Simon Says (13 page)

Anyway, the texture of what he wanted was something different but something I couldn't identify enough to give him. On the surface, he projects an aggressive arrogance, but he wasn't like that with me. It was almost like he wanted some kind of alliance with me-but why? He doesn't even know me. It has something to do with the way he feels about my book.

Karl sure had some strong opinions on why, but he was just jealous. Could Charles be gay? He seemed to relax a little with Adrian. I feel an attraction that's more than just sexual, but I wonder if I could seduce him. Maybe that's what he wants, even if he doesn't realize it yet I have to see him again.

October 2-late (Senior Year)

Charles Weston just left my studio. I have never wanted anyone so much. I saw him tonight at the party for the premiere of two new chamber works by students (one by Adrian). Charles was sketching in the concert hall when I saw him-not a vicious caricature like the one of Tyler. This time
he was sketching Adrian, and I thought I understood, but now I'm completely at sea. He had captured the look of rapture on Adrian's face as he listens to his music, and no doubt as he looks at a lover as well. I looked at that sketch and thought I must be wasting my time trying to seduce Charles. There was too much insight, too gently drawn. When he gave Adrian the sketch, it looked like Adrian was floating off to heaven.

But Charles saw me when he finished drawing, and there was the same unstated demand, the same expectation I felt that first night I could feel him drawn to me, as I was to him, and I could see he wasn't sure how to carry on a conversation after our failure last time. I'd done some checking on him, after seeing that sketch he did of Tyler-the art department is buzzing about him because no one has seen what he paints. Apparently he grudgingly showed the auditions committee the minimum number of paintings he could get away with to be accepted here. Then he shipped crates that are supposed to be full of paintings to his studio, but has never let anybody in to see them. I wasn't sure whether he just liked being mysterious to get attention, or whether he had some other reason for hiding his work-any more than I could see clearly what he wanted from me. But then there was the storm.

The electricity went out, and there were plenty of shrieks and giggles in the dark, and then the storm exploded outside the windows. It was a stunning electric storm, and the room full of other people faded until
Charles and
I were alone, and there wasn't any need to search for something to say to each other. I knew exactly what he wanted. I drew him to the win
dow and watched him stare at the sky, bathed in the cold lightning flashes that split the dark. Then he looked at me and smiled, and I felt the world turn inside out within me.

After the lights came back on, I managed to charm an umbrella off of one of the stagehands who remembered me from when I hung out with Ben's friends, and I waited outside for Charles. It was still raining when he left, a steady drizzle that made him glad for the umbrella. I could feel him looking at me under the lampposts as we walked, studying me, wanting something more. And I thought I knew what it was. I got him to come to my studio, but he wouldn't stay. Cod knows I wanted him to.

He asked me again about my work. In my studio I could finally answer him in the words he wanted to hear, even if I couldn't tell him what he seemed to want most-that I was writing a new book. I'm not even writing any new stories; I got so sick of the ideas I had starting strong and then dissolving into nothing but the same old story told over and over. But I didn't have to tell Charles that I could talk about the way it felt when the book was actually working and I got lost in it The bond we had forged under the lightning translated our words into more than just sounds, and I could feel him reaching out to me again.

Part of him fled when I reached back. I still don't completely understand why. He's been trying to make a connection with me since he came here-he clearly wants more than a casual friendship.

I could tell I'd spooked him, and I tried to draw him closer again, but it was as if he'd split himself, half-wanting, half-frightened. I tried to back off to give him a safe distance, but
by then there was no way to bring him back. He had to go, he wanted to stay, and he finally escaped into the night again.

What was it he really wanted? I thought I understood. I'd have given him whatever he asked for, if I only knew what he was asking. I'm not sure he understands, himself. I only wanted to please him-l could do that without sex.

I feel drained. Actually, I think I'd almost prefer a relationship without sex. Sometimes the memory of sleeping with Karl just bores me. I'd rather offer Charles whatever closeness he wants, just to feel as alive as I felt tonight.

