Painting Sky (19 page)

The next day, my brother had work to do somewhere on campus. I think he was working on students’ computers for money. I just hoped he hadn’t gone to the hacking strategies he’d used to exploit in high school. That would get him in too much trouble in college.

Cody had lunch with me at home, but we barely talked. He didn’t seem to think he owed me an apology. What he’d done was worse than what Keith had done, though.

Cody was my boyfriend: he had some kind of responsibility when it came to me. I didn’t say anything, though. Apparently I had become kind of numb.

He kissed me goodbye, saying that he would probably crash at one of his friends, because they had to gather to study for one of his classes.

This would be my life if we got married: me, miserably alone at the house, while he worked as a lawyer on other people’s problems. Even criminals would come before me.

I curled up on the couch, watching a sappy Saturday movie on TV. A few tears escaped my eyes at the story. It was so stupid, but, at the same time, so sad. Maybe I was depressed—that could be the case.

“What happened?” Keith sat on the couch next to me, with a worried expression on his face. I just shrugged at the TV and he turned and watched for a couple of minutes.

“This is crap. Are you crying over the movie?” His incredulous tone said everything. He wouldn’t have bothered sitting and worrying if he’d known I was upset over a stupid movie.

He clapped his hands, which made me jump. “Well, you need to work on your drawings and I promised you I would help. How do you want to do this?”

“I don’t know. You would be posing for me, right? I want you to keep your underwear on. I can’t work here, in the living room, and the attic is off limits, so…” I trailed off.

“We can work in your room. It’s a place you feel comfortable in and that’s important. You need to find a place where you can lose yourself. I’m free now, and apparently you are, too.” He turned to the TV, on which the credits were rolling.

I got up from the couch slowly, as if I was the one doing a favor for the other.

I gathered my art supplies from my desk and sat on the chair. “Where do you want to sit?”

“I was thinking we could do a simple pose—natural, like it’s not forced. That way, it would be easier for you. I can keep my pants on for now. I’ll take the shirt off, because you need to work on the muscles.” He winked, knowing he was appraising his own body.

With one hand, he gathered up his shirt and pulled it over his head. He sat on the edge of the bed, still thinking about the best way to pose.

“Wait.” I’d just had an idea. I picked up the shirt and gave it to him.

He looked confused. “Are you backing off, because I can—”

I shook my head. “No, no, pick up the shirt and let it dangle from your hand. Look down to the floor, like you’re thinking, and grab the edge of the shirt in a closed fist. Hunch your back a little, and let your left arm rest on your leg at the elbow, with your hand facing in.” I liked the way he was responding to my commands. I just needed one more thing to accomplish my goal. I sighed and he looked up, without moving his body, questioning me with his eyes. “Now think about the way you apologized to me yesterday.” His frown deepened. Good: he should have been confused. I was a confusing artist.

“You looked…” I blushed, because I didn’t want to voice what I thought about his expression. “You looked pained. That’s it,” I finally said, frustrated. I paced the room and turned the music to one of the latest bands I was listening to. It wasn’t angry music, but it was disturbed enough to set the right mood.

Keith was still looking at me, confused, but then a brief light came to his eyes and he nodded, as if he understood.

I knew now that Keith understood me better than anyone else. He looked at the ground and turned his face to the same expression I’d seen yesterday at the door, when he apologized. I picked up the pencil and started outlining his features. Then I detailed from the torso up, and then to his legs.

Everything came to me easily: every stroke, every time I looked up, some mix of anger and forgiveness came to me, taking up my arm, my hand, and my fingers.

When I finished, I took a last look down and then up to him. He hadn’t moved an inch, but his expression had softened over time. To anyone else, he probably looked the same, but, to me, it was obvious he wasn’t thinking about the same he had been thinking yesterday.

I took my time examining his tattoos. I hadn’t drawn them, which is what my professor had advised in class. It would have been too time-consuming for me and tiring for him. They were a piece of art, themselves. The dragon was amazing, and I bet it had taken him several sittings to get it done. It had probably hurt like hell, too.

He had some other smaller tattoos: some ancient scribbling on his chest, arms, and back. The only one in English was over his heart, and read: “The more you love, the greater the harm.” A shiver went up my spine. Had someone hurt him—a girl, perhaps? I had never seen Keith in love, though. I opened my mouth to ask, but thought otherwise. It was too personal, even if he showed it to anyone who would like to see him naked.

“I’m done,” I said, my voice rougher from being quiet for so long. I looked over to the clock and saw it was six in the evening. He had posed for me for almost two hours. The movements had come to me so easily that I’d never noticed the time passing. His neck popped when he moved, which made him wince.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize I’d been drawing for two hours.” I rotated my wrist, but it didn’t hurt, at all. The movements came so easily that I never stiffened my muscles. I flowed lightly over the paper.

“No problem. Want to show me?” His voice was also rough. He almost looked sleepy and I couldn’t blame him. He must’ve been tired.

Suddenly, I didn’t want to show him the drawing. I looked down, while he got up to stretch. It was good, but it seemed to be too personal, all of a sudden. I couldn’t understand why, so when he leaned over my sketch pad, I let him, and turned the paper to him.

My breathing stopped while he studied my work. I didn’t know until that moment that his opinion mattered—a lot. What if he said I had no talent? This was one of the best drawings I’d ever made, so if he said right then that it wasn’t good, I was going to cry for sure—and give up on my art career.

