8
JANE
Eighteen years old
Art was subjective.
Everyone knew that.
However, if you wanted to make a living as an artist, you had to appeal to a great number of people. If you didn’t, it didn’t make you any less of an artist. It just made you a less commercially successful one.
Every art major at Pomona wanted to be successful in their art. I believed that. No matter if it was digital art, photography, fine art, sculpture, graphic design, or performance. We wanted to shine.
Already, only a few months into my first semester as a freshman at Pomona College, I was discovering new skills and ways of expressing myself that I never thought I’d enjoy. As yet, however, nothing quite eclipsed my love of fine art. Though my small class seemed to think life drawing was basic, I loved it.
As a small group, however, it was too easy to become distracted when you could overhear the professor talking to your neighbor about their work.
Cassie Newman had the easel next to mine.
I glanced from my work to hers.
Our model was a dance student. Lola disrobed with no visible insecurities about her near nakedness and positioned herself like a ballet dancer in repose. Although she wore a nude leotard, she might as well have been naked for all it didn’t disguise.
Her hair was pulled up in a tight bun, her head bent forward as if she was looking at her foot. One leg and foot straight, the other knee bent, her foot en pointe.
Her hands sat on her slender hips, and she wore a thoughtful expression.
Neither Cassie nor I had created a mirror image of the dancer on the paper.
We’d interpreted what we saw in different ways.
My brush strokes were loose, creating movement, as if the young women were about to lift off the page into dance—movement that was incongruous to her expression. As though she felt trapped by the rigidity of tradition and wanted to let loose. I chose soft grays, peaches, and pale pinks with some harder grays. I’d imagined a mirror and barre behind her, and her reflection portrayed her back arched dramatically, arms flourishing, the leg that was bent pushing out, foot straight in the style of a contemporary dancer, not a ballerina.
Cassie’s brushstrokes were even less defined than mine. Much less. Her painting was abstract—that was her style. I knew this wasn’t what bothered Professor Pullman.
“I just …” He tilted his head to the side and sighed. “I question your color choice. The reason behind it.”
It was dark, gothic even, heavy and foreboding.
I liked it.
It had mood.
It was clear our professor did not agree.
Cassie scowled at her work, refusing to look at Professor Pullman. To be fair, he questioned her choices all the time. While he was encouraging to students who didn’t share his particular style, Cassie was a different story. He didn’t seem to appreciate her “darkness.”
He didn’t have to. He just needed to support her and guide her. Right?
I tried not to sigh heavily as he suggested she start over.
“Why?”
“Because I don’t believe this.” He tapped her paper. “I can’t see your point of view on the paper. I can’t understand it. And you can’t explain it to me.”
I stopped what I was doing, not wanting to look but finding it hard not to. Everyone else listened in too.
Cassie glowered. “Fine. You know what I see? I see years of goddamn ballet lessons I hated, years of instruction, and years of being told I couldn’t goddamn eat what I wanted to eat. That’s what I goddamn see.”
I grimaced.
Wow. We had different memories of ballet, huh? I wondered if that’s how I’d felt about ballet. I had tits and an ass, which seemed like it might have become a problem for me at some point.
“There’s no need to curse.” Professor Pullman sniffed in pompous outrage. “Continue, then.”
I tried to hide my scowl and probably failed.
What was his problem with Cassie?
“Time’s up!” He raised his voice and stepped toward the model. “Thank you, Lola.”
She grabbed her robe, pulled it on, flashed him a quick smile, and disappeared into the supply closet to get changed.
Our classmates moved their easels to the back of the room. I followed Cassie, who had a slouch to her shoulders I didn’t like. I hovered as a few people said goodbye to me and walked out. Lola left with the professor and that left only me, Cassie, and a guy called Devin we were both friendly with. Devin was in the far corner taking his sweet time leaving the classroom.
I wanted to get home and couldn’t wait around much longer to say what I wanted to say.
