by Kristie Cook
“Evie?” Russell says.
“Yes?” I reply.
“Yer a really bad liar,” he says, his frustration apparent in his tone.
“I know, but I don’t know any other way to protect you,” I reply tiredly, getting off his lap and walking over to the alarm clock. “I’m setting this for five o’clock so we can sneak you out before Megan, the RA, gets up. The only person I’ve ever slept next to is my best friend, Molly, and she never mentioned that I snore, but if I do, you can just keep that info to yourself—and no funny stuff. When I say sleep, I mean sleep,” I inform him, going to the bed and pulling the blanket back. I’m so tired I feel dizzy from it.
“Can I take my shirt off?” Russell asks behind me.
“Uh … sure,” I say, not looking at him. This is probably a really bad idea, but I can’t do anything but climb into my single bed. After switching off the desk lamp, the bed sags when Russell gets in next to me.
My bed is hardly big enough for him; his feet are hanging off the end. He is so large that he can’t help but touch me. There is no other way to manage other than to turn toward him and rest my cheek on his chest so that his shoulders can lay flat on the mattress. “Please tell me they gave you a bigger bed in your room. Your feet are hanging off this one,” I say sleepily.
“Uh huh,” he replies, sounding exhausted, too. “Measured me and made it custom.”
“That’s nice,” I manage to reply.
“Evie, yer gonna tell me what really happened tonight,” Russell states soporifically.
“Mmmm … sleep … my favorite,” I reply drowsily.
I don’t hear anything after that except for the alarm clock going off at five a.m. I’m lying on my side with my back to Russell, and he has his arms wrapped around me snugly. Reaching one arm back, he turns the clock off, and then he returns his arm to rest on my hip. The sun isn’t up yet, but there is enough predawn light to see by.
“Need more sleep,” I whisper. “Ugh, my hair is everywhere, I should just cut it all off one of these days,” I say groggily, trying to sit up only to find my hair is trapped under Russell’s arm.
“Don’t ya dare do that, Red,” Russell whispers back in horror, releasing my hair from under his arm. “I’ll never forgive ya for it if ya do.”
“Deal breaker, huh?” I whisper and sit up, rubbing my eyes to clear them.
“I wouldn’t go that far … just don’t do it,” he says, watching me from his position propped up on an elbow. “Maybe we should just skip today. They never teach ya anythin’ on the first day of school. I know ya want more sleep,” he says invitingly, patting the space where I had just been snuggled up next to him.
“Russell Marx, we’re not skipping! Anyway, we have to get you out of here before Megan hears you or before anyone else gets up. You know the showers are down the hall, and some girls just walk in towels to and from them,” I explain quietly, trying to get him to move from the bed.
“Really … well, I can’t miss that … I’ll just wait here ‘til they all get up and then …” he trails off when I hit him with my pillow.
“Russell!” I whisper sternly, “Get up! We’re getting you out of here.”
“Yer grumpy in the mornin’. Need some coffee or somethin’?” he whispers teasingly.
“Yes, a whole pot at this point,” I say, getting up.
I stumble stiffly toward my closet and find a hooded sweatshirt to put on because it’s colder than normal this morning. Zipping it up, I notice my knee is still wrapped in the bandage Reed had put on me the night before, so I limp a little while walking back toward the bed. I pick Russell’s shirt up off the back of my chair where he’d put it and bring it back to the bed with me.
“How come you’re in such a good mood? You couldn’t have gotten much more sleep than I did last night. Are you a morning person?” I ask in mock horror.
“A mornin’ person, well maybe, but let’s just say I got to experience the nicest parts of hell last night,” he says quietly, taking the shirt I offer him. As he rises out of the bed, I can’t help looking over his perfect abdomen and chest before he shrugs into his shirt.
“I’m sorry, the nicest parts of hell? What does that mean?” I ask.
“Red, yer not a guy, so there’s no point explainin’,” he smiles at me, but does not elaborate further. “Am I really the first guy to sleep next to ya?” he asks.
“Yes,” I admit, blushing and handing Russell his shoes to put on.
