Page 5 of Yield to Me

Chapter 3

I adjusted the sheer sweater, straightening it on my shoulders, then saw the dark smudges of eyeliner beneath my eyes. For some dumb reason, I had decided to wear makeup for once, and of course, it was running before I had even met the people I was trying to impress. I looked at the rolled up flats in my purse before deciding to stick it out with the two-inch heels, but I still cursed myself. What had possessed me to put myself through this? Makeup and heels were like medieval torture to me; I hated them. But Michael said at least half of the admissions committee were supposed to be at the gallery tonight. I wanted to make a good impression.

I walked back carefully to the main area. The gallery was showcasing a minimalist painter in the program, another third year. It seemed to be the golden ticket for scoring a gallery. It was only a mile and a half from campus, which is why the owner usually hosted students. The wine and a cheese station for the starving artists was like a bright light for insects. Everyone was so eager to support their fellow colleagues, as long as there was free food at the event, and I wasn’t any different. The professors and mentors weren’t much better either. They came out of obligation but still used it as a networking opportunity. Sometimes clients, agents, and other gallery owners showed up, looking for new hires.

Michael stood in the middle of a group of women—one older with a short platinum blonde bob, and two younger, I assumed fellow graduate students. All three of them were nodding appropriately at the older woman’s mini-lecture (or unnecessary ramblings) about whether or not performance art was dead. Michael nodded at me, opening a space in the circle, putting his arm around my back to scoot me inside.

“Professor, this is—” Michael started.

“Riley Glass,” I interrupted him. I hated when he tried to make introductions for me. “I’m applying to the graduate program next year.”

The professor wrinkled her nose. “Why would you submit yourself to such deplorable circumstances? There’s no room for another aspiring artist,” she said, then she laughed. “I’m only joking, dear. Tell me, what’s your specialty?”

“Sculpture. Some found object, but mostly stone and metalwork,” I answered. I went into my spiel about Polly Morgan, how I looked up to her for using the loss of life to create beauty, until I saw the professor show her disgust, this time her whole face scrunching up. Michael laughed, saying I didn’t use taxidermied animals as Morgan did.

“Riley believes in animal rights,” he said, looking at me, nodding with eyes that said, Don’t Screw This Up.

“Good,” the professor said. “The world doesn’t need another one of those taxidermy artistes.” She raised the pitch of her voice at the second syllable of the world, exuding mockery.

“What I actually do is more about endurance,” I said. “I want to translate the human experience in what we can take, whether it’s loss, guilt, failure—”

“And the body?” she asked. “What pain does to the flesh?”

I flushed, a little embarrassed that I hadn’t mentioned our actual form yet. Michael’s hand slithered further down my back and I subtly elbowed him in the side. Not now, dipwad.

“Of course, Professor,” I said. “In all the ways the body can endure—”

“Show her your latest work,” Michael said. I rolled my eyes at him. Big Headed Mike had a way of cutting women off.

“Rude?” I said.

He shrugged. “It’s impressive.”

I pulled out my phone and showed the professor a picture of a woman collapsed on the floor, her back curved inwards, her head resting on her elbow, but her head tilted upwards, as if thinking of what to do next. As soon as they leaned in together, I saw someone gesture at me out of the corner of my eye, willing me closer. It was a man wearing a sleek gray three-piece suit with a dark green tie. That tie was carefully selected to bring out his eyes; you could see them across the room, like a tractor beam. It was Owen. I had forgotten he might be there. He was standing with Wile Stevens, the director of the graduate program and the head of the admissions committee. He was someone I knew the face of—I had seen plenty of pictures of him in my research—but I had never actually met him. From what I knew, Michael hadn’t met him either. He was elusive, rarely even seen at the openings. Owen smiled, nodding at me, then at the man. Then Owen was heading towards me.

“How do you know Owen Lowell?” Michael whispered. He was staring at Owen approaching us, heading straight for me.

“I don’t,” I said. “He came into No Doze once.”

Owen’s presence was like a dark cloud rolling in before a storm. Even Michael stepped to the side for him, but he looked pissed about it. I wondered why.

“Miss Glass, we have business to attend to,” Owen said. “Excuse us.” His gaze shifted briefly onto Michael, but ended on the professor as he nodded and smiled. I could feel my whole body heat as his hands grazed my shoulders, pulling me with him. His fingertips felt like magnets.

“I don’t—stop—” I tried saying, but it was already too late.

“Wile, this is Riley Glass. She’s interested in your program,” Owen said. “Wile is the headmaster of this operation.”

I wanted to scream at him that I knew that, that I wasn’t a fucking idiot, but Wile laughed haughtily, then shook his head. “Headmaster is too flattering. I do whatever I can to see that the Foundation gets funding for another year,” Wile said.

“You won’t have to worry about that,” Owen said.

“You’re too kind,” Wile said, with a sad smile. “Now, what is it that you wish to study, Riley?”

My face was hot all over; I could tell I was bright red too. Not only had Owen assumed that I needed his precious help to meet Stevens, but because he caught me off guard, and I didn’t even know Owen to begin with, so I had no idea how to navigate the situation. What would Stevens think of me being introduced by someone who was clearly a benefactor? Would he think I was using that connection to earn my spot? And why the hell had Owen made it his personal responsibility to introduce me to the most important person in regards to my acceptance or rejection? There was a smirk on his face, like he knew I should be grateful for this gesture, this favor. He’s trying to help, I told myself. It’s like what Michael tries to do for you. Handle it the same way.

But it isn’t Michael, another part of me argued. For God’s sake, you have hardly had a conversation with this man! It’s beyond arrogant to force help like this. Help that you never even asked for, and would never have needed.

The anger was only making my palms even sweatier. I hoped I wouldn’t have to shake anyone’s hand.

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