Screw it. I stepped up next to Cassie, who was staring forlornly at her painting.
She jerked her head around, blinking in surprise. “I didn’t know you were still here.”
I placed my hand on her shoulder and her brow puckered. “I love your painting.”
She bit her lip. “You’re just saying that.”
“I’m not.” I sighed. “He shouldn’t give you such a hard time. As an artist, he should know that art is subjective. Just because he’s doesn’t get it doesn’t mean there isn’t a place for it.”
Cassie shrugged. “I’m supposed to paint what I feel when I see something. That’s what I’m doing. I see Lola and I hear Madame Renee berating me for putting on a pound. I remember my mother snatching a candy bar out of my hand and stuffing a carrot in its place. I see swollen and wounded feet, my toenails pushing painfully into my skin, forced by the pressure of being en pointe.” She flicked me a sour look. “I danced for ten years, and I was good at it. But I hated every minute. Misery. Never feeling good enough. Always hungry. You have to love ballet to want to go through that. For me it was restraining, and I was dying to break free. Which I did. And it was an angry, resentful, huge, explosive argument between me and my mom. We’ve never been the same since. That’s what I feel when I look at Lola. That’s what’s on the paper.”
“Then you’re doing what Professor Pullman asked. That’s all anyone can do. He needs to back off.”
“You’re right.”
I tensed at the sound of the professor’s voice.
Cassie’s eyes widened.
Wincing, I hesitantly turned to look at him.
Professor Pullman stood behind us and wore an unreadable expression. “As much as I don’t appreciate the discussion behind my back,” he said, raising one eyebrow at me, “your friend is right, Cassandra.” He sighed. “I … I misinterpreted your choices.” He gestured to the painting. “Jane is right. As an artist, I should know better. I’m sorry if I’ve been hard on you. I just … I wanted to make sure you were truly painting from your gut and not some leftover teenage emo … whatever.”
“Uh … thanks. I think.” Cassie grimaced.
“Jane, Devin, do you mind giving us a minute?” he asked.
I’d totally forgotten Devin was in the room. I shot Cassie a look, and she gave me a reassuring smirk. Gathering my stuff, I gave the professor a tight, embarrassed smile and hurried out of the room after Devin.
As soon as we were in the hall, Devin waited for me to catch up.
I’d spoken to Devin Albright our first week in art history. He’d asked to borrow a pen, and we’d shared some get-to-know-you stuff while we waited for class to start. Tall, lanky, and cute in that guy-in-an-indie-rock-band sort of way, Devin’s passion was in digital media.
“You okay?” he asked.
“I’m fine. A little embarrassed for getting caught talking shit about my professor.” I chuckled. “But I’m okay.”
I couldn’t wait to tell Jamie.
He’d laugh his ass off.
Devin smiled down at me from his great height. The guy had to be at least six four. “It was kind what you did. Talking to Cassie. Sticking up for her. No one else seemed to give a shit that he’s been on her for weeks, and she looked seconds from bursting into tears.�
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“Well, at least he apologized.”
“Yeah, because of you and what you said. I still think he’s a dick.”
I shrugged. “I think he’s just a tough critic. A dick wouldn’t admit he was wrong.”
“Do you always see the best in people?”
Had Devin been around me enough to surmise that? I shot him a look.
He laughed. “I notice you, Jane. You’re sweet to everyone. And someone … someone who looks like you doesn’t need to be nice to anyone.”
Irritated, I huffed, “That’s a little cynical and shallow, isn’t it?”
It bothered me that people automatically assumed something about a person based on their looks. Cassie didn’t even want to be friends with me at first because she assumed I was one of those “gorgeous cheerleader types” she had nothing in common with. I gave her another shot, despite her judginess. We lived in a shallow world, and it affected us whether we wanted it to. Even Skye had once asked me to audition for The Sorcerer, and God knows I’d shown no talent for acting, so that offer was based on how good her agent thought I might look on camera, and nothing else.
