Portrait of Us (19 page)

I
love that subject,” Janice
said to me, pointing at the painting I was fleshing out with undertones. “What gave you the idea?”

I tilted my head and stared at the image. Inspiration had finally hit me at the beginning of class, and I'd furiously sketched the graffiti wall I'd seen on my walk that one evening. Something about it had resonated with me, stuck with me. I knew this had to be my last class project.

I explained how I'd gone walking and had taken pictures of stuff I saw around Lakewood.

“What a great idea,” she said, giving a nod of appreciation. Today Janice had on a flowing blue dress and her red hair was twisted into braids. She looked the image of a typical artist—or at least, what would have been my image before this class.

Teni's workshop—Matthew's art—had changed me.

Now I saw art in everything, the beautiful and the mundane. The ugly and scary and strange. It was exciting, the realization that inspiration lay all around me.

“You should give it a try sometime,” I said. “I think you'd enjoy it. Challenges your artistic eye.”

“Would you come out with me? I'd love to see you in composition mode and study your ideas a little more.”

I blinked. “Really?” Janice was looking to me as an expert? Warmth flooded my chest. “I'd be happy to.”

She nodded, and I turned my attention back to my painting, pleasure flushing my cheeks.

For the hundredth time today, my gaze darted to Matthew's back. He was fully focused on his image, an unusually realistic rendering of his twin sisters at the park near his house, smiling at each other in what was probably a rare moment of serenity for them. For his media he was using pencil only, and right now he was crosshatching shades in their hair.

He hadn't looked at me once.

I pushed aside my anxiety about it and tried to focus on my painting. We were presenting our final project to Teni after class today. And when that was done, I was going to make him talk to me. No way could I leave everything like this—tense, awkward. I still had no idea what to say, but at least I could listen to him.

I'd cut him off so rudely yesterday. No wonder he was frustrated with me.

The rest of class went surprisingly fast. It was a bittersweet feeling when Teni announced it was done. Monday would be our last session, and we could wrap up our in-class projects then.

“I'm so excited to see how you have grown,” Teni said. She walked up and down the aisles, taking in the drawings and paintings and such that were on easels scattered across the room. “You have all pushed yourselves and expanded not only your technical skills, but your artistic sensibilities. I am honored to have had you in my class.”

I heard a small sniffle from behind me. Apparently Janice was feeling as unhappy about it as I was. My chest had this bubble of sadness in it. Funny how art had become important so quickly. A few weeks in the program didn't feel like enough.

I stared at my painting in progress. I'd accomplished a lot today, and it would be pretty close to done on Monday. I was really going to miss losing myself in art. Yes, I still loved math and academics, but it wasn't the same. Those successes were expected. The rush I got from my art turning out the way I'd envisioned was nothing like I'd ever experienced before.

With a reluctant sigh, I cleaned my brushes and palette and straightened up my station. All too soon I'd be back to reality, where academics would be my biggest focus. How did Matthew handle it? Like me, he strove hard in his area of interest. Yet it was obvious he still made time for art—he went to galleries, took photographs, drew and painted when he could.

Maybe I could too. If I approached it just right, showed that I
wouldn't be giving up my academic pursuits, that I could balance it all, plus still keep up art, my parents wouldn't be on my case for not devoting all my time to the French club or to the mathlete team. The bubble of sorrow shrank in my chest and was replaced by a tinge of hope.

Teni waved at me and Matthew, and my heart gave an irregular thud of panic as I shuffled my way to the front of the room. Would she like this project better than the first one we'd discussed with her? By tacit agreement, Matthew and I hadn't shown her our work yet, wanting to surprise her and get her honest, initial reaction.

Her face lit up as we neared. Matthew stood a few inches from me, and I could feel the heat pouring off his body. I fought the urge to sway closer to him. I missed the feel of his hands in mine. Crazy how I'd come to crave his nearness.

