throat and points at the photograph. “I’m kinda wondering what note you were hearing when the pic was taken.”

“A wrong one,” she groans.

Dmitri chuckles at that. “No such thing as a wrong note.”

She lifts a blunt, tired eyebrow. “Then I guess there’s no such thing as grammar, punctuation, or spelling.”

His eyes flash wide. “Touché.”

The next moment, Dessie and Clayton find us. “Oh my god, you guys. Did you see the Klangburg Dome? It’s an acrylic painting of the whole university, imagined in a futuristic setting, and the detail put into every little … Oh.” She interrupts herself, her eyes finding my photos. Particularly, the fourth one. “That’s me,” she says and signs, tapping Clayton on the chest as she does so.

He grins, drawing up to her backside and wrapping her in his arms. “And me,” he mumbles into her neck, pointing at the third photo, “as I watched
you
onstage.”

“Brant, these are beautiful,” says Dessie.

I smile and offer the pair of them an appreciative nod. “Thanks so much, guys.” Then, when Clayton’s gaze meets mine, I put a flat hand to the front of my chin and let it fall outward—the sign for
thank you
.

He grins approvingly, returning the gesture.

I resolve right now to learn more signs other than the ones for “Coke” and “penis” and “poop”.

We move around the gallery, observing the other pieces that were selected. Of course the first one we visit is the Klangburg Dome, which really is pretty cool and just as Dessie described it. Some of the other pieces, however, leave me squinting my eyes in confusion. One piece seems to be a grey canvas with a large pale, greyish circle painted in the middle. A few tiny out-of-place bright red specks dress the corner of the painting. It’s called
The Stain.

There’s a clay sculpture that looks like a big horseshoe with a nose and eyes peering out in mock surprise. It’s all a rusted, burnt orange color, and the piece is titled
Amateur.

Tiny wires hold up a sculpture that hangs in separate pieces, yet in their exact positioning, if viewed from the right angle, it looks like a tesseract—which Dmitri explains is like a four-dimensional version of a cube … or something. When you walk around the structure and view it from the side, it looks completely flat. The work is called
Honesty.

“One of these days,” Dmitri muses to me, “you’ll have a whole room full of your photos, and a bunch of old men and women with their fat wallets are gonna fight over who gets to purchase your work.”

“Yeah,” I agree mockingly, “and my photos will have names like
Benevolent Blueberry
… or
Pajama Pants
… or
Tesseract
.” I sputter, trying my best to suppress a laugh. “Nell warned me that the art world can be kinda pretentious, but … damn, I’ve never quite noticed …”

“I know.” Dmitri shakes his head, giving the nearby piece we’re standing in front of a doleful onceover—a painting of a mother nursing a baby dolphin wrapped in a blanket, its wet, slippery snout suckling the mother’s nipple. “Your stuff really is the only real shit in this room. I can’t believe the crap I’m looking at.”

The piece with the dolphin is called
Homeschooled.

“What does that even mean?” asks Dmitri, wrinkling his nose in derision at the painting.

“Thank you,” I murmur.

Dmitri blinks. “For what?”

“Believing in me.”

He seems to find that funny because he just laughs, shaking his head and waving his hand to dismiss my words, but the truth rings in the stern look that takes his eyes. He may not have realized how much those words he just said mean to me, but hopefully he knows now.

Fuck, I wish Nell was here.

A half hour later, I’m in front of my photos again, alone, when a woman’s voice surprises me from behind. “Great work.”

I turn, finding a woman in a suit with her arms folded. “Thanks,” I tell her with a smile. After half a heartbeat, I realize I know her. “I’m sorry, your name was …?”

“Lori Turlington. We met a few months back. I, ah … unlatched the cuffs that freed you from the pedestal on which you were
the
exhibit
. I believe that’s the proper way to say it,” she finishes with a wink.

I chuckle dryly. “Yes. I remember now. That was … an experience.”

“I thought you were just a model at the time. I didn’t know you’re an artist yourself. Brant, is it? These photos are very impressive.”

That annoying grin finds my face again. I can’t help but be proud of my work. “Thank you.”

“What I particularly enjoy about them,” she goes on, “is how you seem to capture … precisely what it is that you’re looking at. There’s no distraction. There’s no pretentious ulterior meaning or message, unless the viewer wants there to be. There’s no confusion. It’s just …” She searches for the word, then smiles when she finds it. “Clarity.”

“Mmm. Maybe I should’ve called it that,” I reckon.

“What
is
it called? I don’t see a plaque.”

“It’s just called:
Caught
.”

Her eyes flash at the word, and then she revisits the photos. “I see. That … That title lends an entirely different take. Yes.
Caught
. Each and every one of them, caught.” She smiles, bigger this time, and turns back to me with a new appreciation on her face. “You know, Brant, I’m always looking for new people to feature in my gallery. I would love to see more of your work.”

