Draw Me In Read Online Free Page B

she wove in and out of each row, admiring her class ’ s work with appropriately placed oohs
and ahhs. When you pictured an art teacher, Professor Seyforth was exactly what
came to mind. “ And
how ’ s
our model doing? Ian, you hanging in there? ”
    “ Oh, I ’ m hanging alright. ”
    I
belted out an uncontrolled laugh. Everyone in the studio flipped his or her
gaze my direction. Even Ian, and he had been as still as a marble statue for
nearly the past hour.
    “ Sorry. ” I shoved my eyes back down to my
paper and let my fingers take over my thoughts and actions.
    I ’ d always loved to draw, and I
actually loved the order of lines. While my room would often look as though a
tornado blew through followed by a hurricane and topped off with an earthquake,
my artwork was always clean, proportional. What organization I lacked in the
everyday, I made up for it in my art.
    My
parents thought I ’ d
follow in my father ’ s
footsteps and join his architecture firm because my affinity for detail and
symmetry naturally lent itself to heading that direction. The obvious path to
take. Straight and narrow.
    But
buildings never fascinated me. I tried to make them, and even interned at my
dad ’ s
office back in high school when I was seventeen, but I never could achieve that
same satisfaction I got when I sculpted or drew human likeness. I still loved
the precise lines of architecture — the
realism and the dimension — but
the passion wasn ’ t
there.
    This
was my passion.
    I
scratched at the parchment, digging the tip of my pencil into the shadows that
formed underneath it. I smudged the oil of my thumb into the sheet to blend the
charcoal and lead into one, two mediums consummating under my fingertips. I
slowly pulled my finger over the curved muscle of Ian ’ s back and arms, bringing his
deltoids and biceps into being, almost feeling uncomfortable in doing so. I was
grateful for my seat in the room and the view I had because even though I wasn ’ t physically touching him, I did feel
like I was invading his personal space with each part of his body I penciled.
    How
could it not become very personal as his person transferred onto my sketchpad?
    I
spent the final moments of class placing the final touches on my piece just as
Professor Seyforth asked us to put our belongings away. Several students
lingered a few minutes to talk to Ian, which cracked me up because we ’ d had many male models throughout
this course. None garnered as much attention as Ian. You would ’ ve thought we had an Oscar-winning
movie star as our subject the way the girls gawked over him. I think I even saw
one ask for an autograph on her boob, it was that sort of fawning and fluster.
    Standing
with my bag hiked over my shoulder, I waited until the crowd thinned out to
approach him as he finished getting dressed.
    “ Show me what you ’ ve got! ” Ian demanded, slinging his tee over
his head and sliding his arms in. His abs contracted like an accordion as he
rolled the fabric down.
    “ You wanna see it? ”
    “ Hell yeah, I do. I didn ’ t just freeze my ass off for the past
two hours for nothing. Come on. I just showed you mine, now you show me yours. ” He threw a wink my direction and I
caught it with a reluctant smile.
      I fished my pad out of my pack. It wasn ’ t that I was insecure about my work,
but my subjects rarely had the opportunity to critique their own likeness. I
knew Ian wouldn ’ t
be judgmental, but it felt strange having him analyze a piece of work that was
all about his body. Mona Lisa, what do
you think of your mouth? Are you smiling? Are you smirking?
    Flipping
to the page, I held it out for him to take. The way you do when you ready for
the blow, I twisted away from him in a wince, shoulders curled in a protective
almost-cower.
    “ Shit, Jules! ” That was a good reaction. Dramatic
expletives tended to be good. “ I
look like a Greek god. ”
    “ Well, hardly, ” I shrugged, insecurity easing up in
my