I should cut Devin a break.
“I didn’t mean it like that.” He ran a hand through his dark hair and drew to a stop.
I hesitated but halted with him as he struggled with his words.
My heart beat a little fast, my suspicion growing.
Devin nervously licked his lips. “So, okay, I’m just going to say it, so I stop messing it up. Jane, will … would you go on a date with me?”
I felt my cheeks grow hot. “I have a boyfriend, Devin,” I reminded him. “You know that.”
He nodded, his neck turning red. “I just … I just thought … I didn’t know if you were serious, and we have a lot in common …”
Did we?
I wracked my brain trying to think over the conversations we’d had. Devin and I spoke to each other in class. We’d eaten together at lunch with a few of our other classmates, including Cassie, but I couldn’t remember us having any deep, meaningful conversations. “Well, I appreciate it, but I love my boyfriend. I’m sorry.”
Devin flushed hard, rubbing his neck. “Right. Sure. Okay. Bye.” He strode off, leaving me in the wake of the awful awkwardness.
Crap.
I hoped things wouldn’t be too weird between us.
I talked about Jamie all the time. He’d even had lunch with me at school on a number of occasions. My friends all knew I had a boyfriend; so did some of my other classmates. I didn’t expect to be asked out by someone who knew about Jamie.
Did that mean girls were still asking Jamie out at USC?
Of course, it did.
Classes were way bigger at USC. They wouldn’t know he had a girlfriend.
Possessiveness bothered me as I walked out of school toward the bus stop.
I trusted Jamie.
It didn’t mean I liked the idea of girls hovering around him. And they must. He was protective, sexy, witty, talented, brooding, and a track star.
But he’s also all mine, I reminded myself with utmost certainty.
I smiled as I put in my earbuds and flicked through Spotify to my latest playlist. Seven Nation Army by the White Stripes thundered in my ears as I strolled to the bus stop. Pomona College was only a forty-minute bus ride from the house I now lived in with the McKennas.
Despite my distant but polite relationship with Willa and Nick, they’d offered to let me stay at their apartment while I was in college. They weren’t legally obligated to as I was an adult, so it was kind of them to offer. However, Jamie had spoken to Skye, and Skye had offered me Lorna’s room now that she was pre-law at Columbia in New York.
I’d jumped at the chance.
If Jamie was cool with me living with them, then I was all for it.
Skye had insisted I have my own room to create “boundaries,” but I spent every night in Jamie’s bed. Lorna’s room became my art studio. There was a moment where I worried I was intruding too much in Jamie’s space and suggested I sleep in my room instead. He got pissed and did what he always did to stop me discussing anything that annoyed him.
He kissed me and then screwed my insecurities right out of me.
I didn’t mind his methods at all. They’d only become a problem if he avoided talking about something I really, really wanted to discuss.
As I found a seat on the bus, I bit my lip, staring out the window, feeling the ghost of Jamie’s hands and mouth on me. The last eight months had been intoxicating. I couldn’t think of a better word.
Our appetite for one another was insatiable.
Sex had only drawn us more tightly into our little bubble of two.
Yeah, we hung out with friends, mostly his track teammates from USC (even Wex, who got over his crush on me pretty fast), but if we were together, we were rarely not touching. I knew his friends gave him shit about it, but Jamie didn’t care.
I was his entire world.
And he was mine.
The bus let me off a block from the house, the October sun beating hard on my back as I sauntered happily home.
It was the first home I’d truly had since I was seven years old.
With Lorna gone, the horrible atmosphere she created whenever she was around went with her. My relief to have her on the other side of the country made me feel like a traitor, but I couldn’t deny Jamie and I were more relaxed without her around.
I knew Skye missed her, and I’d feel bad about it if I thought Jamie and I had chased Lorna away. But Columbia had been Lorna’s dream school since she was fourteen. Her not staying in close contact with her big sister was not anyone’s fault but Lorna’s.
