Portrait of Us Page 3

  “I’ll see you Monday, then,” he said, his grin crooked as he backed away from the counter.

  I tipped my head in response and watched him turn to leave. Every movement of his was effortless, from the way his legs ate up the distance between him and the door to how his arm reached out and pushed it open. A sort of ballet, full of confidence and self-assurance.

  Wow, was I getting ridiculous or what? Maybe I’d breathed too much flour in this morning. I shook those thoughts out of my head and turned my attention back to cleaning. Focus, I ordered myself. A guy could be as cute as he wanted, but that didn’t mean he thought I was cute in return. Or that I’d even want him to.

  I had enough on my plate. There was no room in there for a guy.

  Especially one like Matthew.

  After a long weekend, where I spent far too long last night staring at the ceiling, willing myself to fall asleep, it was finally Monday. I dressed quickly and ran downstairs. I could barely keep any breakfast down, my stomach was churning so hard.

  Somehow, this had become more than just a regular art competition for me. Lying in bed, thinking about why it was so important, I realized the answer. I wanted to prove that I could do it—to my parents, to myself. They saw me as only academic, believed that should be my sole focus, but I wanted it all. To be a true Renaissance girl.

  When I arrived in the art studio right before our class started, Teni instructed all of us that for our next project, we needed to work in a medium that was outside of our comfort zone. We were allowed to focus on any subject, any medium, so long as we were pushing our boundaries.

  It took me a good fifteen minutes to decide what I wanted to try. A collage would certainly do the job. Basically it was just ripping a bunch of pieces of colored paper and pasting them in a pattern, right?

  I couldn’t help myself. I peeked over at Matthew to see what he was doing. He had a set of oil paints at his station, mixing colors in a really odd way. Oh, well.

  The good thing about the project was that it would force me to focus on something other than the upcoming art competition. Somehow I’d suspected Teni would wait until the end of class to tell us the winner. She hadn’t said a word about it since we’d arrived.

  I had a potted flower in front of me and a stack of colored paper that coordinated with those colors. I spent the first chunk of time roughing in the outline for my flower, so I’d know where the paper would go. After that, I ripped them in chunks of colors, gluing and ripping and gluing. Layer upon layer, slightly overlapping.

  It was messy. Glue stuck to my fingers, and I wiped them frequently. But the image was starting to flesh out. I used lighter and darker shades to give more dimension. It wasn’t as pristine as I could like. The edges were so rough, spilling into each other without that clean precision that came from my usual painting.

  I reached for a pair of scissors and picked up another piece of paper. Maybe I could cheat a little, at least for the outline of the flower and vase.

  “When you cut, you lose that human element,” Teni said as she popped up right behind me. “Embrace the imperfections, Corrine.”

  I sighed. “It just . . . feels wrong. It doesn’t look the way I want it to.” I stared in frustration at the piece. It was clunky, like a child had done it. I wanted my art to be sophisticated, not amateur.

  Teni rubbed my back. “Corinne, you focus so hard on exactness. Art is messy and fun. It’s challenging. It speaks words to us, makes us think. Yes, there is beauty. But there is also ugliness, and that has its place. Its own voice. Don’t be afraid to let yourself go.” She gave me a patient smile. “You’ll find it. Just keep trying.”

  “Thanks.” I nodded. I knew she was right on some level, but I couldn’t help that I still craved beauty. And this new piece of mine wasn’t doing it. Maybe I should practice ripping at home so I got cleaner lines.

  Then I laughed at myself. That would defeat the purpose of what she was trying to tell me. Still, as I ripped fresh chunks of paper, I took it slower, trying to clean up my edges more.

  Time flew after that. I found myself getting absorbed in the piece. I wasn’t crazy about it, but I had to admit, there was something therapeutic about focusing all of your attention on finding exactly the right shade and shape of paper. I’d decided to overlap my pieces more so the entire page was covered, with no white background to be seen. It also helped me add more precision to my borders.

