I scooted over. Our arms had to overlap for us all to fit. Sam's was stiff, as if rigor mortis had set in.
"Hey, I love that flavor!" Ralph said. "Can I have a bite?"
I held the doughnut in front of his mouth and he bit.
"This project is really something, Ellie," he said as he chewed. "I can't wait to see it finished."
"Yeah," Sam said. "It rocks."
"What a bonding moment," Ralph said.
I couldn't tell if he was being sarcastic, but it didn't matter; for the first time, I was really glad to have him around.
Sacrifice
As I walked home the next night I saw the light on in Nate's room.
I debated whether or not I should go see him. I decided I would. There had to be an explanation for that whole Sloane scene. Something logical. Like his plan.
He let me in, then slumped onto the bed.
"I'll be right back," I said, and went to the bathroom.
I sat down on the toilet, and leapt right back up again. There was something hanging from the shower rod.
It was black. It was wet. It was a bra.
A big bra.
I checked the size. D cup.
When I finished up in the bathroom, I walked out with the bra dangling from my fingers by a strap. "What's this?" I demanded.
"Oh, that?" He sat straight up. "I forgot that was in there." He laughed nervously. "That's in there because I was using it as reference and I got some paint on it. I washed it this afternoon."
"You bought this?"
"Yeah," he said. "It's a nice one, don't you think? I like all the lace."
"I thought you only used photographs."
"Sometimes you need to incorporate still life," he said. "Lace is hard to paint from a picture. I don't know if I'm going to end up using it in the painting, anyway."
"And of course, you wouldn't have borrowed it from Sloane for authenticity, right?" Cool it, I told myself. Maybe he's not lying.
"Ellie, I bought it. End of story."
"Sorry if I'm overreacting," I said. "It just caught me off guard."
"It's okay," he said. "I'm glad you came by. There's something I want to talk about with you."
I sat next to him.
"What's wrong?" I asked.
"I've been thinking."
"Wow, that's amazing."
"No," he said, "I'm serious. I mean, I think things are really good between us, but there's something bothering me. Well, I guess the problem is that things are good between us."
"That's a problem?"
"I don't want you to take this the wrong way," he said.
"Take what the wrong way?"
"You're right to feel uncomfortable about me and Sloane."
"I don't feel uncomfortable."
"Yes, you do," he said. "It's okay. It's okay because I do find Sloane very attractive."
"Nate—"
"Don't get upset. Let me finish." He rested his fingers on mine. "Normally, I'd be acting on my instincts. Commitments don't mean much to me, because you never know when you're gonna lose someone. You know what I mean?"
"I think so," I said. But really I didn't.
"And I think I might have a chance with Sloane. I went for a drink with a bunch of people from my class over the weekend. Sloane was flirting like crazy. Rubbing her chest against my back every time she passed me and stuff. As we were leaving, she whispered in my ear that she'd like me to go back to her place."
I held my breath. I was afraid if I let it out I might scream.
"Wait. Don't freak out," he said. "I told her I couldn't go home with her. Do you know why I did that?"
"Tell me."
"You, Ellie. It's because of you. I told her that, too. I told her if she'd asked me a couple of months ago, there would be no question that I'd go."
"What did she say?"
"She said it didn't matter. It made me more desirable, a tougher catch."
"Great."
"Don't be so sarcastic. This isn't a bad thing. I'm just saying I don't want to lose you." He wrapped his arms around my waist.
"What about Clarissa?" I asked, looking at the pictures of her on his wall. "Don't you feel bad about cheating on her with me?"
"Not really," he said. "I think of her as an old friend. She'll be around no matter what happens. We always forgive each other. Besides, she sees other people too. Commitment has never meant much to either one of us in our relationship."
"But doesn't that make your friendship weaker? Doesn't it make you grow apart?"
"I don't think so. Part of the problem with me and Clarissa is that we know each other too well. We know exactly how much we can get away with around each other. There are little things she does that bug the hell out of me, and she knows it. Like she makes a fuss over something small, when really she's mad about something much bigger. She does it just to get attention. I can usually predict exactly how long it'll take her to snap out of it."
"So I don't get it," I said. "Are things good or bad right now?"
"They're good," he said. "They're good. I just wanted to get this off my chest. I wanted you to know about the sacrifice I made."
Tried It
"I tried it," I told him. "I tried it and it didn't work."
"Wait a minute. Back up," he said. "What do you mean, you tried it? You mean you smoked it?"
"Yes, I smoked it."
"Lordy, hallelujah, Marsha!" he shouted. "Our daughter's seen the light!"
"I haven't seen anything."
"Was it my stuff?"
"No, it was someone else's."
"Wait till you try mine," he said. "I bet it's better."
"I wouldn't know."
"Just make sure you don't do it too much," he warned. "And don't get caught."
"Dad, I think you missed the second part of what I said before. It didn't work."
"Oh, everybody says that the first time," he teased.
"Well, I'll be saying that for my last time too. Because that was it."
"You'll come around."
"Sure I will," I said. "Anyway, I really just called to arrange train times."
Wintersession was ending on Friday, and we had a weeklong break before the real semester started. I was going home to New York.
