Page 16 of Yield to Me

Chapter 9

Instrumental music played in the overhead speakers, sifting into the graduate studio like the light through the windows. I hummed along, my arms and clothes covered in thin layers of dust as I chipped away at a block of marble, making it come alive. The arched back, each knob of the spine, the tendrils of hair cascading down, the flowing robe gently caressing the breasts and stomach, the woman’s open mouth. I had been working on it for a few weeks now, and it was finally starting to look like my vision.

As the door clicked open, I glanced and saw a painter I often saw on the weekends, a black woman with a short pixie cut. I nodded and she waved. We both resumed working on our projects; I started working on the eyes of my sculpture, choosing to make them closed, as if the woman was so relaxed, she didn’t need to see anything.

The door opened again. I knew it was Owen, even if I hadn’t seen him yet. I could feel a tension in the air, his aura like sweet honey drawing me close. Cedar and campfire filled my nostrils, even over the studio’s fragrant aroma of paints and glues. My hands started to shake with nerves. I paused and sat still, facing the sculpture.

“I recognize her,” Owen said. I smiled and glanced at Owen. Dressed in a full suit, Owen stood with his hands in his pockets, a bright blue tie making his eyes turn aquamarine. I focused on the sculpture in front of me, careful not to stare at Owen for too long. Even with these precautions, my mind still drifted to the night at his house, how he watched me from the shadows, how I imagined his hands skimming my hips. I shook the thoughts from my head. I had invited him here to test him, to hear his thoughts on my art. Even if he had multiple art pieces in his personal spaces, it didn’t mean he could understand what my own artistic intent was. Sometimes I didn’t even understand what I was trying to do; I just knew I had to make it. But I used the interpretations others had on my art to figure out how I felt about them sometimes, if they got me, in a sense, maybe I would get me too.

“Let me show you another,” I said. I wiped my hands on my apron and walked to the back of the studio into a section where students kept their completed projects out of the sun. It was dimly lit; I flipped on an overhead light and walked through the projects, Owen following behind me.

A wax figure of a woman—the curved hips, the slight hill of the breasts, the hair to the side of the face—lying on her back on a wooden surface with her hands reaching up, rested on the ground. The woman’s legs and arms were tucked in, as if in a narrow box, and the woman reached up into arms that were pointed stubs. The forearms and biceps were thick, proof of the sun’s damage on the project. Even the face was warped; the cheeks slid back, almost as if Edvard Munch had created it himself.

“It’s as she’s slowly drowning,” Owen said. He was focused on the piece, intently studying it. His stoic face was taut with concentration. My gaze lingered on his lips, fixated on that freckle. All I could think about was kissing him. “You meant for it to melt, didn’t you?” he asked.

After working on the sculpture for weeks, I had left it by the window in the studio. I had gone to the developing room to work on a photoset, came back, and saw what had happened. It hadn’t been a particularly hot day, but the sun through the glass had been hot enough. I liked the way it looked after that, the subtle melting of the features, as if the subject was slowly drowning in herself. I let it sit there for a while longer, watching it melt.

“I think it adds to the anxiety,” I said.

“To no longer have hands,” Owen said. “She can’t help herself anymore.” Owen’s attention was still dedicated to my art, even when I turned towards him. “Are you going to include this in your portfolio?”

“I don’t know,” I said.

“You should.” He finally faced me, the gentle expression like one I had never seen on him, not even when he looked at the picture of the sculpture on my phone. It surprised and comforted me, like a warm blanket fresh out of the dryer on a chilly day. “Where are your others?” he asked.

I showed him two other sculptures that were still in the studio, and he observed and critiqued each one with the same thoughtfulness and depth as he had with the first. A pleasant warmth held my stomach, tickled my arms and legs as we discussed the pieces It was a relief to know that he truly did appreciate and respect the arts, and still, it seemed foreboding, as if there was nothing that he didn’t understand about me, like I couldn’t hide anything. He could pick me apart like he picked apart a sculpture or a painting.

After Owen left for a meeting, I resumed working on the dancer. There were two other students in the studio, and each of us worked without interruption. I centered my attention on the sculpture, crafting each eyelid carefully, when I heard feet shuffle next to me.

“Hey,” a voice said. I turned to see Michael standing beside me. He had his camera bag slung on his shoulder, and another plastic bag full of film containers. He was heading to the developing room. I turned back to the sculpture.

“Hey yourself,” I said.

I kept working on the eyes, careful on the ladder, but I could feel Michael watching me. He obviously had something to say, but I wasn’t going to stop, not after the way he had acted at the restaurant. If he wanted something, he could ask for it.

“That’s beautiful,” he said. “The wrist,” he stepped closer to the sculpture, “the limpness is exquisite. Says a lot about her ease.” He raised his hand, nearly touching the arm.

“Careful,” I said. I stopped, looking down at him. He stared back, his plump lips puckered, hesitating. The developing room was accessible on the other side of the building; he didn’t need to stop by the studio for any reason, so he must’ve been there to see me. When he didn’t say anything, I said, “Thanks,” sarcastically.

He sighed and I turned back to the sculpture. “I wasn’t in my right mind the other night. I was trying to impress Jacqueline. She’s an agent with Stoneridge,” he said. He crossed his arms; the plastic bag crinkled between them. His right mind? He must’ve been on something, I realized. “I’m really sorry, Riley,” he added. “No one deserves that.”

“Except for ‘the help’. ‘The help’ most definitely deserves to be treated like that,” I said. It was surprising that he was so apologetic… Unless it was to ask me on a date again. Either way, he had been rude, and his company had been even worse. It didn’t matter what his intentions were.

“Let me make it up to you,” he said. I ignored him, and he sighed again, louder this time. “Could you come down from there?”

I laughed. “Get over yourself,” I said. I had spent an hour cleaning the wine spot from the carpet, then had to wash my own uniform at home, hoping the stains would get out, all the while fuming over Michael’s idiotic behavior. I turned towards him. “You think you can come in here and expect me to bend to your every command just because you say you’re sorry? That’s funny. That’s worse than being an asshole to your waitress. The fact that you think you can tell me what to do is insulting.”

“I got you into the studio, didn’t I?”

“I never asked.”

“You needed a graduate sponsor to get in. You needed me.”

“Maybe. But I don’t need you now.” I paused, looking at my sculpture, then back at him. “Do I?”

This time, when he laughed, it was soaked in condescension. “You’d be surprised what I can do,” he said. The words made me cringe. Was he threatening me? He might’ve meant he could help me, but by now, he knew that I hated handouts. It seemed more ominous than that. “But I don’t want to be like that, Riley. I want to be friends.” He shrugged. “Hell, more than friends.”

“So you can sleep with your potential agents while I work my ass off?”

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