She pushed everyone away.
I missed my best friend.
Not who she was now. But the little kid who enveloped me in her love without hesitation and offered me a home.
I missed that Lorna.
It was the only thing in my life now that was tainted by sadness. Still, it couldn’t touch my overall satisfaction. I’d gotten into my college of choice, I was living with people I loved, and I was the kind of “in love” that other people only read about or saw in movies.
It seemed that Fate was trying to make up for our hard start in life when She gave me and Jamie to one another.
As for Skye, she had won a role on a popular TV hospital drama. Approval ratings for her character were high, and she’d already signed a contract for the next season. This meant she’d insisted that Jamie lease a car. He’d insisted on nothing fancy and was driving a practical hybrid. Skye was driving around in a shiny white Mercedes convertible.
Two weeks ago, a woman turned up at the house asking for Skye’s autograph. How she found Skye’s address, we didn’t know, but it freaked Jamie out. He wanted us to move. Skye was calm about it all. Her social media followers had increased exponentially since joining the show, and she’d appeared in the gossip rags again, snapped out and around Hollywood with her friends. Skye took it in stride. It pissed her off when they’d posted a photo of her and Jamie, insinuating she had a boy toy, but that was the only time I’d seen her harassed by her increasing fame.
At the sight of Jamie’s and Skye’s cars parked outside the house, I smiled. They were my family now, and I appreciated returning to a house where my family was waiting. I really hoped I never lost that appreciation. I had a feeling that kind of gratitude was the key to happiness.
They weren’t inside the air-conditioned house, but I could hear raised voices coming from out back. The weather was especially hot this fall, and we were enjoying a rare break from the Santa Ana winds, so it didn’t surprise me they were probably enjoying the pool. The kitchen window was open as I passed, their conversation halting me on my progress to join them.
“You’re getting defensive,” Skye groaned.
I frowned, pausing.
“You just said you didn’t want Jane living here.”
My heart stopped. What?
“I did not,” s
he hissed. “I said, I wanted the sleeping-in-the-same-room thing to stop.”
“Why? We’re both adults.”
“No, Jamie. You’re twenty and she’s eighteen. I said yes to Jane living here because I love her, and I want her to be somewhere she feels wanted. But Jane is also your girlfriend, and I’m slightly concerned about my little brother living with his girlfriend at such a young age. However, to assuage my fears, you said that Jane would stay in Lorna’s room, and she hasn’t been staying in Lorna’s room. I’m not an idiot. I know she sleeps in your room. Every night.”
Oh, God … were we … loud?
“What is the damn problem?”
I knew that tone—Jamie was about to explode.
I wondered if I should go out there, but I was too hurt to move.
All this time, I’d thought Skye was more than happy with our arrangement, and I’d been blissfully ignorant.
“Jamie, I’m not trying to upset you. I love you both and I just … I’m concerned that you’re too young to be this deep into it with each other. I was happy for you both when you first started dating, but I’ve never seen anything like you two. I mean … you are consumed by one another. As a recovering addict, believe me when I say that you need other interests outside of Jane.”
There was silence.
Was Skye suggesting that our relationship was as unhealthy as an addiction?
“She’s not my fucking drug. I’m not hers. This isn’t some destructive addiction—”
“Jamie, please don’t curse at me.”
“You just insinuated that I’m in a bad relationship. You compared us to your addiction.” His tone reflected my hurt.
“God, that’s not—”
“Just because you’ve never loved someone like I love Jane doesn’t mean it’s unhealthy. You just don’t understand.”
I flinched, feeling terrible for Skye. Sometimes Jamie could cut a person to the quick when he was angry.
“You’re right.” She sounded sad. “A guy has never loved me like that, or vice versa. I’m sorry. I didn’t … I shouldn’t have compared your relationship to my addiction. I just … I wish that you two had other interests.”
Black Tangled Heart Page 11