So Damn Beautiful (A New Adult Romance) (2 page)

Ms. Blake didn’t blink, though I could feel
the heat in my cheeks rising. The girl was probably around my age,
and there was no way I’d ever heard a student talk like that to an
authority figure.

“Calm down, Elsie. I’ve explained to you
before that wait lists are in place to ensure that students who
need the credits and are close to graduation get first priority. Go
to the class on the first day; it’s likely that someone will drop
out and you’ll get to take their place.”

The girl groaned. “That’s what you
tell
me, but it didn’t go down like that
last
semester. My parents are
not
paying shitloads of money for
me to get stuck in massive lecture-only courses with a bunch of
jack-offs looking to cross the art requirement off their to-do
list. If I want an internship, I fucking need to take this
class—period!”

Ms. Blake just smiled affably, but panic
gripped my chest. “Internship?” I asked.
My
internship?

Elsie turned to me like she was seeing me for
the first time . . . and she definitely didn’t like what she saw.
“Who the fuck was talking to
you
?”

At that point, I didn’t have to say anything.
Ms. Blake took Elsie by her elbow and guided her to the door.
“Unlike you, Miss Green made an appointment. I’m sure your parents
can buy your way into the classes of your choice, for the most
part, but they cannot buy their way into my office. Talk to my
assistant when you want to pay me a proper visit. Thank you!”

Ms. Blake all but shoved Elsie out the door.
I could hear clipped swear words before Ms. Blake shut the
door.

I just looked at her, my mouth and eyes
agape. “Whoa . . . who was
that
?”

“That, my dear, was Elsie Donegan. She has
the mouth of a sailor, the face of an angel, and the wealth of the
Queen of England,” Ms. Blake said archly. “Both of her parents are
very well-known art collectors, and New York City has been her
playground and personal gallery since she was a baby sucking a
solid-gold pacifier. I’m sure you’ll run into her. She’s only a
semester ahead of you.”

“She’s an art-history major, too?”

“Yes, and she’s one of the very highly
qualified, although not particularly gracious, students you’ll be
up against for this internship.”

I felt my heart sink. Although she’d been in
the room for only a minute, I could tell from her designer clothes
and bad attitude that such a girl could flame me out of the running
faster than a New York minute. How could I possibly have thought
that my midwestern enthusiasm and academic excellence might contend
with
that
? Elsie clearly had the kind of edginess that most
gallery snobs seemed to respect, if not emulate. Would the
Metropolitan Museum of Art or the Guggenheim agree?

Ms. Blake seemed to sense my sinking spirits,
because she looked closely at me and said, “Elsie isn’t the thing
you should be worrying about. Annie, you have the kind of passion
and drive that I see in my students about once a decade. You have
what it takes to get any internship you want. Your biggest obstacle
isn’t someone else—it’s you.”

I was brought back to reality, and the sound
of Elsie’s derisive laughter. At some point, she’d found out I
wanted an internship, too, and had taken every opportunity to shit
on my comments in class. I looked over at Kendra, who rolled her
eyes but continued to covertly text all the same.

“Miss Donegan, is there something you want to
share with the rest of the class?” Professor Claremont was looking
in Elsie’s direction with a smile of wry anticipation.

Elsie shrugged and offered, “Not really,
Professor. It’s just that I’m remembering stories my parents’
friends have told me about Andy and his oeuvre. Apparently, he
asked a lot of people for suggestions of what he should paint. Then
he asked my godmother, and her response was, ‘Well, what do you
love most?’ And that’s how he started painting money and doing silk
screens to mass-produce his work. There’s this weird, narcissistic,
performative aspect in what he did that elevated it beyond
moneymaking, though. Andy was always upping the ante on what he
could get away with when he called something art.”

Elsie then glanced over at me. “As to the
comment that his painting is redundant, I think Andy said it best:
‘Isn’t life a series of images that change as they repeat
themselves?’” She smiled triumphantly. Her jock boyfriend lovingly
rubbed her thigh.

At that point, I felt my phone vibrate in my
pocket. I took it out and saw that I’d received a text from Kendra.
“Since when did Gothic Terror start boning Mass Comm major
meatheads? CANNOT COMPUTE. Gag me with a spoon!”