“So that means …” Russell starts to say. He complies by taking his shoes from me and putting them on.
“Yes, that’s exactly what that means,” I reply before he could go on. I am not prepared for embarrassing conversations this early in the morning. I walk to my closet, retrieving a pair of sandals to put on.
“How’s that possible?” he asks me with a grin on his face.
“I just haven’t met the right person,” I mutter, feeling my blush deepening. “And stop grinning at me like the Cheshire cat,” I say, slipping the sandals on.
I go to the door and open it just enough to stick my head out. Since no one is in the hall, I motion for Russell to join me. We walk to the back stairs. Opening the back door, I check to make sure no one is in the parking lot; it seems empty, so I walk outside with Russell and let the door close behind us.
“Whew, that was a close one, no one almost saw us,” Russell says, grinning sweetly.
I smile too—I can’t help it. “When’s your first class today?” I ask him, feeling relief at not getting caught.
“It’s not until ten. I’ll get one of the guys to grab me somethin’ from the cafeteria,” he says smugly.
“Oh, you get to go back to bed until ten … I don’t think I like you anymore! I have Art History at eight, but it’s okay because I think it’s going to be my favorite class,” I say with anticipation as I absently try to smooth my hair back from my face, fighting the breeze blowing it.
Russell’s eyebrow quirks, “Why?” he asks, before he reaches over to tuck my hair behind my ear for me.
“Because I’ve never had a class like it. It will be my existential flight from the iron cage of reason,” I reply hopefully, feeling fairly excited about the prospect of something different.
“Damn girl, yer smart. I’m not even sure what ya meant by that, but it sounds phat. Anyway, when can we talk?” he asks significantly. “We need to discuss what happened to ya yesterday.”
“There is nothing to discuss,” I state stubbornly, hoping that he’ll just let it go if he meets with some resistance.
“I say there is, and if yer not sayin’, then I’ll have to go ask the thing who dragged ya off what happened,” Russell states just as stubbornly, definitely not letting anything go. He is dug in.
“Oh, that’s a great idea. Since you two are so tight, I’m sure he’ll tell you everything. While you’re at it, why don’t you invite him to hang out, come to a game!” I say sarcastically. “Are you insane?”
“Insane, no, but I’ve seen some things recently that have made me question reality as I’ve known it. Meetin’ you was like splittin’ an atom. Ya happened by, and then my whole world blew up, and I’m just tryin’ to make sense of it all. So if that means confrontin’ a key player in our drama, then I’ll do it,” he says with determination.
“Why won’t you let me protect you, Russell? Please. This isn’t a drama. This is … this is … and I’m … and you just can’t … you just can’t, Russell.” I put my cheek against his chest and Russell’s arms slide around me, hugging me soothingly. “Just let me handle it … Please?”
“Red, whatever it is, yer not handling it. It’s handling you,” he says quietly.
“Then let it handle me, and not you, okay?” I reply.
“Woman, yer just plain stubborn.” he says with irritation.
“Guilty,” I agree.
“Meet me for lunch at the cafeteria, okay?” Russell asks in resignation.
“I’ll buy,” I agree.
I’m right about my Art History class; it is different from any class I’ve ever taken. The professor, Sam MacKinnon, is a very talented portrait artist in his own right. His descriptions of the masterpieces that we’ll be discussing this semester are nothing short of what a lover might say about his beloved. They are sensual and thought evoking descriptions, full of passion.
He’s kind of an old-school professor, even though he appears quite young. Instead of a power point presentation to illustrate the art works to be discussed, Mr. MacKinnon uses an old projector with slides to magnify the images on a screen in the front of the classroom. With the lights dim and the projector on, the faces of the students in the classroom are eerie alabaster busts; they reflect the ghostly light that bounces off the screen in front of them.