Why does he show such interest in my writing? What does he expect of me? I can see how serious he is about his art, though I can't understand why he keeps his paintings locked away in his studio. He demands the same absolute seriousness about my writing that he feels about his art, and I can give him that.

But there's something more he's looking for. I can't see it yet I only know I want him-on whatever terms he sets. But if he insists that I write this next book he keeps asking about, I don't know what I can do. I still can't find a new book within myself. Why am I drifting? What am I going to do?

"You do understand the importance of the curfew, Charles?" Mr. Pullton asks, his face a mask of regret and concern.

Oh, yeah—you want to make sure what almost happened last night doesn't happen.
"Of course, sir. But the storm kind of changed things."
A lot of things.

"Yes, you were at the premiere last night?" He sounds more relaxed, now that he's on safer ground.

"That's right They made us leave after the power came back on, but it was still raining pretty hard."

"Your roommate got back in time."

"Well, I didn't" Can't lose my temper—he can probably ground me, or expel me. I try to explain, "I got pretty wet and Graeme Brandt suggested I wait out the rain in his studio." The kaleidoscope of images still spins in my head, but I try to ignore it.

"I see." He looks like he can't decide if he's relieved or suspicious. Fair enough.

"I'm doing a series of sketches of seniors for
Ventures,
" I tell him. "Rachel Holland asked me to get to
know Graeme Brandt and sketch him, so we started talking at the party."

Now he nods, satisfied. And I feel like a cockroach in a paper hat, all dressed up to look pretty so people will ooh and aah, instead of recoiling at the multitude of lies and half-truths I'm telling.

"In the future, just try to keep an eye on the time, Charles." He smiles. I think he's trying to look kind. "We're not jailers here, you know. But I'm trying to stand in for your parents while you're at Whitman."

Mother says ... be a good boy.
Like my parents would have a due about what happened last night I look appropriately appreciative at the father surrogate—
Thank you, Daddy
—and he releases me to go to class.

***

Introductory Programming blurs with
Lord Jim
from English class. For my term project, could I write an interactive game program that puts the student in Jim's situation? He'd have to decide which one of Jim's false images to play so that he can win in the end. Could I create a kaleidoscope program to do that? Would it be possible? Can you win in the end?

"Where's your disc, Weston? You're not paying attention."

Mother says ... be polite.
"Sorry, Ms. Cooper. I've got it in—" Chuckles erupt around me as I struggle to eject the compact disc.

The girl beside me leans over, her long black braid dangling in the aisle between us. "Try dragging it to the trash," she advises.

I ram the mouse to move the cursor up to the circular icon and click on it, then drag it down to the trash and release it. The machine makes a grating noise, and I wish savagely for an onslaught of electronic cats devouring computer mice, until the tray jumps out at me.

Ms. Cooper takes the disc, shaking her head. I don't think I saved anything on it, so she doesn't know the half of it yet.

I glance at the girl who rescued me. "Thanks, ah—"

"Alona," she supplies, helpfully. "I'm Alona. And you're Charles, right?" She grins at me.

I nod and dredge up a smile for her. "Thanks, Alona."

"No problem, Charles."

I can't face lunch, so I head to Still Life early. The fruit is in the refrigerator, but I don't need it The painting is actually done. I don't know why I'm here. I lift off the drape and stare at it, a pathetic bowl of used up fruit, as fake and flat as Mr. Wallace.

Without really asking myself what I'm doing, I lift a tube of chromium yellow from the easel tray and open it I'm only thinking about acrylics, not about painting anything with them right now. I prefer oils, but Mr. Wallace has us do still lifes in acrylics. He says it's easier to paint over something to make changes with acrylics—a better paint form for teaching. Erasers for the would-be artist to re-make the image at will.

Now there's titanium white on my palette as well, and black, and my brush is mixing, looking for just that right luminous hint of light hitting the lumpy rind—the same angle of light that washes out the lifeless bowl of fruit. It takes shape nicely on the canvas. Mr.
Wallace
says ... paint what you see ... This is what I see.
Delicate strokes, pinpoint dabs—and there it lies, brighter and more real than anything else in the arrangement. I must have known it would go there from the start—the composition was unbalanced without it I had placed the bowl of fruit too far to the right The front left-hand corner of the table was crying out for something—for this.