Professor Claremont replied, “Thanks for the
assessment, Miss Donegan, but the additional personal anecdote
brings to mind a word that Miss Green just used: ‘gratuitous.’
Okay, now let’s move on to neo-Expressionists.”

I was just as astonished as poor Elsie, whose
previous smirk had become a crestfallen pout. She glanced over at
me again and paused for a moment, as if to say,
What are you
looking at, bitch?

My phone vibrated again. It was another text
from Kendra. “EPIC FAIL!!!!! LOLOLOLOL.”

I smiled slightly, although I had to admit I
felt bad for Elsie.

“Okay, class, that’s all for now. Don’t
forget to pick up your graded response papers up front!” Professor
Claremont exclaimed, as students began shuffling out of the
room.

As I made my way to the front, Elsie came up
next to me and either intentionally or accidentally pushed me out
of the way as she proceeded down the aisle.

“Ouch!” I exclaimed.

Elsie didn’t bother to respond as she grabbed
for her graded paper.

“Hey, you know, Elsie really wants one of
those art internships,” said a voice next to me. I continued to rub
my elbow as I turned to look at who was talking. It was Elsie’s
jock boy toy, whom I recognized as Scott—another freshman who lived
in my dorm. I didn’t know much about him, except that he had some
kind of wrestling scholarship. I studied his face to see what he
was trying to accomplish by telling me any of this, but he was all
business and no emotion.

“And your point is . . . ?” I didn’t mean to
sound so harsh, but, considering I had unwittingly found myself on
his girlfriend’s shit list, I wasn’t interested in playing
nice.

He raked a burly hand through his short, dark
hair (somewhat nervously, I thought) but remained impervious.
“All’s I’m trying to say is that she
really
wants it and
she’s been working hard since spring.”

“She’s at one of the best schools in the
country. I would surely hope so.” I felt like I was talking to Ryan
Lochte or something.

Scott looked at me blankly. He was
surprisingly quiet for a jock. Finally, he muttered something.

“What?” I asked, despite myself.

“Just . . . be . . . careful,” he said, a
little louder, his eyes widening somewhat for effect.

Before he could explain himself, Elsie called
his name (or, rather, whined). She shot a venomous look at me. He
quickly joined her, not bothering to pick up his own paper, which
made me suspect he wasn’t even in the class, and they left
together. For some reason I couldn’t put my finger on, Scott’s
taciturn little warning bugged me. A lot. I wondered what tricks
Elsie had up her sleeve.

“Are you
sure about this?” I asked, as Kendra and I made our way across the
street. I’d heard some pretty dodgy things about the area we were
in, after all. Keen as I was on exploring New York City and all it
had to offer, the hard stares of the tattooed guys lining the
blocks, scrutinizing us from head to toe, made me shudder. I’d read
a lot about what can happen to fresh-faced college coeds who get
lured in by the thrill of the big city: drugs, danger, violent
encounters with shadowy men hardened by life on the streets.
Thinking about that stuff from a safe distance was all good and
fine, but now I could smell the whiff of liquor on the hot breaths
of the street punks. It hit me in places on my body I wished to God
I’d thought to cover before I’d headed out of the dorm that
morning.

“Annie, don’t be such a square!” Kendra
pinched me playfully as she tugged me along behind her. I almost
laughed. Kendra had announced on the day I’d met her that she was
bringing back the term “square,” which I’d always considered part
of my mother’s generation. As Kendra had explained, “What’s old
always becomes new again, and I’m trying to stay ahead of the game
on this one.”

It had been about three weeks since Scott had
warned me that Elsie meant business. Unfortunately, that was also
the day that I got my first grade from Professor Claremont: a
dripping, scarlet C plus.

At office hours after class, I’d told her, “I
just don’t understand. I thought the paper wasn’t supposed to be
academic, just a response to the question of what kind of art we
love and why. How could I possibly get a C plus for that? I mean .
. . art is my entire life.” I had felt feel tears welling in my
throat as I spoke.