  “Class,” Teni said from in front of the room. Her loud voice startled me, and I jerked a little. She had a huge smile on her face. “Thank you for your patience. I know many of you are dying to learn the results, to see who is going to be sponsored in the nationwide art competition. So clean up your stations and when you’re done . . .” She paused. “I’ll tell you who I chose.”

  Chapter Four

  Our class had never cleaned up our stations faster than we did at that moment. I stuffed ripped papers into baggies, wiped down the counter to clean off dried spots of glue, then stood at my table. My heart was racing so fast I thought it might gallop right out of my chest. It took everything I had not to rush around and nudge the two stragglers in the back to finish faster.

  “Excellent,” Teni declared. She leaned against the front wall, taking us all in with her shrewd eyes. “So, I have a confession to make first—and an explanation. I misled you all by leaving out one important detail about the competition. And the reason I did so was because I wanted to ensure I wouldn’t skew your art projects. I needed to see you give your all, to focus solely on your project without being worried about the missing detail.”

  What could she mean? My stomach flipped in anticipation.

  “I’m not sure how much you know about the competition, but it varies every year. Last year’s featured mixed-media projects. The year before that was nature themed. This helps to open the contest up to new artists, encouraging them to continue to grow their skills.” She paused. “This year’s competition will feature two artists working together on a joint project.”

  My jaw dropped. Around me there were a few whispers.

  “Hadn’t expected that,” Henry mumbled from beside me, his thick black brows raised high in surprise.

  “One of the students I will be sponsoring is Matthew Bonder.” She clapped and gave him a hearty smile. “Congratulations, Matthew.”

  I saw his back stiffen, and he blinked as he eyed the people around him, who began to heartily clap him on the back and wish him luck.

  My stomach fell. Wonderful. If she was looking for art like his, that bold postmodernism that made its own rules, its own style, I was out of the running. My chest deflated and I blinked back the sting in my eyes. I wasn’t going to show my crushed disappointment here.

  Teni held up Matthew’s project. It was a slash of dark lines across newsprint, pasted haphazardly on the page. I saw words standing out in bold print, highlighted, marked up. There were images of sad women and homeless men on the street. It was stark, dark. It made me uncomfortable.

  “From the beginning, I have loved that Matthew’s art challenges us. It’s not beautiful. Its meaning is not immediately clear, so we have to really study it, analyze it, pull it apart. This particular piece is bold and wild. I think he’ll work hard to bring a fresh spark into this competition, and I’m very excited about it.”

  “Thank you, Teni,” he said, and I could hear the buzz of adrenaline in his voice. Of course he was thrilled. He’d gotten in.

  She propped his art along the counter and then faced us all again. “And the other student is . . . Corrine Walters.”

  My throat closed and I stared in confusion. Had I heard that right?

  Henry’s large hand clapped me on the shoulder. “Congrats!” he said, shoving his glasses up his nose. A few other people around me turned to me with wide smiles, clapping.

  My pulse roared in my ears. I’d made it. I’d made it! But . . . I locked eyes with Matthew, whose bold gaze raked over my face. My cheeks burned impossibly hot. I was going to be work
ing with him.

  The guy whose art was confusing and completely, utterly different from my own. How could this even work?

  I exhaled slowly and gave a weak smile to everyone in return.

  Teni took my piece out, and my heart squeezed as I eyed it. Yeah, there were flaws in my technique—with a couple of days’ space from the project, I could see that the eyes weren’t as perfect as I’d want them. “As you can tell, Corinne and Matthew have very different artistic visions.”

  A light chuckle rippled through the room.

  “But Corinne has a way of capturing the essence of a person in a way I haven’t seen in a long time. Her art has an old soul. This piece mesmerized me.”

  I crossed my arms over my chest, fighting back the burst of pleasure that threatened to erupt on my face. She loved my art.

  The validation eased some of the sting from my shock. But I was still left with loads of confusion and frustration. How did she expect us to make this work?