“So,” Teni said with an excited clap of her hands. “Let me see the project. I've been dying of anticipation, especially since you two haven't shown me a thing.” She gave us a mock frown. “I had hoped to be more of a guiding light in the project, but it seems you were both able to make it work okay without my help?”

I bit my lip. Matthew grabbed the covered easel nearest us and took off the top layer of cardboard.

Teni blinked, then stared for a good long minute. I worried my fingers, keeping my hands tightened in front of me. Matthew stood completely still, but I could see a small clenching of his jaw.

He was nervous too. That thought, strangely enough, helped ease some of my apprehension. We were in this together.

I reached over and brushed his arm with the tips of my fingers. He looked down at me, the frown line between his brows easing up. Then he gave me a genuine smile—small, but real.

My heart thudded in relief. I swallowed and dropped my arm to my side. Oh, I'd missed that smile. Had needed it more than I'd realized. I gave him a tiny, secret grin in return.

“This is wonderful,” Teni finally said. She turned her attention to us, and a smile slid across her face. She waved a bejeweled hand at the painting. “After seeing this, I'm definitely glad you two decided to change your subject matter. This final product is daring, intimate. I can see pieces of both of you in here, yet there are also spots that blend you two together. Seeing how you envision each other, how your faces came together to create one cohesive image. I love the wild background, as well. Risky, but it has a great chance in the competition.” She reached over and clasped one of my hands, then one of his. “I am honored to present this to the committee. I can tell how hard you both worked on this . . . and you did it together. I think this is exactly what they're looking for.”

She didn't know how hard we'd struggled to get to this point, but in this moment, that didn't matter. All the stress and strain and time had been worth it. The project was ready, and I was proud of it.

“Now, go. Celebrate your success.” Her eyes twinkled, and
she dropped our hands. “I'll take care of this. Hopefully I'll have good news for you soon.”

Matthew and I gathered our things. My head was so light I was afraid I'd float right out of the building. Fear would settle in later, I knew. But right now, I was riding the wave of happiness, for once completely satisfied with my art.

Not critiquing its flaws or trying to push ever closer to perfection.

No. Just enjoying it in its messy, fun imperfection. We'd had fun yesterday putting it together. Until I'd cut him off and things had gotten weird.

When we stepped outside into the overcast sky, I said, “Matthew, wait. Are you . . . busy right now?” My face burned, and I steeled myself for possible rejection. After all, it was my fault things were the way they were between us.

He stopped in place and turned to face me. I couldn't read the emotion in his eyes, but I could tell he was feeling a lot of things right now. His lips thinned. “Do you want to talk?”

I knew what he was saying. He wanted to finish the conversation we'd started yesterday . . . the one I both craved and feared.

I nodded. I owed him that much, at least—to not chicken out.

Gradually the tension around his mouth and eyes relaxed. “Ice cream?”

The tension faded from my limbs. “Sounds great.”

There was an ice-cream shop a couple of blocks from the studio. Matthew and I walked side by side, bags slung over our
backs. I sent my parents a quick text letting them know where I was going.

The line wasn't too bad when we arrived. Matthew ordered ice cream for both of us—he refused to let me pay, which made me feel guilty but also flattered—and we settled in at an outdoor table under a large umbrella. Hopefully the rain would hold off; the clouds were heavy, but nothing had come yet.

We ate in silence for a few minutes, enjoying our ice cream.

“I can't believe the project is all done,” he said after he polished off the last of his chocolate and vanilla swirl cone. “And class is almost over too.”

“And school starts back up again in just over a month. The summer's flying by way too quickly.” I sighed and scooped out my last bite of banana, dipping it into the rich hot fudge that slid along the side of the plastic container. It was exquisite. I closed my eyes and savored the bite.

A small sound made me open my eyes. I looked over at Matthew. He had a deep frown line between his brows.

“What's wrong?” I asked him.

“I need to ask you something.” His tone was as serious as I'd ever heard it, and I knew the conversation was going to head into
that
zone.