He picked a time on Friday.
"No, Saturday," I said. "There's a big Valentine's party."
"Okay, but bring the stuff home," Dad said. "Maybe you'll get stoned with your old man!"
"Sure," I said. "And maybe I'll invite all my friends with tie-dyed shirts and VW vans and we'll burn incense while we listen to the Dead."
"Sounds like a party to me!" He laughed, letting my sarcasm roll right over him.
I really had to show more restraint.
Softer Than Clay
The final painting. It was complete. He'd finished it Thursday night and wanted me to see. I went over.
His place was cold. The radiator was broken. He had plugged in a space heater, which made a soft whirring sound.
The painting was actually just a continuation of Sloanolympia. But now there was something new. Nate. He was there lying beside her with one hand propping up his head and the other resting on her hip. His fingers drooped over her side, just missing her belly button. She wasn't wearing a lacy black bra.
I stood a few inches in front of the painting. I felt like I was in the same room as them.
"I got the idea from the drawing on your wall," Nate said.
"Right."
"This is probably my best painting yet. And you were my inspiration." He squeezed me tight. "So what do you think?"
"It's really good," I said, trying to sound enthusiastic.
"What's wrong?" he asked, pulling back to look me in the eye.
"Nothing's wrong."
"Why do you keep looking away from me then? You got a problem with eye contact?"
"No," I said. "Eye contact is fine."
"Well, don't tell me nothing's wrong when something's wrong," he said. "I've
known enough girls to know what that tone of voice means."
"No, really, it's nothing." It wasn't worth telling him that the painting made me feel weird. I mean, he'd shown me how he made it. And he'd told me he wasn't going to mess around with her. There was nothing to be jealous about. It was a fantasy.
"Fine," he said. "But if you decide to tell me, I'm all ears."
"It's nothing, Nate."
"I wonder what Sloane will do when she sees this one."
"Probably kick you in the balls."
"Maybe," he said, wincing. "Maybe."
That night he bought us a jug of Carlo Rossi. We sat on his futon and drank. I figured I'd have just enough to get pleasantly drunk. But he kept pouring me more and it felt really good buzzing inside me and I kept thinking, In a little while you'll leave.
The room was still cold, except for right in. front of the space heater, so I curled up in Nate's flannel comforter. He put my head in his lap and stroked my forehead with his palms. The ceiling spun when I looked at it, and I don't think I could've stood up straight if I'd wanted to.
"You are so beautiful," he told me. "I don't know what I'd do without you."
He got out from under my head and rolled me over to give me a backrub. It was like every ache, every doubt was being kneaded from my body.
He leaned over and whispered in my ear, "I'm sculpting you."
His fingers worked their way under my shirt. Up and down my back. Slowly along my sides. Up and down and up again. Sometimes his thumbs pressed so hard into the back of my neck I could barely stand the pain and sometimes his fingers would glide over my back, leaving goosebumps in their path.
I felt like I was sinking through the bed.
"Your skin is much softer than clay," he said. "Tonight I don't want you to do anything. I just want to sculpt you."
Slip Barrel
In the morning I felt so good I could've dived right into the slip barrel in the sculpture building. It was my last day of Wintersession classes and I was on my way to the final crit. I smooshed my boots into muddy spots along the side of the road. If the puddles were deeper, I would've sunk my entire body into them.
But what I really wanted was to be covered in clay. Covered in wet clay with Nate.
Last night, he had touched me until he was too tired. Until he couldn't move anymore. He fell asleep with his arm around me and I fit against him like a missing puzzle piece. There was no sex. Just him groping me until he was too tired to move.
I didn't even feel bad about having slept at his place.
Foundation Finale
Ralph was dressed as a tree. He'd forgotten to leave a hole for his head, so he was constantly calling out to ask if he was about to bump into something.
"No, Ralph, you're fine! Just stay still and you won't run into a thing!" Ed shouted as he snapped away at his tripod. Ed wanted slides of all our semester's work.
Sam's ladybug lay in the center of the room. Even though the sight of it made me squirm in my seat, I have to admit it was well done. A red bulb illuminated the tinfoil-covered interior. And the black dots on the shell gave it a real graphic punch.
"A ladybug!" Ed cried. "Sam, did you know that Ellie's real name is Ladybug? What a coincidence!"
Sam's face turned the color of his project.
Ed liked my rib cage. He asked me to accompany him outside while the other two filled out self-evaluations. We were supposed to tell him how we thought we should be graded and why.
"Ellie," he said, "I don't mean to alarm you, but I want to tell you that you have more talent than most students I see here. And trust me, I've seen hundreds of students. I only say this to one student every three years, it seems. I'm giving you encouragement because I think you should pursue a career in fine art. And if you need help in the years to come, I'd be happy to advise you!"
"Thanks, Ed," I said. "I may take you up on that."
"Ellie, it's not for everyone," he continued. "It's a difficult path to take, but I can tell you have it in you. Don't give up even if it gets tough. It's been wonderful knowing you." Then, as if to compensate for being the slightest bit calm, he started shaking my hand about a mile a minute. "Godspeed!" he shouted.
