Page 85 of Ice Me Out
For once, I don’t have anything to say in return. She’s right. I was a dick to her. And it isn’t even because I’m still pissed about the way her brother got her to move in.
It’s because I’m fucking jealous.
I’m over my ex and I don’t want a relationship. This year I should complete the credits I need to finish my degree. I should use the opportunity Coach offered me to play with the Cove Knights, get noticed by an NHL team and hopefully get signed as an unrestricted free agent.
My plan is to get my life back on track, follow my dreams, and avoid any distractions. I don’t have time for women. Especially not for ones who are related to one of my teammates and dating another.
Chapter20
Easy A
Keene
Iknew the second I signed up for this class that it was a huge mistake. I needed one last art or literature class to graduate. I’ve been delaying this until the last possible second, because I hate these types of classes. Give me numbers and cold, hard data all day long. But don’t torture me with essays or even worse, art.
Unfortunately, there was a delay with the transfer of my credits from the online university I’ve been attending while on active duty. That meant that when I was finally ready to register for the classes I’m gonna take this semester, all the best stuff was gone.
When I saw that there was room in this Intro to Visual Arts class, I jumped on it. I was under the assumption that it was going to be an easy class. All I expected to do was spend the weekly class looking at paintings and discussing how they made me feel.
Boy, was I wrong.
This class isn’t about discussing visual art. It’s about making art. Talking to Connor, I found out that I’m not the only student who signed up without reading the class description.
When I turned up for the first class, and I found myself in front of an easel and a blank canvas, I realized my mistake. By then, however, it was too late.
Even if I had wanted to drop out, all the other arts or literature classes available to seniors were full.
So I accepted my fate.
Our teacher, Professor Elena Cantucci, is an expert in modern art with a real hard-on for the Impressionists, Cubism and Van Gogh.
We’ve been studying Picasso and Dali for about a month now and our professor has been going on and on about how these great artists portrayed reality from a unique point of view.
She then assigned us a project. We had to paint something we feel passionate about. No restrictions on style or type of colors used. The only stipulation is that it has to be on a canvas.
I think I did a very decent job with my painting. I made a portrait of Poonani napping on the rail of our deck.
Professor Cantucci is a rail-thin woman with long, wavy blonde hair. I could place her age anywhere from mid-forties to early sixties. She’s still in excellent shape, and she emphasizes that by wearing short skirts and sky-high stiletto heels.
I watch her with trepidation as she walks around the room to evaluate our canvases and stops to discuss each student’s work, assigning a grade at the end of the discussion. We’re all encouraged to participate, and the atmosphere in the classroom is relaxed and easygoing. I have to wonder if her reputation is just one of those academic myths that has no element of truth whatsoever. The professor who’s supposed to terrorize her students is actually joking and laughing. She stops at a certain point to tell us a story of when she was invited to touch the famous Sunflowers painting at the Van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam.
“The museum’s director was very obviously flirting with me, but I said yes. I mean, wouldn’t you? I was allowed to touch greatness. The experience was so intense, so transcendental, that I fainted. Can you believe it? I had never understood how teenagers could faint in front of their favorite rockstar, and there I was. A forty-year-old woman fainting, touching the canvas of one of the biggest geniuses in modern art. Just the power that exuded from each brush stroke was…” she shudders. “Anyway. Please don’t go around touching famous paintings like that. You will be arrested. If you really want to touch your favorite painting, ask for permission first. You might have to do a little flirting, but true art is worth it.”
She continues going from canvas to canvas, praising the work and effort of each student, finding common elements between each work and the art in this year’s syllabus.
“Mr. McKendrick,” she smiles, stopping at my side. “Or should I call you Sergeant McKendrick?”
I clear my throat. “Keene will do, Professor. I left active duty to finish my studies.”
The professor moves a lock of wavy blonde hair off her shoulder with a slim, manicured hand. “Nevertheless, please accept my gratitude for your service.”
I nod, my tongue tied. I never know what to say when someone thanks me for my service. It’s nice, but I didn’t join the army out of some idealistic view of life. I needed a honest way to support my family and hopefully continue my studies, and the army was my best option.
Of course, I know better than to say any of that to Professor Cantucci.
“Well then,” she smiles, turning her attention to my canvas. “Let’s see what you painted for us. Hmm, interesting choice. Surrealism is absolutely one of my favorite trends. I can clearly see how you’ve been influenced byThe Persistence Of Memoryin your work. But rather than a clock, you distorted a car tire. The strokes of your brush are?—”
I should let her speak. Everyone today has gotten an A or a B so far. My First Sergeant always said that I need to think before I speak and that my big mouth one day will cause me more harm than good. Today would have been one of those occasions in which I should have bitten my tongue and let my art professor drone on about the melting tire on my canvas.