My heart stalled, then restarted again, giving a furious thump below my rib cage. “Okay.” With slightly shaky hands, I pushed my empty ice-cream container away from me.

“How do you feel about me?”

His blunt words actually made my cheeks burn. Oh, great—he was putting it on my shoulders to go first? My initial instinct was to throw it back on him, to make him answer. But for some reason, I felt like I needed to be honest. Even if it was me putting myself out there.

Matthew deserved it. He'd been honest with me from the start.

I swallowed, pressed my hands together in my lap. “Um. At first I thought you were just a jock—only into sports and not caring much about anything else.” I forced myself to keep speaking, eyes fixed on the table since I was too afraid to look up into his eyes. “But now I know there's more to you. A lot more than I ever would have guessed.” I gave a guilty laugh. “Guess that's what I get for making assumptions.”

“Corinne,” he said, sliding across the bench until our thighs were almost touching. My leg began to tremble. I glanced up. His eyes were piercing, and it was like a wall had crumbled between us. I could read every emotion on his face.

The power, the intensity of it took my breath away.

He grabbed my fingers, rested them between his warm palms. His thumb stroked the top of my hand. My breath came in short, nervous pants. “I don't want us to stop seeing each other when class is done.”

A shaky laugh slipped out of my mouth. “Then let's hope we win.” A flippant answer, but I couldn't help it. I was so nervous.

He leaned closer until his face was inches from mine. He
shook his head and gave a crooked grin, rolling his eyes. “You know what I mean.”

“I know.” A thousand thoughts battered against my mind all at once. I wanted him to lean closer and feel those full lips press against mine. Wanted to give in to the need filling my heart. And yet . . . all those doubts that had plagued me endlessly were still there, and I couldn't push them away. If I was this nervous, this uncertain about us being together, wasn't that a bad sign?

“I want to see you outside of art class. Outside of school. I want us to go on a real date together.” He stared into my eyes. “I'd like to meet your family and friends. I've had a lot of fun hanging out with you because of this project. I don't want that to stop.”

I bit my lower lip. “I have too. But . . . we're so different.”

His fingers stilled. “Not as different as you think,” he responded. “Our art project proves we can make it work if we both want to.”

“And look at how hard that was,” I said. “It took us so long to even compromise on it.” My heart raced, and I knew he could feel the shaking in my hand. Sadness filled my chest, and my heart sank. Reality swept over me in a bitter wash of color. “We could see each other this summer, and everything would be just like it is now. But what happens when school starts and real life picks back up again? For example, whose lunch table do we sit at—your friends or mine?”

His jaw tightened. “Does it matter? We can alternate. Or sit at our own.”

“Your friends hate school. Mine hate sports,” I continued. “So
who would we hang out with on weekends? And when I have my academic challenges, you won't be there—because you'll be busy with basketball. And I can't cheer on your baskets because my parents expect me to spend my free time on math.”

Rain began to patter against the umbrella. I glanced around and realized everyone else had vacated the outdoor patio. It was just us, in the rain, a sheet of water blanketing us from the rest of the world.

“Why do you focus so much on how different we are?” he challenged. I could see a spark of fire in his eyes. His hand tightened around mine. “What does any of that matter in the end? If we like each other, it will all work out. Yeah, it's a risk, but isn't everything that's good in life?”

I bit back a sigh. It was easy for him to talk about taking risks. He'd practically been born a risk taker. My nature was to be cautious and thorough. To plan and know exactly what I was getting into.

“I'm not just making this up in my head—I can tell I'm not the only one here,” he said in a softer voice. One hand reached up and cupped my cheek.

A big part of me wanted to let all of my fears go and lean into his embrace. But one of us had to be realistic here. I'd seen friends dive headfirst off the cliff and come out bruised and battered because they weren't sensible. Like Ava, for instance—her last relationship had ended in a nasty fight because they'd both wanted different things. She'd cried for weeks afterward.