Page 43 of Beyond the Lines
Fuck.
She compares them, and I see the exact moment it clicks. Her shoulders stiffen, and she whirls around to face me, green eyes cold and full of contempt. I stand there, frozen in her gaze like she’s some sort of modern-day Medusa, her glare enough to turn me into stone.
“Lea—” I finally manage to blurt out, but she cuts me off with a look that could freeze hell.
“Save it.” Her voice is low as she walks over to me, trembling with anger. “I don’t want to hear whatever excuse you’re about to make up.”
“I didn’t know it was yours,” I say anyway, the words tumbling out. “I was distracted, I barely even looked at the?—”
“Distracted?” She lets out a harsh laugh. “What, too busy staring at me to notice my work?”
Yes, actually. But I can’t say that. “That’s not really—” I offer instead, but she’s not having it.
“One, that wasn’t an apology.” She ticks off points on her fingers, each one like a dagger to my chest. “And two, I don’t need one. Because we’re not friends.”
“Lea, I?—”
“We’re not anything, Declan,” she continues, not evenletting me speak, her voice growing colder with each word, knifing into me. “I thought you were honest, kind, and interesting. But it was all bullshit, and I don’t spend time with liars, assholes, or athletes.”
“Lea, please?—”
But my attempt to stop her tsunami of anger falls on deaf ears. She’s already walking away. I stand there, surrounded by drawings I barely looked at in the middle of the one class I thought would be my escape from hockey, expectations, and everything.
And I’ve managed to fuck it all up spectacularly.
It’s only when she storms out the door that I realize Professor Lucas is still in the room. And she’s staring at me like I just pissed on her collection of antique watercolors or groped the model.
“Mr. Andrews,” she says, in a way that makes my balls retreat into my body. “A word, please.”
Her tone is light, but it’s not a request. She’s looking at me like she’s calculating how much my organs would fetch on the market. It’s not a look I’ve had from her before, and it’s not the look that makes me confident of a place in her select seminar.
“What was that?” she says.
“I—” My voice catches. “A misunderstanding?”
Her eyes narrow. “What I just witnessed was completely unprofessional. Your comment was mean and not constructive, and your confrontation with Ms. Altman made a bad situation worse. And, frankly, the whole episode showed a startling lack of maturity from asenior.”
I swallow hard. “I apologize, Professor. It won’t happen again.”
She taps a manicured nail against her crossed arm. “You know, Declan, when I saw your portfolio, I was impressed.Your command of light, your understanding of form—it was exceptional. And in the classes over the past few years, youhadbuilt on that reputation.”
Was. Had.
Words in the past tense.
My stomach drops.
“I had you at the top of my consideration list for the end-of-semester select seminar.” She holds up a hand when I start to speak. “Now I’ll need to be convinced.”
Fuck. Fuck.Fuck.
The select seminar is limited to only six students. Taught by the legendary Marcus Whittier, it’s the golden ticket for a job interview at any gallery in the country, or the way to make a curator instantly open their eyes and hearts to your art. It’s been a goal of mine for years.
“The seminar requires students who can take feedback gracefully and give it constructively.” She pauses. “It’s not a place for cheap shots or vendettas.”
“That wasn’t a vendetta, Professor,” I protest weakly. “I really didn’t know it was her piece.”
Professor Lucas arches an eyebrow. “So you would have written something different had you known? Or happily written that on another student’s work?”
