Page 33 of The Pawn

"You can't tell anyone," I say, which is absurd, becausehewas the one I wanted to know the least. But the thought of Holly knowing, or even Chrissy, sends my panic intro overdrive. I can't be the accused rapist's sister. "I came here to... to start over. And I had nothing to do with what happened."

"Oh, I'll keep your dirty little secret." The teacher is talking, giving us instructions on which supplies to pull off the bookshelf and take out of the supply closet for today's class, but I can't hear her voice over the rush of blood in my ears. "All you have to do is keep whatever happens between us just that: between us. And no one will know who youreallyare. Except me."

I lick my lips. I have no reason to trust him, but I ask anyway. "Promise?"

"Cross my heart and hope to die. Now, eyes front and focus,Cooke.You wouldn't want to fail your easiest class—you'd give trailer trash everywhere a bad name."

Focus. It's easier said than done. With Cole sitting right next to me, carrying my secret at the tip of his vicious tongue, settling down is hard. So I just go through the motions: paper, charcoal, pencil, brushes, and ink, gathering them all as the teacher explains our first assignment.

We're to pick a still life close to our easels to draw—there are half a dozen setup throughout the tent—and do several loose gesture drawings of them with vine charcoal. Once we have the form nailed, we're to move on to a light pencil drawing, which we can fill with washes of ink or watercolor, depending on preferences.

"This assignment is meant to show me where you are in your skills," she says. I missed her giving her name at the beginning of class; the dry erase board upfront says RAINBOW on it in all caps, but that can't possibly be it. "If you're struggling, simply raise your hand and let me know that you need some guidance. Don't worry about making things perfect—just show me what you can do."

Cole hasn't leaned over and said anything snide to me since revealing that he knows my secret, so I let myself relax. It's like I said: there's not much he can do to me right here, right now, with the teacher milling around through the class, observing all of us closely. He'd have to be an idiot to go after me now.

So I let myself concentrate on the blank page in front of me, filling it with large, loose gestures. The teacher—her nameisRainbow, it turns out—shows me how to fill the volume of the vase with horizontal structural lines that capture its bulbous form. Once I've done this a few times, adjusting my easel and stool to find a good angle, I begin to lose myself in the art in front of me.

As I do, my mind drifts to thoughts of Silas.

Last year, for an assignment at Wayborne High's remedial art class, I drew my brother. We were told to do a family portrait, but the thought of trying to get my father sit still for long enough made my heart leap into my throat and do a little dance, so I stuck to just drawing my brother. The portrait was imperfect—he complained I made his nose too big—but the teacher gave me a perfect score and hung it in the hallways, raving about my skills.

Art is about the only thing I'm really good at. Silas used to joke that one day he'd be a rich programmer or a concert violinist, and he'd pay my rent at some shitty studio in Brooklyn long enough for me to make it in the art world. It was a dream, but that was how all our dreams went: no matter how far we went from each other, or how hard life became, we knew there'd be a tether between us, connecting us from miles away.

I think of him as I settle in to do the pencil drawing, letting my pencil dip to the side to draw thick lines, pressing it hard with the point for the thin, dark contours. One of the sunflowers is limp, its stem half broken in the middle, listed over to one side. I let the varying strokes of my pencil highlight it most of all, setting it apart in my drawing as a focal point.

Time passes. I'm barely aware of some of the students getting up for drinks of water or asking to go to the bathroom. I've gone to a place in my mind where I'm consumed by making art, and all I see is what I'm drawing, all I feel is the movement of my hand and arm to bring it to life. Conscious thought has left me.

I pick the inks to give the drawing color. I like their bold shades, the way they sink into the paper and spread out, making a splash as big as life itself. A dark purple with a little black makes a warm grey wash for the surface of the vase; a vibrant green brings out the thin stems of the flowers; and shades of yellow with a bit of bright orange turn the petals of the sunflowers into something alive.

It's almost done. I can feel that in my bones. All it'll take is a little drying time and one more layer of ink: a thin line of black to outline the broken sunflower. With that, and a few white highlights of gouache on top, the piece will be finished—just in time for me to hand it in at the end of class.

Leaning back, I stare at the piece of art in satisfaction.

And feel only a very brief moment of warning before a foul-smelling liquid falls on my head. It splashes down my face and clothes, forcing me to close my eyes. Sputtering, I jump to my feet, kicking the stool back and trying to wipe my face clean.

"Ah, shit!" Cole's voice sounds sincere, but there's a tinge of amusement laced through his tone. "I tripped on that bag on the ground—Ms. Rainbow, where are the paper towels?"

"It's just Rainbow, dear, and I'll go fetch some for you."

Drip, drip, drip.I push enough of whatever Cole threw on me out of my eyes to open them up and stare around me.

The first thing I see is my ruined still life, covered in muddy watercolor and ink from what I now realize was the brush washing station. The pencil lines have smudged completely from being soaked through, the paper bowed and thin where it was splashed.

I stare up at Cole, reeling. Stumbling back, I knock my heel against the downed stool and lose my footing. As I slip towards the ground, arms windmilling, Cole reaches out.

He grabs my wrists.

Tugs me up before my ass hits the ground.

And holds my arms so tight that I have to swallow a gasp of pain, not wanting to give him the satisfaction.

Looking down at me, his face twists into mock concern. "You okay there,Brenna? You almost ate it."

"I'm fine."

His grip is too tight, the nearness of him unbearable, but the worst part is looking up into his eyes from so close. I know what I look like, can see it reflected in his eyes: wet mousy brown hair, stained shirt, flummoxed expression, with high spots of heat on my cheeks. There are unspilled tears in my eyes. I tell myself they're from getting watercolor and ink to the face, but I know better.

I want to cry because he ruined something beautiful I made.

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