Any thoughts of being tired evaporate as the images on the screen flash before me in a rapid-fire procession. Mr. MacKinnon explains that we’ll be studying each image in depth: discussing the artist, the genre in which it was created, and the medium, as well as intimate details relating to each piece. I can’t wait to start, and I feel disappointment when the lights come up signifying the end of class. Gathering my books, I squint as my eyes adjust to the light. To say that I’m excited to be in this class is an understatement. Holding my books to me, I move along with the other students towards the door.
“Excuse me, young lady … uh, miss?” I hear a voice behind me say.
I turn to see my new professor hailing me back into the classroom. I walk back in slowly, unsure of why Mr. MacKinnon is singling me out. “Yes?” I ask.
“I’m sorry, I don’t know your name yet. I don’t take attendance on the first day,” he says politely, waiting for me to provide him with the information.
“Genevieve Claremont,” I state as if for some record in an interrogation.
He smiles kindly at me and says, “Genevieve, I’m not sure if you’re aware of this, but I’m not only a professor of art history and graphic art, I also do some of my own work that I show at the end of each semester.”
“Yes, I read your bio in the Mothers’ Club directory. You have a show that is presented at the Sage Center, right?” I reply, blushing as I recall the intrusive publication.
“That’s correct. Good, then you may be aware that I often select subjects for my paintings from the student body at Crestwood?” Mr. MacKinnon asks.
“No, I wasn’t aware of that,” I reply slowly, rapidly drawing some conclusions.
“I would like you to sit for me for an oil painting I am planning. What do you say?” he asks, and when he smiles, his blue eyes all but twinkle. “You have an almost ethereal quality to you that, if I could capture it, could lend itself to a very interesting piece.”
“Umm, please don’t take this the wrong way, but if I sit for you … I wouldn’t have to umm … that is to say, I’d get to keep my clothes … err, what would a sitting entail?” I ask, feeling my cheeks flushing with color.
“Oh, right, well … we’d figure out a convenient time, then you would come to my studio on the second floor in this building, the fine arts building, where my assistant, Debra, and I would find a pose for you. We’d take some pictures, and then you would need to come back for a few sittings to make sure it turns out well,” he explains.
“Oh, that doesn’t sound bad. What should I wear?” I ask significantly.
“I don’t do nudes, Genevieve, good God, not at this school anyway,” he chuckles and beams like he has found a shiny new coin for his collection. “My assistant will be with us the entire time.”
“Can I let you know after class on Thursday? I’d like a little time to think about it. I’ve never done anything like that before,” I ask cautiously.
“I’d like to get started soon after that, if you agree that is,” he says confidently, like he knows I will eventually say yes. “I’ll wait to hear from you.”
My next class is not nearly as interesting as Art History had been. It’s the History of Western Civilization. Dr. Stuart, the professor, isn’t as colorful as Mr. MacKinnon had been. His presentation of the origins of our culture is dry and leaves me with the impression that I can learn most of what I need to know from the textbook.
I buy a coffee after class and wait in the student union until lunch. I’m completely exhausted, and all I really want to do is skip lunch altogether and go back to my room to sleep, but I had promised to meet Russell for lunch. I run into Freddie outside Saga waiting in line to get into the cafeteria.
“Evie! How’s the knee?” Freddie asks, coming back to the end of the line to wait with me. “I saw that other girl slash you; it was wicked. I thought it was broken for sure. In fact, I lost twenty bucks on it,” he says morosely.
“Freddie, that’s awful! I can’t believe you lost twenty bucks betting on me!” I say in irritation.
“I know, next time take your phone so I can call you and hedge my bet,” Freddie smirks.
“That’s not what I meant, Alfred.” I say sullenly. “How can you bet on something like that? It’s not nice.”
“I know, but I was just kidding. I bet fifty bucks that it wasn’t broken, and I took the bet against Mason. It was so tight taking his bank. Here, this is your cut,” Freddie says, smiling and handing me a twenty-dollar bill.
“Oh, in that case, thanks!” I reply and take the twenty from Freddie. “Anything to skool Mason,” I go on because I’m still a little irked about the directory rating.
“I thought you’d feel that way,” Freddie says and smiles.