Keith, being Keith, couldn’t make it easy for me. He stepped back and sat on the bed with the sketch pad on his lap.

He took so long studying my drawing that my heart started beating faster. Was he about to crush my dream and say what my father had been stating all these years: that my career shouldn’t be in art?

His face showed no emotion, good or bad. When he looked up and locked his eyes with mine, never saying a word and sighing deeply, my beating heart dropped to the floor.

Was I strong enough to keep trying, or was I too stupid for thinking about it? This was, after all, my professor’s favorite student. He was all she’d dreamed about in a student. If I couldn’t please him, I would never please her.

“It’s good,” he finally said, and that confirmed my suspicions. He was too kind to kick me when I was down, but Keith wasn’t usually kind. I looked up, searching for something else in his gaze. What I found confused me. It was the same look from yesterday. He hadn’t done it right while I was drawing—it should have been deeper, like it was right now. I hadn’t captured all of it in my drawing, because he hadn’t given me all of it.

Suddenly, I felt angry. It wasn’t that bad. I stood up and crossed my arms. “You don’t need to be sympathetic. I can take the truth. Honestly, I thought it was good.”

He looked around, confused. “I just said—”

“That it was good, I know, but the way you’re looking at me says otherwise. Tell me the truth. That’s what Elizabeth is going to do when I show her this.” I nodded at the pad, mad at myself for not being good enough.

I was never good enough. Not for my parents, not for my friends, not for my boyfriend, and, now, not even for Keith.

“Sky, stop.” I opened my mouth to continue with my rambling, but he jumped up, letting my drawing fall to the bed. He grabbed my shoulder to turn me to him. “It’s amazing.” I rolled my eyes and struggled to get loose. “Look at me. Look at me.”

I turned to him, annoyed, but stopped fidgeting in his hold. He was serious: he liked it. He almost seemed conflicted about it.

“You poured everything into it. What I feel, what you feel…” He let go of my shoulders, leaving me more confused.

“That’s absurd. I don’t know what you feel, because you seem to be carved out of stone. Your expressions are always so guarded. And me? I felt nothing, I was just drawing.” As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I knew they weren’t true. I had felt something: exhilaration, peace, anger, and forgiveness, all in one. He knew it. I knew he’d seen each of my emotions all over my stupid, pale eyes. I was so easy to read, and had been all my life. I wished I could be more guarded, like him.

“We both know that’s not true. This,” he pointed at the bed, “is what you need to do all the time you’re drawing. Don’t detach yourself. Make your heart pour onto the canvas—or paper, as in this case.”

“Oh, right?” I laughed sarcastically. “Is that what you do? I would love to see your paintings, then.” I crossed my arms, probably to protect whatever sanity was left in me.

Keith’s expression changed drastically. He almost looked panicked, which just increased my curiosity. Was he guarding his emotions just to pour them into his art? I had seen some of his work, and he worked with landscapes and abstract, mostly.

That was something I didn’t understand. Professor Collins said he was one of her best students and we drew mostly human form. If he was so good at that, why had he resorted to inanimate objects? That was another of Keith’s mysteries to add to the huge pile.

“If it’s that good, how come you look so disappointed?” I asked, lowering my arms to hug my stomach.

He sighed and shook his head. “I’m not disappointed. I’m surprised.”

I laughed dryly. “Oh, now you tell me you didn’t think I was capable of—”

“No, you’re putting words in my mouth,” he interrupted me. “I knew you were good. I’ve seen your work all these years.” He winced, as if that had been too much information. It kind of had been—I’d always thought he’d ignored me. “I never thought you could read me like this.” He picked up the pad from the bed and studied for another minute. He had to have been kidding. Me? Reading him? He was like a motionless rock when it came to feelings. I never knew what to expect. Maybe, this time, he’d let me in, but it was a one-time event.

We gave up on our argument to cook something for dinner. Now that the artistic time was over, my bodily needs, like going to the bathroom and eating, were coming back. We didn’t talk much, and just said what was necessary to help one another around the kitchen. Keith had made it perfectly clear that he didn’t want anything to do with me. No friendship—just a little mentorship in art.

“You still need to work on your nude portraits.” I had just taken my first bite and his statement made me choke. Of course, he had to laugh. “Exactly. You need to feel comfortable drawing human form, in any form, clothes on or off.”

I placed the fork down on my plate. “I’m not drawing you naked, Keith Hale.” He smirked at me.

“You wish, baby.” He joked with Cody’s term of endearment. “I would start by drawing you.”

“What? No. No way am I going to—”

“No, I don’t mean me drawing you, not that it’s not a pleasant thought, but I was talking about you drawing your own body. Stand in front of the mirror and sketch yourself. You wouldn’t be the first self-portrait in the history of art. You are comfortable with your image, so it’s a start. After that, you should really draw someone else.” He turned his attention to his food and I tried to do the same.

He was right, though: I needed to work on nude portraits, and who better to start with than myself? I just needed to hide it well after it was done.

The next afternoon, I was lying on my bed, staring at the white ceiling and thinking about Keith’s words. I should have started working on my self-portrait. After making sure the door was locked—twice—I took all of my clothes off and turned the lamp on, casting a dim light over the bedroom, like in Keith’s drawing from yesterday.