Chapter 35: Plotting her humiliation
The scent of charcoal and linseed oil clung to the air, thick and lingering, weaving with the soft murmurs of the senior year students in the circular classroom. Tall, arched windows bathed the room in streams of golden light. Each student sat before their easels.
"What are we drawing today, Mr. Swan? The air?" A snicker broke through the quiet, the voice dripping with mockery. There was no model, no object at the centre of the room to focus on.
Mr. Swan, the art teacher, wore a wide, excited smile, seemingly unaffected by the comment. His hands flailed dramatically, as if caught in the rhythm of his thoughts.
"Drawing a blizzard does sound tempting with winter on the horizon, but I have something better in mind," he declared, his voice almost manic with enthusiasm. "Today’s class is not about technique—it’s about emotion! Draw what you feel. What’s on your mind. Convey it through your art!"
A low groan escaped Sawyer, who sat slumped over his easel, holding the canvas He muttered, "Can I scribble on the canvas? That’s how I feel in art class..."
Mr. Swan’s gaze sharpened, his cheer dimming for just a moment. "Mr. Ravencroft," he said sternly, "I would be pleased if you made a decent attempt at art today—something your sister excels at. Perhaps you can ask her for help."
Sawyer grinned. He exclaimed, "Ah, you’re right. Why didn’t I think about that? Angie, fill this up!" He called out to his sister, who sat pointedly across the room, trying her best to ignore him.
"That’s not what I meant!" Mr. Swan huffed, exasperation creeping into his tone as he turned away, his arms crossed over his chest.
Lucian, seated next to Sawyer, was already lost in his own world. He had picked up his charcoal with a practiced hand, holding it loosely between his fingers as if the tool were an extension of his thoughts. The blank canvas before him seemed to whisper, drawing him into its empty space. Soon, the soft scrape of charcoal against the surface filled the air, the sound distant and muted to his ears.
As Mr. Swan made his rounds, pausing here and there to critique, his gaze inevitably landed on Lucian. His eyebrows twitched, as he saw the canvas.
It was an apple.