“I’m supposed to meet Russell here for lunch, can you eat with us?” I ask him. I really want to ask Freddie what he thinks about me posing for a portrait with Mr. MacKinnon.
“Sure,” Freddie says as we present our saga cards to the maitre d’ at the podium, just inside the cafeteria.
After getting our food, we sit in what is fast becoming our table in the back by the picture window. I watch for Russell as Freddie tells me about his classes. It doesn’t take long for Russell to find us, although he doesn’t seem very psyched to see Freddie sitting with me. Not because he doesn’t like Freddie—I know he does—but because now he can’t interrogate me about the previous night. I hadn’t planned it, but it couldn’t have worked out better for me if I had. I love Freddie, I think.
“Russell, hey, I’m glad you’re here. I was just about to tell Freddie about my Art History class. Well, not about my class, but about what happened after class,” I say, and then I explain to them both about the portrait that Mr. MacKinnon wants me to pose for. “So, what do you think?” I ask them.
Neither one of them speaks at first; they just sort of look at each other, like male telepathy or something. Then Russell asks, “What’s this professor’s name again?”
“Mr. MacKinnon, he’s an artist. He holds an exhibition at the Sage Center at the end of each semester,” I say.
“What will you be wearing when you pose?” asks Freddie, trying to hide his smirk.
My eyes narrow. Yep, he’s definitely my long lost twin.
“Please, this is Crestwood, Freddie, and anyway, his assistant will be there the entire time,” I assure him.
“I don’t know, Red, it could be legit, but then again, he could just be targetin’ a beautiful freshman,” Russell sighs in exasperation. “Ya know its gettin’ irritatin’ havin’ to worry ‘bout professors on top of everythin’ else.”
“Well, maybe you shouldn’t worry about it then. I’m a big girl. I’ll make my own decisions. I just wanted to know what you thought,” I snap back at him.
His brown eyes narrow at me. “Fine, just make it for when I can go with ya so that Mr. Fine Arts doesn’t misplace his paintbrushes,” Russell says with heat in his tone, reacting no doubt to my tone.
“I don’t need a babysitter, Russell,” I reply, pushing my tray away tiredly.
“Evie, ya haven’t been here a week and already ya have been …” he trails off when he sees me look up at Freddie then back to him
.
Freddie holds up his hand, saying, “Okay, I hate it when Mom and Dad fight, so I’ll go and babysit Evie with Mr. Paint-by-numbers. It’ll give you some time to figure out you’re not really mad at her,” Freddie says to Russell. “Friends don’t let friends get nekkid with professors.”
Both Russell and I turn and glare at Freddie until he says, “Wut?” and holds up both his hands defensively.
“I’ll let you know what I decide, Freddie,” I say, standing with my tray. “I’m really tired. I’m going to go take a nap.”
Russell must agree that a nap is in order because, thankfully, he doesn’t try to stop me. I stumble down the hill to my dorm and lock myself in my room. I dive head first into my bed and don’t resurface for the rest of the day.
CHAPTER 8 - THE SPEED OF LIGHT
After my argument with Russell, I miss dinner because I sleep straight through it. I probably would’ve slept through until morning, but Buns and Brownie knock on my door when they get back from field hockey practice. They both come in and sit on my bed, watching me while I brush my teeth. When I finish, I tell them about Mr. MacKinnon’s request.
“He wants you to be a model for him?” Buns asks in envy. “Sweetie, you’re so lucky, he’s really talented. I went to his exhibit last year, and it was amazing. Plus, Sam is so yummy. I had Art History last year, and I never skipped his class.”
“So, you’re saying I should do it?” I ask her.
“Sweetie, if you don’t, I will,” Buns says, smiling.
“Buns and I are taking the Golden Goose to the Seven-Eleven to get snacks. We wanted to know if you want to come,” Brownie says, getting to the point.
“Snacks sound good. Explain to me the Golden Goose, and we’re in business,” I say, slipping on a pair of sandals.
“Oh, that’s my car, sweetie,” Buns says. “We dubbed it the Golden Goose. I would tell you why, but it really speaks for itself.”
