Page 42 of Beyond the Lines
The model takes her position for a longer pose—twenty minutes this time. I take a deep breath, determined to focus. But as I lift my charcoal to make the first mark, Lea shifts beside me. Her arm brushes mine, barely, and electricity shoots through my entire body.
The charcoal snaps again.
Shit.
Ten minutes later, and I’m still staring blankly at my sketchpad, my charcoal hovering uselessly above the pristine paper. I should be drawing, because this is my element—the thing that makes me feel alive, along with hockey—and my ticket to the select seminar…
But all I can think about is Lea sitting next to me.
Her presence is like an electric current, making my skin buzz with awareness. Every small movement draws my attention—the way she bites her lip in concentration, how her curls fall forward when she leans in to add detail, the soft scratching of her charcoal against paper.
I force myself to focus on the model. I’ve wasted half the time, but I can do this. I’ve done hundreds of figure studies before. But my hand feels clumsy, disconnected from mybrain. The lines come out wrong—too harsh, too tentative, never quite capturing what I see.
“Ten minutes left,” Professor Lucas announces. “Make them count.”
Shit.
In desperation, I spend the next ten minutes scrambling to catch up to the rest of the class and producesomething, and when the time is up… well… at least I’ve got a mostly human-looking sketch on the page. But it’s a mess, and I’m ashamed of it.
“Alright,” Professor Lucas’ voice cuts through my self-flagellation. “Let’s see...”
My stomach drops as she begins collecting everyone’s drawings.
This can’t be happening today.
Not withthaton my page.
And with Lea right here.
Professor Lucas shuffles the papers with practiced efficiency, then starts pinning them to the corkboard at the front of the classroom. My chest tightens as I spot my work among them, the unfinished poses glaringly obvious next to the others, easily the worst of all the students here.
“Now,” Professor Lucas says, “I want you to really look at each piece that I’ve pinned to the wall. Write at least five constructive criticisms on the different drawings that speak to you. Be specific. Be honest. But remember that this isn’t about tearing down or puffing up, it’s about helping each other grow.”
I barely register her words. My gaze keeps drifting to Lea, but she’s pointedly avoiding looking in my direction. Her jaw is set, shoulders tense. The memory of our encounter in Mike’s hallway flashes through my mind—the hurt in hereyes when she realized who I was, the way she’d stormed off.
I move mechanically through the critique process, scribbling generic comments on random drawings. My mind is too scattered to offer anything truly insightful. Besides, I can’t stop watching Lea as she studies each piece with careful consideration, taking her time to write thoughtful notes.
When she reaches my drawings, she pauses. Her expression doesn’t change, but I see her grip tighten on her pen before she starts writing. I want to know what she’s jotting down. Ineedto know, right the hell now. But I can’t bring myself to walk over there. So instead, I walk over to Lea’s drawing and write a comment.
“That’s time, check out your feedback, and then you can go,” Professor Lucas calls out. “Have a great day, and see you all next time…”
I watch as Lea approaches her own drawing, probably to see what feedback she received. Her mouth falls open as she reads, and something twists in my gut. Because I know exactly what she’s seeing—the harsh criticism I left in a moment of frustrated jealousy.
Technically proficient but lacks soul. Safe choices. No risks taken.
The words mock me now. Because they’re not really about her art at all. They’re about me—about how I played it safe by hiding who I was, about how I took the coward’s way out instead of being honest with her. And now I’ve hurt her again.
Although, this time, she doesn’t know it was me, I suppose.
But she’s devastated.
She’s trying to be cool and calm, but I saw her shoulders sag and the momentary flash of sadness on her faceas she read it, right before her mask of neutrality was put firmly back in place. I feel terrible about upsetting her, but at least she doesn’t know who wrote it.
Or does she?
My heart starts beating faster as I watch Lea reach into her satchel bag, then stops entirely when she pulls out a familiar piece of paper—the check from Marie’s from the other night, the check where I’d left not just a generous tip, but a quick sketch in the corner.
A tip and a sketch in the same handwriting as my critique.