I swallow. I can’t believe I’m hearing this. “Uh, okay, uh … yeah! Yes. Yes, of course. I’ve got … I have got
so
much … so many photos, and—”

“And I know a lot of people,” she says. “Remember how I said I have contacts? I have them for the art world too, if modeling isn’t your aim. I’m the owner of that gallery as well as a few spaces downtown. I have connections with magazines, local and national. I think you and I need to work on getting this work seen.” She pulls a card out from nowhere, like a magic trick. “Please, call me and let’s see more of your …
catching
,” she murmurs, pressing the card to my palm.

I nod quickly as if I’m being injected with lightning at the neck. “Yes, yes. Great. Thank you so much.” I take her hand and shake it eagerly, then stop myself for fear of breaking it. “Thank you!”

She laughs—likely at my embarrassing enthusiasm—then gives me a single nod and excuses herself, strolling away.

I stare down at the card in a total stupor, the reality slow to cross my brain. Is this the start of something big? Possibilities are flying past my eyes. I feel a strange and fiery sense of vindication thundering through me, as if this is my little way of showing all those people who thought I was nothing more than a walking bag of orgasms that I’m so much more.
Watch out, world.
I laugh out loud, grinning at the card.

The chasm in my chest only lets me get so happy before I’m pulled back down to the soggy earth.
She’s not here at my side
, I remind myself for the twenty-second time tonight,
and she should be.

It isn’t much later when suddenly the lights dim and everyone starts to gather near a stage at the front of the exhibit. A light round of polite, pompous applause flutters across the room like a buzzing of insects, and then a twenty-something woman takes the stage wearing a hat that features a lavender feather half the height of her torso.

When she faces the crowd and thanks them in her tight, muted voice, I realize with a start who she is: Renée Brigand.

“From the bottom of my iron locket of a heart—yes, that’s a reference to my piece titled
Heart Of Iron
, as seen in my
Security
series—I would like to thank you for attending the 34
^th
Annual End Of Year Showcase. This is a special showcase, as it features a minute sampling of the ripe and hungry student body who are enrolled at the Klangburg School of Art. These students are thoughtful. These students have a drive within them to push the boundaries, to think outside the scope of expectation, and to expand their wings. I was once an exhibiter, three years in a row, for my work when I was but a student here. It is my utmost honor to be this year’s sponsor.”

I squint through the haze of lights and the invisible fog of perfume and self-importance that hangs in the air.
No wonder Nell can’t stand her
, I muse privately to myself.
She stands for everything Nell hates.

“We nurture a carefully selected program through which the work of our students—as well as their individual strengths and weaknesses—are cultivated in such a way as to guarantee long-lasting careers in their chosen fields. What more could a school do but secure the futures of its eager students? And I see many futures in here. Many, many futures. No amount of—”

I’m distracted suddenly by a flash I see through the glass windows. Renée keeps talking on and on, but soon another head turns in the crowd. Then several more. Soon, scandalized murmurs and hushes scatter across the room.

“Excuse me,” Renée says into the microphone, giving it a gentle tap as her enormous eyelashes flutter dramatically with her every blink. “I am about to present my newest exhibit. As I am this year’s sponsor, I am … It is my r-responsibility to …”

But no one seems much interested in what she’s saying anymore. People have broken away from the crowd to get a better look at the flashes outside. For a second, I think it’s lightning, until I realize that the light is coming from the ground.

Renée, growing more annoyed by the second, sweeps her hand at the wall nearby. “The exhibit, through this doorway, is called
From The Dawn, To The Day, Of The Mighty Moon
. I hope you will appreciate the political irony I’ve exercised in showcasing the—”

I glance in the direction of the commotion outside, which has now gathered a mass of people by the windows, desperate to see what the hell’s going on. Amidst the crowd of people, I see Dmitri’s face turn to find mine, and he’s wearing an astonished look.

“Political irony,” Renée repeats, losing her composure. “Excuse me. My exhibit is through this doorway—Excuse me. Over here.”

I reach Dmitri and the others, who are trying their best to see what’s happening outside the windows. “What’s going on?” I ask.

“I have no idea,” mutters Dmitri.

“No clue,” agrees Sam, “though it doesn’t look good.”

“Should I call the police?” asks Riley, worried. “I should call the police.”

The murmurs of apprehension and the chatter overtake the room, drowning out any sad attempts Renée Brigand makes to reclaim the room’s attention. It’s all lost now to the show outside.

Frustrated with my lack of vision, I bend left and right, trying to see through the heads in the crowd. Impatient, I start cutting through the bodies, recklessly pushing my way to the front.

When I finally make it, the sight through the glass windows freezes my heart.

“Wow,” I whisper at the glass.

People are already piling out of the building, curious and drawn by the sights, so I follow, pulled by the excitement and the fascination. I walk the path that runs by the rest of the School of Art. It’s lined with torches and squatty braziers, illuminating the courtyard in dancing golden light.

What the actual hell is going on here?

I spot something peculiar hanging from a tree. My heart jumps because my very first thought is a morbid one:
someone’s come out and hanged themselves.
But when I draw closer, I realize that it’s a ceramic angel that hangs from the tree by a wire, its wings hanging separately, detached from the main body. When I get closer, I notice a sign affixed to the bark that reads: “REJECT:
Satan Claws.
CRITIQUE:
The work as a whole seems aberrant and deliberately offensive.
”