Suddenly I hear footsteps and voices in the hall—class is about to start I blink at the canvas, surprised but pleased. And at ease, suddenly, after the uneasy night and the lousy morning. No spinning impressions, no confusion, just a clean, true image. Truer for never having existed in Mr. Wallace's stillborn version of life.

I hang the drape loosely over the drying paint and am at the sink washing my brushes when the first students arrive. They ignore me. I think one of the reasons my parents let me come to Whitman was that they thought I'd make friends here, even if those friends were just other artsy types like me. Only they're not like me. They want to please the Mr. Wallaces, and I don't.

He ceremoniously sets out the bowl of fruit and reminds us that our finished pictures are due by the end of class. I leave my painting draped and pull out my sketch pad. Now that my mind is dear, there's something about that kaleidoscope concept I want to try to put on paper.

"Not working today, Mr. Weston?"

What does it look like I'm doing? Of course, Tm working.
I look up at him. "It's finished, sir."

"Well, then, let's have a look at it."

I glance around at the other students, but they're not allies. Some of them concentrate on their own paintings, but others look eager to see what hell say about me this time. Suddenly the good feeling I had dissolves. I shouldn't have done it I should paint it out The acrylics will cover it.

"Actually, sir, I think I'd like to do a little more first."

"Fine, Mr. Weston. Let's see if I can help you with those finishing touches."

"Sir—" But it's too late. He's lifted the drape between his bony forefinger and thumb. And I don't want to paint it out I wish I hadn't added it, but I'm also glad I did. It transforms a sophomoric study into a painting.

He turns to me, his thick brows drawn together in either anger or surprise. Probably both. "What is that?"

I swallow. "It's a lemon, sir."

The class erupts in laughter. Fine. I don't mind being comic. They're the apples and oranges and pears, but I'm the lemon in their happy little bowl of fruit It's the only life in the painting—the way the pears are bruised, you can see they're dead, used up, but that lemon glows with life.

Mr. Wallace rips the drape off my canvas and hurls it to the floor. "There is no lemon in that still life, Mr. Weston! Was this something else
you thought
was missing?"

I look at him, knowing anything I say will be the wrong answer.

Simon says ... apologize. Redo it.

"Do it over, Mr. Weston!" he says. "And you will receive a mark off for turning it in late."

"No sir."

Before he can do more than stare at me in stunned amazement, I reach into my easel tray for the knife I use to trim my brushes. I dig it into the canvas, just below the top stretcher bar. A girl gasps (shock or delight?) somewhere behind me, and I slice straight across the bar to the right-hand side. Then I slice down the side, about three-quarters of the way. Holding the upper right corner, I carefully slice just beneath the edge of the painted table, below the fruit arrangement, stopping just short of my lemon. I pull the loose flap of canvas taut, and slowly cut my way up to the top. The lemon hangs in the lower left-hand corner of the shreds of my original painting, but the bowl of fruit, now neatly centered in a smaller rectangle of canvas, flops loosely.

"Here, Mr. Wallace." I drop the knife back into my easel tray and shove the still life at him. "Here's your assignment On time, and nothing more than you asked for."
Nothing more—no art, no creativity, just a copyist job.
That's all he wants.

Mr. Wallace grips the limp canvas—I can see a duster of grapes crushed under his bony fingers—and glares at me. "Get out."

"Yes sir."

I jam my sketch pad back in my pack and leave. Rachel said to tell Mr. Brooks if things got too bad, but he'll just side with Mr. Wallace—they're both adults. They think they know everything, but they've forgotten it all, instead.

In my studio, staring at my night skyscape surrounded by razor-sharp buildings, I wonder if hell flunk me. It would be hard to justify on the basis of that "perfect"
still life, but maybe he could flunk me for general insubordination. Is that grounds for expulsion at Whitman?