Beneath The Skin (A College Obsession Romance) (39 page)

I hear laughter at my side, then realize there’s something else on the other side of the tree. It’s a little vignette made out of toys and what appear to be scrap metal and bottle caps depicting a clothed pig in a metal fortress, and he seems to be looking at a miniature iPhone. A sign above it says: “REJECT:
The Fourth Little Pig.
CRITIQUE:
I just didn’t get what you were trying to say. The metaphor is too nail-on-the-head.
”

When I turn, I realize every tree in the courtyard has a project of some kind resting beneath it. People from the art gallery have poured out into the night, curious and excited to visit all these new exhibits they weren’t planning to see.

Is this part of the showcase? Or is this something else entirely?

“Dude, what is happening?”

It’s Dmitri who’s caught up, bewildered by the sights. I shake my head. “I have no idea,” I admit. “But I think I like it.”

“Are these …?”

“The pieces that didn’t get into the showcase,” I say with a nod. “I’m figuring the same thing. Do you think all the students who …?”

“They had to have!” he answers before I’ve finished the question. “It must be some mass collaboration. Fuck, this is brilliant. And they’re showing the world their critiques. It’s like …”

“It’s like holding the judges accountable,” I finish for him.

Laughter rings out to our left. I pursue it, then find myself standing in front of a bed in the middle of the road. There are offputting stains all over the sheets, each with a photograph of a happy kid with a name written over his face and an occupation. A porn magazine and a bottle of lube are left out on the bed. Upon the headboard sits a placard that reads: “REJECT:
My Family.
CRITIQUE:
Highly inappropriate, to glorify masturbation in such a grotesque way that neither sends us on a journey nor satisfies any semblance of artistic intent.
”

“The judge missed the point,” Dmitri mutters.

I nod agreement. “I get it immediately. It’s like, the kids he could have had. All that wasted baby juice.”

“This is so gross.”

“But kinda deep.”

“And gross.”

I smirk at Dmitri, then throw an arm over his back. “Is this piece hittin’ a little too close to home, buddy?”

He swats my arm away, then finds his attention arrested by another piece nearby. I laugh, turning around and feeling overwhelmed with a strange, bubbling joy at what I’m experiencing. This whole thing is simply brilliant. I can’t stop chuckling inside, watching as all of the students get this opportunity to pay witness to the projects that never were and, in fact, get to enjoy them and judge for themselves.

To my surprise, I even see Renée Brigand strolling slowly along the path. At first, she appears very concerned, clutching a hand to her chest reservedly as she walks. Then, much like dipping a toe in the pool to check the water’s temperature, she leans toward a work of art under a tree—it appears to be a painting of a frowning skull—and I watch as a curious smile crosses her face. She looks up and reads the plaque nailed to the bark above it, then shakes her head, seemingly in pity, her fingers drawn to her mouth, covering it.

The unmistakable flashing lights of campus security start to invade this spontaneous showcase outside the building, likely called by the stuffy people who run the “official” showcase
inside
the building.

It’s near the tunnel that my eyes fall on a strikingly different piece of work. The brazier at its side seems to illuminate it a lot less than the other pieces in the courtyard, perhaps because of the brazier’s squatty shape or its distance from the work of art. Regardless, it seems to draw the least amount of attention, and yet I’m pulled to it with more fascination than any of the others.

I plant my feet before it. My skin runs cold, even standing by the fire as I am.

It’s a sculpture of a dog. A very, very big dog. Its head was removed at one point, but now it’s been carefully, meticulously, tediously sewn back on. No effort was made to hide the thread. Its face has suffered considerable, disturbing damage—maybe by a club, or a baseball bat, I can’t tell—but little zebra-print and rainbow-adorned children’s Band-Aids cover all of the head’s gaping holes, slashes, and disfigurements.

Hanging by a nail on the wall of the tunnel, somewhat apart from the sculpture, is a plaque that reads: “REJECT:
Daddy Loves You.
”

I swallow hard. My mouth runs dry.

The rest of it reads: “CRITIQUE:
I will never understand your obsession with removing the heads of your work. Perhaps if your work came from a place that was real—instead of some forced, artificial desire to be strange and dark and upsetting—your art would make us feel something.
”

I stand there, frozen in place by the words. I feel a dreadful coldness wash over my body, running from that aching chasm in my chest to every finger and toe on my body.

She’s here, and I have to find her.

NELL

Well, this isn’t exactly how I planned for it all to go down.

“It wasn’t supposed to catch fire!” hisses Iris, swatting at the paper sculpture with a broom.

“You’re literally fanning the flames,” I tell her tiredly.

“What a disaster!”

“Actually, I think it improves the piece.” I tilt my head, observing it. “I mean, for something you’ve titled
Shipwreck
…”

“Shut up and help me!”

“Alright.”

With the help of three other art students involved in our little act of rebellion here, we dowse the flames—but not before another fire takes root further down the walkway at another “exhibit” we’ve set up. One of the other students curses, rushing off to put it out.

“Maybe the torch idea was a bit …” a guy at our side starts, wincing.

“That’s the whole premise!” shouts Iris, infuriated. “Flames. Fire. Passion. Snuffing it out. Snuffing
us
out. Oh, shit,” she breathes with a look of terror in her eyes, cutting herself off. “They’re already looking at us. Everyone in the gallery.”