  Teni gave me a knowing glance. “The challenge for Matthew and Corinne is impressive. Two very different artists must blend their visions together to create a piece that reflects both of them. But I see their potential. And I think they can make something that will win the competition.” She propped my piece beside Matthew’s—color and subject and message so very different.

  There was no way this would work. Seeing our pieces side by side reinforced that for me.

  Crud.

  “See you all Wednesday,” Teni called out, walking over to her bag as students left the studio, each giving me and Matthew words of encouragement and praise.

  But I barely heard any of it.

  “Teni,” I said, worming my way to the front of the room.

  She slung her large patchwork bag over her shoulder. “I’m sure you have a million questions, but unfortunately I have to run to an appointment. We can talk before or after class on Wednesday, okay?”

  My heart trilled in nervous response to what I was going to say. “I . . . don’t think this can work.” I forced myself to speak. “We’re far too different. There’s no way we can make something mesh that we’ll both be happy with.”

  Frankly, I didn’t want him to ruin my work with his strange style. It was fine if he did it on his own—I didn’t get it, but I could accept it. The thought of us trying to blend our styles . . . Baffling. Wearisome. Far too big of a challenge.

  Teni’s face lost some of its smile. “I know this is going to be hard for you. But Matthew has some things he can teach you. And vice versa.”

  “Is there any way we can . . . reconsider this?” I asked. I couldn’t hide the thin, pleading tone in my voice.

  She raised one eyebrow. “It’s either both of you or neither of you. Those are my terms, Corinne. Can you accept that?”

  For a moment I let myself consider the option of walking away. Letting go of this competition. But I couldn’t do that. I needed this, even if it meant I had to work with him.

  I gave a sullen nod.

  She tipped my chin with her cool fingertips. “Smile. I promise you, by the end of the summer your whole life will be different. Your world will be sparked in a way you could never have dreamed.”

  I forced a smile to my face and watched her walk away. A hot flush burst on my cheeks as I realized Matthew was still standing there at his station, his own smile strained. Great, he’d overheard me. Knew I didn’t want to do this with him.

  I swallowed. Teni seemed to believe we could create a great piece together. I saw disaster on the horizon. But I’d chosen my path and I was going to see this through, despite the insurmountable odds. “Um,” I said, then cleared my throat. “I . . .”

  “It’s fine,” he said, and I saw the stiffness around his mouth, the tension in his limbs. He was obviously mad about what I’d said. Then another thought came to me—maybe Matthew was hesitant about being paired up with me, too. Something I hadn’t considered until now. “We can talk on Wednesday with Teni and . . . come up with whatever we want to do for our project,” he continued.

  My nod was weak. I gave a smile I knew looked forced, grabbed my bag, and darted out of the studio. The potential thrill of winning the competition, once so alluring, now felt impossible for me. As I walked home, small beads of sweat dripping down my back from the hot June sunshine, I couldn’t get the image of our two pieces, side by side, out of my mind. Stark differences that would be difficult to overcome.

  And the other image in my mind was Matthew’s crestfallen face, the dull light in his blue eyes as he’d stared at me. Guilt flared anew in my chest. I should have waited to make sure he wasn’t around before voicing my concerns with Teni. As much as I knew we wouldn’t work out, I didn’t want to be rude.

  It wasn’t his fault she’d picked the two of us to work together.

  “I don’t understand this at all,” I said to Ava after chewing a bite of juicy hamburger. It was late afternoon and we were in the food court at the mall, noshing on dinner from a burger joint. Voices hummed and buzzed around us, teens and parents and guys and girls laughing, talking, eating.

  When I’d gotten home from art class, in a total funk and mentally distraught, I’d sent Ava a text immediately, asking her to meet with me whenever she was done babysitting her five-year-old cousin. My brain wouldn’t stop churning about this whole mess.

  I needed the easy clarity of her wisdom. Ava was good at helping me get through rough spots, putting myself aside to view the big picture. If I ever needed perspective, it was right now.

