Midnight Muse

CHAPTER 16

QUINN

By the time my first class on Monday rolls around, I feel like I’m spiraling.

My parents’ words kept swirling in my head throughout the rest of the weekend and well into the evening. I hadn’t been able to focus on my assignment for drawing class that’s due this morning. I stayed up all night forcing myself to draw, to put the damn lines down on the damn paper and not think about touching them when they all felt wrong anyway.

I definitely didn’t stare at the project for thirty minutes, picking out everything I loathed about it before I rolled it up and snapped a rubber band around it, tucking it next to my backpack before stumbling into bed.

I didn’t wake up late or have to rush to take a shower because there was graphite smeared all the way up my arm and on my face from where I’d been leaning on my hand while I slept. I didn’t skip breakfast, coffee, and makeup while Rory yelled at me to hurry up so we could make it to class on time.

Just kidding. That all happened.

I sit at the end of the row, having dragged my chair to the furthest possible spot allowed after tacking my work to the wall with the rest of the class. The drawing room today looks like a gallery, the overhead lights spotlighting our creations, cheery chatter happening all around as we spent the first thirty minutes of class roaming throughout the room, examining each other’s projects.

Rory sits to my right, Reid on her other side. I hardly greeted him when we met up for class and I could tell that he wanted to sit next to me, to talk to me, which is why I shoved my chair between Rory’s and the wall and slumped in it like the nervous wreck I am, chewing on my lip until I tasted blood.

It’s not the action of being critiqued that I’m worried about. It’s a drawing class for fuck’s sake, I’ve been getting feedback on artwork for years, it’s engrained in my system by now. I’m fretting over the fact that there’s nothing I like about this piece and I don’t want to show it off at all, even if it’s just for a measly grade.

I don’t want anyone looking at it.

“Who wants to start?” Beatrice asks from her own chair, looking around the room expectantly. I wish presenting last meant that there might be a chance time would run out of class before we could get to mine, but with just less than three hours here, there’s no way anyone is getting left out of critique today.

The bright side is, we might get out of class early and then I can run to the coffee shop and down the four espressos I’m in dire need of before Creative Writing. It’s going to be a late night on campus for me with my Art History study group tonight, and I’m already dreading it.

“I’ll go,” Reid offers, raising his hand. Sweet Reid, always up for anything.

Beatrice gestures to his work and the class quiets down as he explains his piece.

Our task for this project was simple: draw a composition of the human body in any position, along with the skeletal form in a similar pose. This helps us learn about the structure under the form that supports the human body. The skeleton is used as a guide that helps with proportionally placing parts of the human figure.

Reid’s drawn a female form that’s lying on her side. Her long hair is swept over her shoulder and I examine it for a while, wondering if this is a reference photo he’d found on the internet, or something he’s captured in real life.

It’s none of my business, but I’m curious nonetheless.

The skeletal form is drawn a few inches above the figure, and he’s done an extremely good job of sketching it. I can see the straights where he’s gone in with his ruler, Reid’s signature technique, and I admire the flat, sharp lines that he’s brought over from his architectural studies.

“The first thing I see when I look at this is the placement of the figure,” Wynter says when Beatrice asks for commentary. She twists a chunk of her brilliant white hair around her fingers as if she’s nervous, her cheeks a dusty pink. “She’s lying down and looking relaxed, which stands out amongst the group because when the models are posed, they’re usually stiffer, making the form appear less natural.”

Reid’s freckles disappear with the blush that overtakes his face and I know that his project is not based off of an internet picture.

I shift in my seat, nervously. That hadn’t been anywhere close to the first thing I noticed about the drawing, and if this is how every comment is going to be, I’m so screwed.

I sink further into my seat when Beatrice begins calling on other students for their critiques.

By the time we reach my piece, we’re in the middle of the group of works and everyone seems to be getting into the flow, adding comments and rewording critiques that have come before. Size, color, brightness, subject, contrast, and more are all mentioned, and we breeze through my project without any groundbreaking comments. After Rory’s we’re allowed a fifteen-minute break before we continue with the rest of the class.

“That wasn’t so bad,” She says when we stand to stretch. Her back pops as she twists and I wince. That sounded painful.

She and Reid trail me from the room because I’m in dire need of water before I fall asleep in my chair. Most of the class is milling about in the hall, chatting softly to one another or hiding their heads in their phones as if the most important thing has happened while we were in class.

Ironically, my phone buzzes and I slide it from my pocket, opening the group chat Slate has made and named Noisy Neighbors Club.

Slate:

Any1 want 2 grab lunch?

I see Rory checking her messages too and lock my screen, tucking back into my pocket. I’m not in the mood to see anyone right now unless they have a coffee the size of my head in their hand.