my tone incredulous.
“No, because you accused her to her face, and in front of the whole school, of, you know, trying to shove her knickers on him.”
“What?” I say. “God, the rumor mill at this school is ridiculous. All I did was tell her that
I’m
not dating the gardener. And then I apologized, because it seemed like she was upset about it. I thought she had a crush on him or something.”
His forehead wrinkles in confusion. “Why would everyone be spreading this other story, then?”
I shrug. “Maybe because they’re not her biggest fans? I don’t know.”
He considers this for a moment. Then his forehead clears, and his easy smile is back. “So you’re not dating the gardener?”
I look down at my desk, then back up at him. “No,” I say. My softness wipes the smile from his face. “Did you find the portrait of the Lady of Shalott that I told you about?” I ask.
He relaxes again. “Yeah.”
“And?”
He half smiles. “I don’t know. I don’t really ‘get’ art, you know? But I can see what you mean about the male gaze.”
I nod with an encouraging smile.
“And I can see why you hate it,” he continues.
“I don’t hate it,” I say quickly. “I mean, I
do
, but I always value paintings that produce such strong reactions. The paintings that I love or hate. Have you ever heard of the play
Art
by Yasmina Reza?”
He shakes his head, that half smile still on his face.
“It’s about this guy who buys an expensive painting. To his friend who doesn’t like modern art, the painting is just white paint on a white canvas. But the guy who bought it sees so much in the painting, and it changes their friendship. So the painting’s powerful, even if it’s just white on white, because the people react to it so strongly. That’s the point, I think, of art. The reaction. So even though I hate it, I don’t really hate Waterhouse’s painting. If that makes sense.”
He shakes his head slowly, his smile in full bloom now. “Not really,” he says, “but you know who you should talk to? Ms. Elling.”
“Who’s she?”
“Art teacher. She gives private lessons to anyone who wants them. She’s kind of mad, but she’s all right. And you seem so, uh, so passionate about art.” He pauses. “I see you all the time with that sketchbook.”
I stand so that I face him, so that we’re on an even playing field. “I’ll think about it. Thanks.”
He glances down at the red writing on my ballet flats. “What does that say?” he asks.
“It’s a poem. By Catullus.” I trap his gaze. “It means ‘I hate and I love. You ask me why, perhaps, I do it. I don’t know, but I feel it done, and it burns me.’”
There is a breathless pause between us. “You know Latin?” he asks.
“No. Someone translated it for me.”
He steps forward, drawn in, and there is so little space between us now. Nothing but a thin sheet of air. I peer up through my eyelashes into his hazel eyes. Then, as if nervous, I step back, nearly tripping over the chair in my haste, and I can breathe again.
“I still like the story of Elaine and Lancelot.” He’s trying to joke, but his uneven voice gives his nervousness away. “Do you want to study together sometime?”
“I study better alone,” I say quickly.
He raises his eyebrows. He’s not used to rejection. “Maybe we can get together for something else, then.”
I bite my lip, as if his words have affected me. “I don’t think so,” I say, letting my voice become breathless, uncertain.
He steps forward again, just as I wanted him to. I look at the floor. Before he can say anything, I sidestep him so that he no longer blocks my exit. “I have to go,” I say over my shoulder as I leave him there.
Why do I always feel so strange leaving him? As if I have lost something, as if he has beaten me somehow? I’m playing a game, I tell myself. It’s all just a game, and I’m in complete control.
CHAPTER 10
The Sunday morning I wake up to the
“No, because you accused her to her face, and in front of the whole school, of, you know, trying to shove her knickers on him.”
“What?” I say. “God, the rumor mill at this school is ridiculous. All I did was tell her that
I’m
not dating the gardener. And then I apologized, because it seemed like she was upset about it. I thought she had a crush on him or something.”
His forehead wrinkles in confusion. “Why would everyone be spreading this other story, then?”
I shrug. “Maybe because they’re not her biggest fans? I don’t know.”
He considers this for a moment. Then his forehead clears, and his easy smile is back. “So you’re not dating the gardener?”
I look down at my desk, then back up at him. “No,” I say. My softness wipes the smile from his face. “Did you find the portrait of the Lady of Shalott that I told you about?” I ask.
He relaxes again. “Yeah.”
“And?”
He half smiles. “I don’t know. I don’t really ‘get’ art, you know? But I can see what you mean about the male gaze.”
I nod with an encouraging smile.
“And I can see why you hate it,” he continues.
“I don’t hate it,” I say quickly. “I mean, I
do
, but I always value paintings that produce such strong reactions. The paintings that I love or hate. Have you ever heard of the play
Art
by Yasmina Reza?”
He shakes his head, that half smile still on his face.
“It’s about this guy who buys an expensive painting. To his friend who doesn’t like modern art, the painting is just white paint on a white canvas. But the guy who bought it sees so much in the painting, and it changes their friendship. So the painting’s powerful, even if it’s just white on white, because the people react to it so strongly. That’s the point, I think, of art. The reaction. So even though I hate it, I don’t really hate Waterhouse’s painting. If that makes sense.”
He shakes his head slowly, his smile in full bloom now. “Not really,” he says, “but you know who you should talk to? Ms. Elling.”
“Who’s she?”
“Art teacher. She gives private lessons to anyone who wants them. She’s kind of mad, but she’s all right. And you seem so, uh, so passionate about art.” He pauses. “I see you all the time with that sketchbook.”
I stand so that I face him, so that we’re on an even playing field. “I’ll think about it. Thanks.”
He glances down at the red writing on my ballet flats. “What does that say?” he asks.
“It’s a poem. By Catullus.” I trap his gaze. “It means ‘I hate and I love. You ask me why, perhaps, I do it. I don’t know, but I feel it done, and it burns me.’”
There is a breathless pause between us. “You know Latin?” he asks.
“No. Someone translated it for me.”
He steps forward, drawn in, and there is so little space between us now. Nothing but a thin sheet of air. I peer up through my eyelashes into his hazel eyes. Then, as if nervous, I step back, nearly tripping over the chair in my haste, and I can breathe again.
“I still like the story of Elaine and Lancelot.” He’s trying to joke, but his uneven voice gives his nervousness away. “Do you want to study together sometime?”
“I study better alone,” I say quickly.
He raises his eyebrows. He’s not used to rejection. “Maybe we can get together for something else, then.”
I bite my lip, as if his words have affected me. “I don’t think so,” I say, letting my voice become breathless, uncertain.
He steps forward again, just as I wanted him to. I look at the floor. Before he can say anything, I sidestep him so that he no longer blocks my exit. “I have to go,” I say over my shoulder as I leave him there.
Why do I always feel so strange leaving him? As if I have lost something, as if he has beaten me somehow? I’m playing a game, I tell myself. It’s all just a game, and I’m in complete control.
CHAPTER 10
The Sunday morning I wake up to the
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