Without You

by Brooklyn Skye

  Hunter leads me around the corner, and I avoid all of the faces because looking at faces will make this real. And I don’t want it to be real. So I glance up at the wall. However, seeing a mass of nineteen-year-old artists may have shocked me less than what I stand staring at now.

  A young woman. My age, maybe a little older. It’s difficult to tell because her head is tipped down, resting in the palm of her hand while she poses one foot in front of the other. Or maybe, just maybe, I can’t tell because her naked body is so distracting. Perfectly poised. And completely exposed.

  It’s only a painting. A large one, hanging on the opposite wall from me. But…everything is showing! Her round breasts. The curve of her ass. I can even see enough of the front to tell she’s shaved off all the hair there.

  Oh my God.

  Is this what people will see? Surely she was a model for one of the classes here.

  I wonder what her story is, if she posed naked out of desperation like I’m about to. Or if she enjoyed baring it all. I can’t see her face, but I wish I could. Like that’d change the way I’m feeling right now: dizzy and disoriented.

  “Coming?” Hunter spouts, looking back to see why I’m no longer directly behind him. I could throw up at any second. I really could.

  Attention on the naked girl, I step into the classroom. She looks like a Sia, exotic and curvy in a fair-skinned way. Next to Sia I’d look like a praying mantis. Stiff. Awkward. Stick-like. The light from above hits the canvas, illuminating Sia’s ass. Something to look forward to.

  Heavy curtains cover the huge bay windows and odd-shaped wooden boxes scatter the floor. Some people are straddling them. Like horses. Huh. A counter spans the back wall, several easels draped with white sheets stand in the corner, and in the middle of the room a low wooden platform is lit by a—

  Floodlight? Seriously?

  “All right, artists,” Hunter barks, stepping toward a makeshift desk of stacked up crates. He turns on a radio; a low piano melody starts up. “This is Yanni. He once said, ‘There are no rules.’ Let his words inspire you.”

  Someone in the corner lets out a groan. I think it’s one of the boys in the back. The shaggy blonde. Hunter then gestures to me.

  “And this is Quinn. Our model for today.”

  A roomful of eyes fall on me. Prying, inquisitive eyes. Some are looking at my face. Others scanning my entire body, up and down, squinting hard like they’re trying to see through my robe. All of a sudden, I feel very naked.

  My legs start to go rubbery. I lift a half-smile and look to Sia for support.

  “Go ahead, Quinn. Once you pose, they’ll find an angle they like. One minute gestures first, class. Be ready.”

  I look over my shoulder. Hunter is eyeing the clock, his face serious, which is a tad disappointing. I’m not sure what I was hoping for. Sympathy, perhaps? Understanding or compassion to help my legs move toward the platform? The nauseating tang of turpentine and charcoal burn in my nose.

  “You can drop your robe over there.” Impatiently, Hunter points to an upright screen in the far corner of the room. My pulse thrums in my ears. The room suddenly whooshes around me.

  Then I turn. And run out the door.

  CHAPTER THREE

  When I was little, eight or nine maybe, the steps in front of Kingsley Library were my favorite place to play. Steep and vast. I’d pretend to assemble the limestone blocks of the pyramids at Giza while Dad worked in his office, pulling his hair out over budgets and enrollments. I’d build my way to the top then magically become Rapunzel and, with my mile-long hair, sit on the top step anticipating the return of my handsome prince.

  I was a stupid little girl. No one told me back then that princes were death traps. I learned that from Evan. Zoe learned that from Evan, too. Only, she never lived to talk about it.

  Here on those steps, a low, cement bench rests to the left of the library entrance. Kingsley Library—named after John Kingsley, my dad’s former frat-buddy. A few years back, the man donated a chunk of money to the school and got his name on a fancy plaque stuck to the side of this building.

  I hate the Kingsleys, but love this bench. It overlooks a huge grassy span. I used to roll in that grass with my sist—

  I look up to the blue sky and stick my tongue out at her. It’s so like her to invade my thoughts at a time like this. When it should be about me. I cradle her necklace in my palm—her favorite one, which she should be wearing right now six feet below in the Shadow Hills Cemetery. Red ruby eyes sparkle back at me from the owl’s round face. These rubies are the only reason Zoe liked the necklace. Look at the way they stare at you. A death glare.

  Running out on that job was a mistake. A big one. I have only a month left to figure out how to make fifteen hundred dollars—the balance of my Loyola tuition. Which my parents can’t afford. Because of the stupid Kingsleys.

  From my bag, I find Derek’s forgotten pack of cigarettes and stick one between my lips. I have a couple of items from Christmas still with tags attached that, hopefully, I can return—a too big shirt from Aunt Sharon, a picture frame I know was bought at a boutique in the mall from my cousin Janie because it’s the only place she ever shops for gifts, and a pair of aviators from my parents I don’t like and have been meaning to exchange anyway. That’ll add at least a hundred to my balance, I hope.

