“What’s up, Barnaby?” Scout asked, dropping onto the couch in the common room. “Sounds like the cello playing is going pretty well.”
Lesley shrugged. “I’m having trouble with some of the passages. Not as vibrant as I want them to be. Practice, practice, practice.”
I took a seat on the other end of the couch. “It sounds good to the plebeians.”
“Ooh, nice use of today’s Euro-history lesson,” Scout complimented.
“I am all up in the vocab.”
Lesley walked around the couch and sat down on the floor, her skirt fluttering as she moved. She wasn’t an Adept, but she was pale and blond and had a very old-
fashioned look about her. It wasn’t hard to imagine that she’d stepped out of some fairy tale and into modern-day Chicago.
“How’s it going with your secret midnight missions?”
Although she wasn’t totally up to speed on the Adept drama, she knew Scout and I were involved in something extracurricular at night.
“The missions are going,” Scout said. “Some nights are better than others.” She bobbed her head toward Amie’s door. “Amie’s little minion saw us coming in on Monday night. Has she said anything about it to you?”
Lesley shook her head. “Not to me. But I heard Veronica tell M.K. and Amie about it. She said Lily was out with a boy.” Lesley looked at me. “Do you have a boyfriend?”
“Kinda,” I said, my cheeks heating up.
“They say anything else?” Scout asked. “Or did they believe us?”
Lesley shrugged. “Mostly they wondered who the boy was. They didn’t think you’d been here long enough to meet a boy.”
“Our Parker moves pretty fast.”
I kicked Scout in the leg. “Stifle it,” I said, then smiled at Lesley. “Thanks for the update.”
“I could do some opp research if you want.”
Scout and I exchanged a puzzled glance. “Opp research?” she asked. “What’s that?”
“Opposition research. I could follow them around, eavesdrop, take notes. Maybe find something you could blackmail them with?”
“For a nice girl, Les, you’ve definitely got a dark side.”
Lesley smiled grandly—and a little wickedly. “I know. People look at me and they don’t really think I’m up to it. But I’m definitely up to it.”
“We will mos’ def’ keep that in mind,” Scout said. “But for now, since we’ve got an hour”—she paused to pick up the remote control for the small wall-mounted television—“how about a little oblivion?”
I gave her forty-five minutes before I headed back to my room to assemble my supplies.
I had no idea what we’d be doing in art studio—drawing, painting, ceramics,
collage—so I put together a little of everything.
First step, of course, was to take stock of the supplies I’d brought with me from home. A couple of sketch pads. Charcoal. Conté crayons. My favorite pencils, a sharpener, and a couple of gummy erasers. A small watercolor box with six tiny trays of color and a little plastic cup for water. Three black microtip pens I’d nabbed at the Hartnett College bookstore, where my parents had been professors.
(College bookstores always had the best supplies.)
I tried not to think about Sebastian or the things he wanted to talk to me about,
and instead focused on the task at hand. I put the supplies into a black mesh bag,
zipped it up, and threw the whole shebang into my messenger bag.
When I was ready to go, I headed out and locked my door behind me. The common room was empty again. Scout’s door was shut, and when I tried the knob,
it was locked.
Weird. Since when did Scout lock her door?
I knocked with a knuckle. “Hey, you okay in there? I’m heading out for studio.”
It took a second before she answered, “I’m good. Just about to head to study hall. Have fun.”
I stood there in front of her door for a few seconds, waiting for something more.
But she didn’t say anything else. What was she up to?
I shook my head and walked toward the hallway. I definitely did not need another mystery.
The surplus building was a steeply roofed box that sat behind the classroom building. The classroom building was pretty new, but the surplus building was definitely old—the same dark stone and black slate roof as the main building.
Maybe it had been a stable or a storage building when the nuns still lived at St.
Sophia’s.
I had to walk around the building to find the door. And when I opened it, I stared.
Small or not, the building definitely had pizzazz. It was one big room with an open ceiling all the way up to the pitched roof. Skylights had been cut into one side of the ceiling, so the room—at least earlier in the day—would have been flooded with light.
One wall was made of windows, the ceiling a high vault with huge crisscrossing wooden beams. A dozen or so standing wooden easels made a grid across the floor.
“You can take an easel, Parker.” I turned and found Lesley behind me, a canvas tote bag brimming full of supplies in her hand. For anyone else, I would have thought it strange that she hadn’t mentioned she was in art studio when we were in the common room. For Lesley—not so much.
She walked to an easel, then began pulling supplies and sketchbooks out of her tote and arranging them on a small shelf beneath her easel. I took the one beside hers.
“You’ll keep your easel for the year,” she said, arranging empty baby food jars and cups of pencils and brushes. “So you can unload your stuff and come back after study hall. The TAs usually keep a still life ready so you can practice drawing forms, or whatever.” She inclined her head toward a table at one end of the room.
“What’s a TA?” I asked, pulling out my own bag of pencils and sketch pads.
“Teaching assistant. They usually get an art major from Northwestern or Illinois Tech or whatever to teach the class.”
With great care, she organized her supplies, creating a little nest of tools around her easel. I didn’t have much to arrange, but I placed everything within arm’s reach,
put my bag on the floor, and took a seat on my stool.
The room filled after a couple of minutes, the rest of the small studio class taking their own easels. Just like in any other high school, the room was a mix of types.
Some looked preppy, some looked average, and some looked like they were trying really hard not to look preppy or average. There were girls I didn’t know, who I assumed were in the classes behind and ahead of me.
And when everyone had taken an easel and arranged their things, he walked in.
I kept blinking, thinking that my eyes were deceiving me, until he walked by—as if in slow motion—and gave me a tiny nod.
Daniel was my studio TA.
I bit back a grin as he walked to the front of the room, and began thinking of ways to break the news to a very jealous suitemate. And she wasn’t the only ones with eyes for His Blondness. The other girls’ gazes followed him as he moved, some with expressions that said they’d be happy to spend an hour drawing his form.
He turned to face us, then stuck his hands in his pockets. “So, welcome to studio art. I’m Daniel Sterling. I’ll be your TA this year.”
“There is a God,” whispered the grateful girl beside me.
“We’re going to spend the first few weeks on some basic representational exercises. Still lifes. Architecture. Even each other.”
Lesley and I exchanged a flat glance. It looked like she was as thrilled at the idea as I was—namely, not at all. I was perfectly happy with my body, but that didn’t mean I needed it to be the source of other people’s art.
“Today we’re going to start with some basic shapes.” He began to pick through a plastic milk crate of random objects, then pulled out a small lamp and its round lamp shade, a couple of wooden blocks, and three red apples. He draped a piece of blue velvet over the table, setting the blocks beneath it to create areas of different heights. Then he put the lamp and apples on the table and organized them into a tidy arrangement.