One Hot Fall Term (Yardley College Chronicles Book1) by Sharon Page Page A

or where. And I’m scared that when it does happen, I’ll be too weak to stop it.
    A couple of days later I wonder: could Jonathon be sending the pictures? Revenge for Lara rejecting him? Or is it aimed at me because I said some rude things about his BDSM interests?
    In my gut, I don’t believe it of Jonathon.
    Unless I have read him completely wrong and Jonathon has a really dark side.
     
     
    ***
     
     
    It’s the third week so September and I’m making my first presentation in studio.
    I stand up and walk to the front of the room. My hand trembles as I flick on the lights. The project is an exploration of form using positive and negative space. Half the class has already presented, using slideshows projected from their laptops. I made a papier mache model in my dorm bathroom.
    Everyone blinks as the lights come on. I’ve been awake since 6:00 a.m. the day before. I sway unsteadily on my feet as the lights also blind me.
    I’m struggling to remember my presentation speech.
    Oh God. What was I going to say? What was this project even about? I feel so punch drunk and exhausted I can’t remember. There are two professors in attendance: our studio prof, black-haired Anton Brut who sports a pomaded mustache, and another prof who teaches third year studio and is sitting in. Both look at me as I set down my model—
    They look at me like I’m something the cat dragged in. I’ve seen how they responded to some of the other women, the ones in fashionable, expensive clothes. They straightened in their chairs, smiled, and acted chivalrous. When they see me in my jeans and a clean shirt (which I remembered to bring from my dorm, thank God) they look surprised.
    “Are you ready, Miss Reynolds?” Brut asks.
    “Yes.” God, I’m so tired. It’s like someone drilled a hole in the side of my head and my brain leaked out.
    I stumble through my prepared speech. Adrenalin helps me remember most of it, but I stutter too many times. Then the professors get the chance to grill me—I mean, ask me questions. At first I can handle it, then questions come faster.
    “How have you used negative space to determine the form?” Anton Brut asks.
    Uh, because it’s the space that’s not the positive space. What’s not there defines what is there. I think.
    “Why is your form so misshapen and blobby?” The third year prof asks. People titter.
    Late night work with strips of glue-soaked paper that wrinkled, what do you think?
    “What does your form represent?”
    It’s a form. No one said it has to represent anything.
    Finally Brut takes a deep breath and glares at me down his nose—an impressive feat since I’m standing and he’s sitting. “Miss Reynolds, you did not meet the requirements of the project brief. You haven’t used negative space correctly. Technically, this is a fail.”
    That stuns me. My jaws flap. I can’t have failed .
    The two professors are waiting for me to defend myself. I start to explain about my form, trying desperately to remember what I was trying to achieve. Then I make a killer mistake—I admit I had made a mistake. It seems like the best thing to do. Be honest.
    “My process didn’t work like I’d hoped,” I explain. “I got behind in my work and I started the model too late. I didn’t get the result I wanted.”
    The two professors start conferring with each other as if I’m not even in the room.
    “I’d fail her outright,” says the guest prof.
    Anton Brut is considering. “Do you have anything else to say in your defense?”
    What can I say? I misunderstood and screwed up. Do I admit that? No one said I had to use negative space a certain way. This was supposed to be about exploring form. I still don’t understand how there can be a wrong answer.
    I should say something. But anything I can think of sounds like whining. I don’t have any defence.
    Just like my past—my messed up past. Sure, I can make excuses for being young. But I knew those things were wrong and I didn’t say