  “You’re in my spot.”

  Startled, I jump as a dark shadow falls over my lap.

  “And you’re blocking my sun.” I take a drag of my cigarette thinking: if only this boy/man/whatever knew this has been my spot since I was eight. Then I pick up my bag and stand.

  Gently he touches my arm, chuckling.

  “You don’t have to leave. I was only kidding.” With the sun shining bright behind him, it’s impossible to see who it is though the voice sounds vaguely familiar. I turn, taking him in: skin kissed by the sun, sharp chin, recognizable hazel eyes that tilt down at the corners.

  “Are you following me?” It’s red T-shirt guy from earlier.

  “No. Are you following me?” I must have a funny look on my face because he holds up his hands and adds, “Kidding again. Sit back down. Please. I was just teasing.” He grins at me and my stomach does this little flip and I curse it. So what if he looks like that. “I’m willing to share,” he says.

  I roll my eyes and drop my bag.

  “How nice of you.”

  Without another word, he joins me on the bench, a noticeable two feet of space between us, crossing his long legs at the ankles. Head back and eyes closed, his arms latch above his head lifting his shirt to show a row of tan, muscular abs. My gaze skirts away.

  I could sell candy in the dorms. Start a fundraiser: Save Quinn’s Education!

  Right. As if Dad patronizing the news wasn’t humiliating enough. Condoms would sell better than candy anyway. I could organize a car wash. Only that’d require me to clean, which Nikki was right—my deficiencies shine in that area. Or apply at the strip club downtown. I might have to.

  In the distance, a couple is fighting. It’s like watching a silent movie. Their faces twist with exaggerated angry expressions. The guy, capped in a black beanie, puts his palm to the girl’s cheek. She says something and pushes his hand away. Crying, she takes a step backward. The guy reaches for her, but misses. Then she turns and stomps away. Maybe he cheated, or told her he was moving away, or said he didn’t love her anymore. It doesn’t really matter.

  Save yourself.

  With the breeze, I can smell the boy to my left. A muted combination of Right Guard and sweat. I hate to admit it, but he actually smells good.

  I take another drag of my cigarette and watch him. Face completely relaxed, it’s obvious he enjoys the warm sun and rhythmic scuffling of shoes. After a minute, his lips twitch up at the corners.

  “Get out your phone.” His voice is low, husky. I pull in a long drag, letting the smoke stream out my nose.

  “Why?”

  He shrugs, eyes still closed.

  �
��So you can take a picture.” He licks his lips, cracks a smile. “Then you can stare at me all night if you want. Fall asleep to the sight of my face.”

  I duck my head, look away. “Wow. Pretentious, are we?”

  “You know you want to.”

  I snort. “Please.”

  He sits up, laughing, and reaches his hand out to me. “I’m Torrin.” I just stare at it because people usually expect me to shake their hand and when I don’t they get this stupid deer-in-the-headlights look and I find that amusing.

  “Quinn.”

  Stupid look. One point for me. He scratches his temple.

  “So, Quinn…is there a fashion trend I don’t know about?”

  “Fashion trend?” There’s no way he’s talking about me. I’m dressed completely normal—dark jeans and a cute striped sweater I stole out of Nikki’s closet. So I glance at his outfit: faded jeans and a T-shirt with some undecipherable sports logo on the front. Typical guy outfit, same as Loyola boys wear when traipsing from class to class. I meet Torrin’s gaze. He grins and points at my chest.

  “Your sweater’s on backwards.”

  I peek down. My hair covers my face. The tag is sticking out under my chin. “Jesus.”

  “Thought maybe you meant to wear it like that.”

  God. “I was, um…” Think, think, think. “…in a hurry.” There. Not a lie at all. I was in a hurry to put my clothes back on. I stick the cigarette in my mouth and struggle with my sleeves, fairly certain I can spin the sweater around without looking like a complete idiot.

  He reaches toward my mouth, pinching the cigarette. “Let me hold that for you.”

  “Thanks.” And then my cigarette is flying through the air. It lands with an amber spark against the cement steps below. “Hey.” I scowl. “What the hell?”

  “A girl like you shouldn’t be smoking. It looks off.”

  I shove my arms into my sleeves, tug the bottom of the sweater down. God, I feel sorry for any girl he dates. He seems like the controlling type. He’d get along great with Derek.

  “And a guy like you should mind his own business. It’s rude not to.” I snatch my bag and lumber down the steps.

  “You’ll thank me one day for saving you,” he says from behind me.

  “I’ve already been saved.” As I walk toward the bus stop, I find another cigarette in my bag and light it. Then I wave it in the air for Mr. Annoying to see.

  To the students bustling around, it might appear I actually enjoy the ashtray taste in my mouth. It would look like that, even though cigarettes disgust me almost as much as Derek’s fingers slipping into my underwear.