  Ava snagged a fallen pickle slice from her plate and popped it into her mouth, closing her eyes as she chewed in slow pleasure. Today her blond hair rocked sassy, wavy curls, and she had on jean shorts and a hot-red T-shirt. “If I could eat nothing but pickles for the rest of my life, I would.”

  I rolled my eyes and chuckled. “I’ll remember that for your next birthday.”

  “Okay, back to your issue,” Ava said. She dabbed a napkin at her mouth with delicate finesse, then put it on the table. “Although I have to admit . . . I don’t quite understand what the problem is.”

  “Um, what?” Had I not explained everything clearly enough? I’d rattled on for fifteen minutes, barely taking a breath the whole time. Surely that had been enough.

  She lifted a finger. “One, you made it into the competition. You’re being sponsored by the artist, which is what you’d hoped for. Right?”

  I reluctantly nodded. “Technically yes, but—”

  “Two, he’s cute. I mean, super adorable. Have you actually ever looked at him?” She sighed and propped her chin on her hands, elbows resting on the table, eyes glazed as she stared into the distance. “Those blue eyes pierce right through you.”

  I fidgeted in my seat. I wasn’t quite ready to admit out loud how very, very attractive Matthew was, though I had to be honest with myself—I already knew it and had for a while. Over the weekend I’d spent more time than I cared to confess considering the nuances of smile, wondering if I could capture those deep dimples in a portrait.

  Embarrassing and awkward.

  I swallowed. “Well, he does have classic features that some people might find handsome,” I tried in an offhand, casual tone.

  Ava snorted and took another big bite of her burger. She saw right through me, of course. “Uh-huh. Some people? Try everyone in our school. Do you know how many girls would kill to be in your spot? Working one on one with him for long hours, close together, getting closer and closer?”

  “If it weren’t for the fact that I have to, I would gladly let all those girls have him.” A miserable sensation swirled in my stomach, combined with an emotion I couldn’t name. Something like nervous anticipation, speckled with dread. “I already said yes, that I’d do it, but I’m freaking out a little. What can we possibly find as a subject for our piece that we’ll both agree on? He likes abstract art. I loathe it. He’s a jock. I’m an egghead. We’re far too different.”

  “You should give him a chance—a real chance,” sh
e added. “You might find you’re not as different as you think you are.”

  I huffed. “Yeah, who knows? Maybe we’ll both end up being cocaptains on the mathlete team next year.” Okay, that wasn’t nice. Just because he wasn’t as intellectually driven as I was didn’t mean I needed to be mean-spirited. I felt bad for making that comment and suddenly wanted to change the subject to something, anything, else. “So, you said earlier you’re going on vacation with your family. Where to?”

  Ava brightened up, taking the bait. “Scotland! My dad’s family is from there, and he’s always wanted to go back to his roots. So we’re gonna go for a couple of weeks and explore our heritage. I have no idea what to expect, but I’ve been spending hours researching it all online.”

  “That sounds amazing. You have to take a bunch of pictures.” I smiled.

  Her face grew serious, and she reached out a hand. “Hey, it’ll all work out. I know you’re stressed, but I’m sure he wants to win too. You guys will figure out the perfect project.”

  I gave a weak grin; I knew she’d see right through it, but maybe if I kept smiling it would become genuine. Fake it till I make it, right? “Maybe you’re right. I wish I had your optimism.”

  “Well, not everyone can be as amazing as me. It took years of refinement for me to even get to this level.” Her teeth sparkled with her wide smirk.

  I rolled my eyes and shook my head, smothering a low chuckle. Leave it to Ava to find a way to pull me out of my funk. “You’re crazy. In a good way. Thanks—for listening to me whine and not choking me in aggravation. I know I’m stubborn, but I just . . . I want the best. I want to be the best and have a fair chance at this competition. I’m nervous.”

  “Like I’d be anywhere else right now than here with you.” Ava reached over and hugged me. “So, I do believe we have more shopping to do,” she declared, cramming the last of her fries into her mouth and chewing fast. “I need some clothes for Scotland, and you need . . . well, a good distraction.”