When we got back in, Ralph, who was still filling out his form, said, "Ed, what do we do if, for example, we think we deserve an A but we think it's too egotistical to say so?"
"You give yourself whatever you think you deserve, Ralph, and I will discuss it with each of you individually when you're finished writing your evaluations. I'm sure everyone will do quite well."
When the evaluations were complete, Ed shouted, "Everybody? Everybody! I have a treat for you all!" He tap danced his way to the center of the room. "For the finale of Gilloggley's Foundation course, I proudly present ... a slide show of my own work!"
He dashed over to the supply closet and took out a screen.
"Ralph? Ralph! Would you be a gentleman and fetch me the projector?"
Ralph fetched.
"Gather round, gather round!" Ed shouted. "The show's about to begin!"
The three of us laughed as we pulled stools in front of the screen.
Ed flipped off the lights.
I had no idea what Ed's work would look like. I figured it would reflect his spastic nature. Something like Jackson Pollock.
He turned on the projector. The fan began its constant exhale.
The first slide was a charcoal drawing of a seated nude woman with long dark hair, holding her face in her hands. You couldn't see any of her features. Her elbows rested on a countertop and her torso was twisted, so that her rib cage faced the counter and her pelvis faced the viewer.
Everything about her gesture said Sorrow. Or Grief. Or something like that.
The only sound in the room was the projector's fan.
"This is called Nude at a Counter," he said. "Original, right?"
Nobody laughed.
The drawing was so elegant. Every muscle was there. The emotion was powerful, but subtle.
"I think everyone's felt like that woman before," Ralph said.
"Yeah," I said. "I have."
"Oh, you don't have to flatter me because I'm your teacher. I'll give you good grades anyway."
"No, it's true," Sam said. "That's rad."
Slide after slide was just as touching as the first one. All of them were sad women. Some were nude, and others were draped in sheets or loose dresses.
"Charcoal is my favorite medium," Ed said. "You can get the best gradations and it gives you more control than paint."
"Do you always use the same model?" Ralph asked.
"Good question, Ralph," Ed said. "Sometimes I hire a model, not always the same one. But for the draped figures I use a mannequin I built. The joints are articulated, so I can move them to the position I want. She's more flexible than a real person, and she sits still longer, that's for sure!"
The last slide was of a woman lying on her stomach in bed, partially draped by a sheet. It was a side view, and one arm hung limply over the edge of the bed. A single finger grazed the floor. That arm said everything about how she felt.
After seeing Ed's slides, I knew why I had come to art school.
A Ladybug for Ladybug
On my way out of the garage, I got stopped by a weight on my shoulder. It was Sam's hand. He asked me if I wanted to get some dinner and hang out. I felt bad about having given him the cold shoulder earlier in the week, so I said I would.
It was Valentine's Day, and I was supposed to meet Nate at a party on Artist's Row later. I had thought I'd take a nap before the party, but the nap seemed less important than not insulting Sam.
"Um, I want to give my final project to you, if you don't mind," he said on our way to the dining hall. "A ladybug for Ladybug."
His eyes bulged, as if he couldn't believe what he'd just said.
"Oh, Sam, thanks," I said. "I don't know if I have anyplace to put it though."
"Well, maybe I could hang on to it for now."
; "You should keep your projects," I said. "Someday down the road you'll want to see how much you've improved."
"I don't think I'll ever build anything like this again." He shrugged.
"Well, my mom gave me enough ladybug stuff as a kid to last me a lifetime. I bet you don't have anything ladybugish in your room. You need it more than I do."
"Right." He pulled his cap over his eyes. "If you don't want it, you should've said that to begin with." His steps quickened.
"Wait," I said, rushing to keep up with him. I put my hand on his arm and tugged.
He stopped walking and turned to face me.
"I'm not trying to be mean to you," I said. "I'm sorry if it's coming out that way."
He looked at the ground. "Yeah, it's okay," he said. "It was a dumb idea, anyway."
Preparty
"So, are you, like, dating that guy Nate?" Sam asked when we sat down to dinner.
"Yeah," I said. "I guess you could call it dating."
"You know he's an asshole, right?"
"What do you mean?"
"I've just seen how he is. He's a player. He treats girls like shit."
"Maybe," I said. "But he's different with me."
"Different with you than with all the other girls he fools around with? I swear, that guy would do it with anything that has a vagina." He covered his mouth and gasped. "Sorry," he said. "I shouldn't have said that."
"It's okay," I said. "I've heard that word before. But anyway, he's not fooling around with anyone except me right now."
"Is that what he tells you?"
"Yes, and it's true. Let's not talk about Nate anymore, okay?" My face was hot. My heart was pounding.
Sam rolled his eyes. "The nice guys always lose. You've got to be a complete jerk to get a girl. Even a nice girl."
The dining hall air was stiflingly stale.
"I've got to go home and change," I said. "There's this Valentine's party tonight."
"Oh, on Artist's Row?" he asked. "Yeah. I'm going there, too. I can come with you. I mean, I can wait for you to change. Man, I keep saying the stupidest things. I'm trying to make us better friends, but I'm just screwing things up."
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