I turn my head, noticing all of the people pressed against the glass windows, staring out at the fiery wonder.

“We have to move quickly,” I announce unnecessarily.

“Then move! And quickly!” barks Iris.

Then I spin at the sound of a siren and spot light flashing in the distance. To my utter excitement—yeah, I know, I should be terrified, but really, I’m feeling twenty times more
thrill
than I am
fear
right now—I discover that the flickering lights are those of approaching campus security vehicles.

“Campus security,” Iris mutters. “We’ve done all we can do. It’s time to leave it up to chance. Run.”

“Run?” throws in another girl, her hands and mouth covered in burgundy paint, looking in the dark like some feral creature who’d just clawed a man’s chest open and eaten his heart raw.

“Yes! Fucking run!”

We bolt from our spots, scattering like flies at the drop of a rolled up newspaper, and abandon our attempts to put out any more stray fires. After running toward the tunnel, I realize that Iris and the others have torn off in a different direction, which gives me sudden cause to hesitate. Aren’t we better off running away together?

Before I enter the tunnel, I realize I can already see flashing lights bursting out from within its shadowy depths. Turning on my heel, I rush toward my secret door at the back of the School of Art, relieved to find it unlocked.
Thank you for your negligence, Kelsey!
I shut the door at my back, then charge across the dark space and hurry toward the safe one. Up the stairwell I go until I reach my favorite door on the whole campus. Pushing through it, I tumble onto the roof of the art building and crawl to the edge, tentatively peering over.

The view is astounding. I see the torches burning yellow and gold, little pockets of brilliance that give life to the otherwise featureless dark of the path that leads to the gallery wing of the school. Already, people are pouring out of its glass doors, slowly stalking around the exhibits we’ve set up everywhere, exploring.
This is a dream come true
, I realize, my heart hammering in my chest. I’ve never done anything like this before. I’ve never felt a part of something so … political. Is it right to call it political? All the art school has been since my first day as a freshman is a game of politics, of who-you-know, and of favoritism.
Let’s shake up the game
, our little ploy seems to scream.
Let’s put the judges in their places and rip open the back curtains.

But really, I wasn’t planning to burn down the damn university. The braziers are supposed to scream “atmospheric”, not “pyromaniac”.

I hear the shuffling of feet. I turn my head, annoyed for a second because all my hair blows into my face, blocking my view. When I pull it away like a curtain, my breath catches in my throat.

Brant stands there in a tuxedo. Neck to toe tuxedo. It’s fitted so perfectly to his body that I can literally see his pecs protruding from the shirt and his thighs flex in his tuxedo pants when he slowly crosses the roof, approaching me with that crooked devil’s smirk on his face. And despite the utter classiness of his attire, his hair is a wicked, sexy mess, reminding me of every time I’d pull on it when he buried his face between my legs, and how messy it’d look when he woke up beside me the next morning, sleepy-eyed and smiling drunkenly.

He thrusts his hands into his pockets, glances down at his shoes, then only flicks his eyes up at me, his forehead screwing up cutely.

I knew I missed him, but seeing him here in front of me on this rooftop melts everything bad or pained or awful inside me. It melts it all away and replaces it with something perfect.

“Hey,” he says quietly.

The sound of his voice reminds me instantly of how we left things. I feel a stab of sadness right away.
I’ve fucked everything up, haven’t I?

“Hey,” I return anyway.

He comes a bit closer, three more steps. He takes a deep breath, then says, “Y’know … I’m not exactly afraid of heights, but … uh … It’s a really long fall, and you are super close to that ledge, and I’m not sure if you know this, but there’s a bunch of fire and artwork down there.”

“I know.”

“You … wouldn’t have happened to have anything to do with all that, would you?”

I shrug ambiguously, playing with him. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Oh really?” Brant circles around the roof, drawing closer to me at the ledge. “Well, perhaps I can enlighten you. It seems like some art students … took to setting up their own End Of Year Showcase.”

“That’s what it seems like,” I agree. “I … hope it didn’t ruin the real one going on inside.”

Brant comes to rest near the edge, just beside me. He crouches down, the gravel of the rooftop crunching slightly beneath his shiny dress shoes. “If I’m perfectly honest, I think it’s the coolest damn thing I’ve ever seen. And I’ve seen a lot of cool damn things,” he adds with a cocky smirk. “And … I’m not alone in that opinion. Do you see all the people down there?”

I take a short glance over the edge. “I can’t tell if they like it from up here. What are they saying?”

“They’re moved. They’re excited. They’re drawn in by the pieces, perhaps even more so than the twenty-two selected. Hell, you see that person right there? The one with the big ol’ feather comin’ out of her head? Even
she’s
impressed.”

I squint, trying to find the person he’s talking about. Then my eyes widen. “Is that
Brigand
??”

“I mean, she was a bit miffed at first. I guess you sorta lit all the torches during her big ‘Hey, congrats to the students, but let’s make this whole thing about me and my latest brilliant work’ speech. This whole …. courtyard display … it made her forget about her own damn ego for a second. She was giving an honest look at the pieces. Hell, I think she was even smiling.”