Teach Me Dirty(2)

“Nice.”

Sarah Jennings was born popular. Her type and our type didn’t mix, and I was glad, truthfully. Her type were big hair and pink lipstick and fake personified. I’d rather be an outcast any day of the week than one of those bitchbags. Just as well, really.

Lizzie let out a sigh and scrunched up her curls before giving me a mock pout. She was pale and proud, with hair too dark to be natural, and it suited her. Lizzie was Lizzie. Spunky and weird and my kind of person. My only real friend.

“Hey, can I stay at yours tonight?” she said. “Mum’s off at Nan’s, and Ray’s having the guys round.”

“Sure.” I felt the niggle squirming away like a little worm. “Everything ok?”

She shrugged, smiled too brightly. “Yeah, course. Same old. Just can’t be done with his jerky mates. I’ll pack for the weekend if that’s ok? I don’t know when Mum’s heading back.” She checked her phone. “Shit. Biology time with Sarah bitch. Where are you going to be when I’m done?” My cheeks flushed and she rolled her eyes. “Fine. I’ll catch you after school. I’ll come drag you out of the art block, and I’ll walk as slowly as I can on my way.”

She held back until the popular crowd had dispersed then made a dash for it. I watched her leave, and her jaunty little steps in winter boots warmed my heart. Pale legs without tights, goose-pimpled in the October breeze, and the same skirt she’d been wearing since grade seven. She had pink butterfly clips in tiny pigtails, and she’d painted fresh glitter patterns on her satchel strap. She really was my kind of person.

I buried my sketchbook back in my bag and got to my feet as the first spots of rain landed.

Second year of sixth form in a school this size meant a lot of free periods. There were only five of us studying A-level art, and the other four didn’t really give too much of a shit. I was the only one left in our year who took it seriously, seriously enough that it had blown everyone’s mind when I turned down the option to take my A-levels at sixth form art college just a bus ride away.

I’d turn it down all over again in a heartbeat. Only now I didn’t have an option, Much Arlock High School stopped at sixth form, and I’d be out on my ear at the end of the summer term.

Better make the most of it.

I set off for the art block.

***

A year eight lesson was already in full swing as I let myself into the art room. Mr Roberts had them all gathered around his workstation, staring at the whiteboard as he sketched out some guidelines on perspective in squeaky red pen. His hands were fluid and natural, his grasp of depth and angle faultless, but few of them appreciated its value. Most of them were hyperactive and half-interested at best.

It broke my heart, but he didn’t let it faze him. Nothing ever seemed to faze him.

He was wearing his blazer today, a navy blue tweed that fitted like a dream but had definitely seen better days. A blue tie to match over a white shirt already decorated with a fine mist of green paint. His hair was wild, a tumble of crazy jet black curls to his collar, with the lightest dusting of grey at his temples. Dark stubble ghosted the hard line of his jaw. His eyes were a bright ocean blue under heavy brows, his nose was strong, slightly Roman, and his cheekbones were strong and defined. The autumn light coming through the windows played beautifully across his features.

Mr Roberts looked like an artist.

A real artist.

He looked perfect.

I set myself up in the far corner, on my regular stool, arranging my materials in their usual position, a perfect pyramid of mediums covering my sketchpads. The awareness of having my private musings so close to the muse himself both petrified and excited me, a secret thrill I loved more than anything.

Even Lizzie didn’t know the full dirty depths of my desire. She didn’t know every seedy fantasy that kept me awake at night, and she hadn’t seen every private scribbling in my sketchbooks. Not even close.

The year eights dispersed to their individual stations to work on their assignments, and Mr Roberts worked the room, glancing over shoulders, dipping in to help, praising when it was working and barking for quiet whenever the volume of chatter grew too loud. I loved his voice that way, deep and commanding and without any kind of fluster. He was calm, but he was in control.

It was a great balance.

I set out my palette, a sombre collection of deep, dark sapphires with an occasional splash of red. I was working on a Picasso-inspired acrylic piece, but my spin was more edgy, more sinister, more… me. My brush moved freely, slashing at the canvas in a blur as I added definition to the landscape. The figures were huddled impressions, tormented and scared. A panicked horse eyeballed the sky, mouth wide as it reared against the onlookers. I darkened the shadows at its feet, black-violet pools stretching into jagged lines.

“I’m sure Picasso would have greatly approved of your interpretation.”

His voice prickled the tiny hairs on my arms. My heart leapt. I felt the heat of him at my back, a stray spiral of his hair tickling my cheek as he leaned in to gesture at the canvas.

“I love this,” he said, his fingers ghosting the horse’s flared nostrils. “So expressive.”

My mouth turned dry. “Thank you.”

His face turned to mine, just a fraction. “I see fine white highlights.” He gestured to the huddled crowd, pointed out the spots. “Here… and… here… Maybe some contrast, some russet, here…yes, that would be… beautiful.”