Golden Boys (Golden Boys, #1)(28)

The building itself is pretty unassuming, just three floors of a fairly large building in the city center of Paris. When I first got here, I used my student ID to log into the Wi-Fi, then shot off an email to my instructor with my request. All that has led me to this moment, where I’m here, outside Professor Watts’s door.

“Come in, Reese.” She calls me into her office, and I take a seat on a beautifully designed, yet impractical and slightly painful, chair. “Very nice to meet you in person. We’re really excited to have you as part of this program. Did you make it here okay?”

Her accent is fully American, which is a comfort, but it also makes me realize that going to an American school in France kind of negates the immersive experience I was planning. But regardless, it’s nice to have a conversation that isn’t in my pained French.

“Let’s talk through this potential transfer. It’s a little last-minute, but I appreciate you coming to me before classes start. We have a lot of students who don’t think their classes are a good fit a few weeks in, but by that point the program’s almost half over. You’ll find that no matter what you study here, this is a very accelerated program, so I want to make sure you’re fully ready for what to expect.”

“That makes sense,” I say, though I’m starting to feel immature for this change, and I wonder if she sees me as just another flighty American who can’t make up his mind.

Although, that’s totally who I am.

She turns her computer toward me, and on it is the portfolio that went alongside my application. It wasn’t much, just a couple of illustrations and promotional flyers I made for student council.

“I will say, these flyers are fantastic—way better than I’d expect any high schooler to do, but I do think you could use some work with typography if you think you’ll ever want to work in graphic design. Of course, you’re young, you could study it in college, but I think now is a great time to wrap your head around how words fit into your design.”

I nod my head, and my cheeks feel warm. I’m used to critique, but it’s hard not to take it personally. I mean, I think they look great. But to know that they let me in despite immediately seeing flaws in my work makes me want to run away. But I guess that’s why I’m here.

“Spatially, you’ve got everything down perfectly, which tells me you have a great eye for proportions and an overall aesthetic and point of view, which actually suggests you’d do well in fashion if that’s something you’re really interested in.”

“That makes sense to me,” I say.

“These illustrations are also really strong. You’re particularly good with landscapes—clouds, capturing all the colors of the sunset, things of that nature. The wheat field here has such a feeling of movement, which shows me you don’t just draw what you see, but what you feel as well. There aren’t a lot of figures in your work, though, so I don’t have anything that hints at your interest in fashion. Do you have anything you can show me?”

I slowly take off my copper bracelet, and I realize it’s the first time I’ve taken it off since I handed them all out.

“I made this. Four of them, one for each of my friends, each with a different engraved charm. It’s not much, but I really liked the idea of twisting metal to make an understated bracelet that goes with everything.”

“Why did you choose copper?” she asks.

I wince. “I liked the color? It was easy to form, and not too expensive to buy. Why? Is it bad?”

“The bracelet’s quite nice,” she says with a laugh. “Just always curious why artists choose their mediums. It wasn’t a test.”

“Oh, I also did a sketch this morning of a dress I saw in the window of a boutique. It’s also not much, just a quick ten-minute pencil sketch.” I slide my journal across the table to her. “Ignore all the other stuff.”

She flips back to the other illustrations, to the glimpses of my days, my dreams, that accompany my weeks. “This is what I was looking for,” she finally says. “Oh, this is sweet—you sketch your friends in this?”

“Sometimes.”

“At the risk of sounding condescending, that’s really cute. Oh, I love this one with the fire—I love how you played with light and shadows here. This boy’s face is positively glowing. Again, not much like what we do in fashion, but you’re observant, and you have an eye for colors and shadows, silhouettes, and a lot of the basics.”

She keeps flipping back, and I feel my cheeks flush with heat. I don’t even let my friends see my journal.

“These are great,” she finally says. “Every day you use design to tell a story, and that’s what you need to do in any of these programs. Back to the first drawing you showed me, though. I don’t like that dress—not your fault, I just feel like there’s an impracticality here for something that was in a dress shop. Maybe good for the runway, or for editorial, but no woman is going to go down the street and pick this up for everyday wear—regardless, I love how you drew it.”

I smile and get the urge to tell Heath about it all immediately, especially the bit about her loving my drawing of him. Silently, I curse the miles between us.

“Anyway, I don’t think I can fully transfer you into the fashion program.”

“Oh,” I say as my heart plummets to my stomach. “Well, um, okay, then.”