She’d looked at me carefully. “Annie, it’s
clear that you have immense talent and drive. But if you want to
enter the art world and be successful, you need to have a much
broader perspective than van Gogh and the impressionists.” That had
just about confined me to the library for days, but Kendra had
finally convinced me to come out of hiding and peruse the streets,
rather than just my textbooks, for inspiration. I was reluctant,
but if it meant improving my track record, I was up for
anything.

“If you wanna do research for any internships
you’re applying for, you’ll have to learn more about the local
scene. I mean,
hello
!” She paused for a moment, her eyes
drifting heavenward, dreamily. “You know, Annie, I’ve always wanted
to hook up with an artist, but I never seem to meet talented
guys—just ones with pretty faces and dreams of becoming rock stars,
even though they can’t carry a tune. Keeping a straight face while
watching them geek out on air guitar is getting to be kind of old.
I think it’s time to meet a man of substance, don’t you?”

“I guess so—” Before I could finish my
sentence, Kendra squeezed my arm really hard.

“Ouch! What the hell is wrong with you?” I
said, wrenching my arm out of her grasp.

Oblivious to my outburst, Kendra stared and
pointed ahead. “O . . . M . . . G . . . Annie, it’s him!”

“Who?” I looked in the direction she was
pointing. A boxy-looking warehouse marked where the Meatpacking
District began. Amid its massive gray buildings and quaint
cobblestone streets, I felt as if I were watching the streetscapes
of yesterday collide headfirst with the present. I had no idea why
people found this area of town so appealing. Sure, the jazz wafting
out of some unseen corridor was kind of nice, but the surrounding
area—littered with garbage and the kinds of people my mother
usually referred to as “bad elements”—left a lot to be desired. God
forbid I ever became one of those bridge-and-tunnel weekend
visitors who frequented trendy bars in questionable areas of town
and made crappy places like these more fashionable than they
deserved to be.

“It’s
him
, Annie! Chase Adams!” Kendra
practically squealed in my ear.

“Chase
who
?” I glared and rubbed the
still-sore spot above my elbow as I followed her gaze. And then . .
. my heart began to thud like crazy at what I saw.

“Chase Adams. One of
New York
magazine’s Thirty Hottest New Yorkers Under Thirty!”

I would’ve recognized him anywhere, but I’d
never thought I’d actually see him again. The boy Kendra was
pointing at was arguably one of the most gorgeous people I’d ever
laid eyes on. And, as it so happened, he was the same guy I’d seen
sauntering outside on Stuyvesant Street just weeks before. Down to
the washboard abs, I might add.

Surrounded by a haze of cigarette smoke, he
looked almost like an angel encircled by a halo. Although he was
squatting on the ground with a bunch of aerosol cans, his
concentration completely on the piece he was creating, I could tell
by the way his jeans hugged his legs and his wifebeater accentuated
his rippling muscles that he was built like a Greek god. He pushed
a lock of dark hair out of his face and puffed on his cigarette
some more, before he turned and looked in our direction.

“Annie, he sees us!” Kendra gleefully sang
out. I wanted to hit her, I was so embarrassed. From the way the
boy glared at us, I didn’t know if he could tell we were talking
about him, but the disdain in his eyes definitely made it loud and
clear: we were not wanted.

“Let’s go, Kendra; he doesn’t look happy to
see us . . .” I said, and turned around, ready to sprint out of
there before I could sink into the ground. I became painfully aware
of what I was wearing: an NYU hoodie and long, black yoga pants. My
hair was pulled back in a ponytail—I hadn’t washed it in a couple
days, since I’d been so busy with schoolwork. I wasn’t wearing any
makeup, so I was sure I looked plain and pasty. Great. This was the
perfect day to come face-to-face with the most beautiful boy I was
likely to ever lock eyes with. I silently swore at myself. So much
for kismet.

“Are you kidding? Chase is, like, the most
famous street artist around here. I’m sure he’s used to people
coming by and checking out his work,” Kendra hissed. “These guys
get off on all the gawkers. Besides, we’re two hot college girls.
How can he
not
want to talk to us?” Kendra combed her
fingers through her long, flowy black hair. “Come on, let’s
go.”

“You want to talk to him? Why?” I cringed
when I heard my voice, strained just below a whine. My heart
started to beat harder and harder.
Stupid, he’s just some
boy
, I told myself.
Why should I care what he thinks of
me?