Wet Paint
by
Lexis McCutcheon
SMASHWORDS EDITION
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PUBLISHED BY:
Lexis McCutcheon on Smashwords
Wet Paint
Copyright © 2011 by Lexis McCutcheon
Cover
Cover designed by Lexis McCutcheon, based on a photograph by Kevin Rosseel, released under the Morguefile license permitting modification and commercial use. If you are a representative of Duron Paints & Wallcoverings and feel that your product has been displayed in an unfavorable way and/or wish me to remove it for whatever reason, please contact me immediately. Any photographs of recognizable people are used for illustrative purposes only. They are not in any way depicted in this work, nor have they endorsed any part of it.
Disclaimer and Content Warning
The following is a work of fiction. Similiarities to any persons living or dead are purely coincidental. All the persons portrayed in this work, though fictional, are over the age of 18 years. This work incorporates explicit sexual content and is unapproriate for readers under the age of 18 years.
Smashwords Edition License Notes
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Wet Paint
The fruits were yellow and green and red. The light accentuated the apple, leaving the banana in the shadow. One side of the bowl had more light than the other. Just paint it, thought Kathleen. Her feet hurt from hours of standing around. Her delicate hands were covered in paint. All the colors of the rainbow. Just paint it, move on from this meaningless exercise, to the next meaningless exercise. In her mind the art-class of twenty-seven wannabes had stopped existing. They were still there, standing in the run-down workshop, with turquoise paint flaking off the walls and water dripping in every time it rained. They were still there, standing till their feet bled, breathing and cursing under their breaths, circled by the vulture of George McClelland, their instructor. They were all still there, but Kathleen did not see them. She barely saw her own hands. It was just her in this room. Her and the canvas and a meaningless bowl of fruit.
"No no no."
She was startled by the voice behind her, but it felt hard focusing on it.
"Miss Harrison, you are doing it wrong. Think about what the object is trying to tell us.", the male voice continued. Kathleen only saw an apple. She had to layer in more detail. Why did the stupid sun have to keep moving?
"You have to capture this message. Your art is the conduit for the composition, it is the way it speaks to us."
Kathleen was positive that McClelland had no idea what he was talking about. The smell of his cheap aftershave irritated her. He was always strolling around in a beret, a scarf and sun glasses, summer or winter, day or night. He was always sporting a three-day beard, but still seemed to bath in aftershave. And he could never stop talking about what art was, ever loving the sound of his nasal voice, but kept whatever he was working on, if he was working on anything at all - Kathleen had started to doubt that - under lock and key. How he could have landed a job at a prestigious art school like St. Barnabas was frankly beyond her. Unfortunately teaching was only half of Mr. McClelland's job. The other half was being one of three people tasked with reducing a class of forty to twenty-seven and now to ten.
"I will, I mean I will try.", said Kathleen. She used her hand to get the sweat out of her face. A stupid mistake. She could feel the paint smear coloring her forehead in rainbow. No matter. Half of the people around her she would never see again. One way... or the other. Paint smears were the reason she had tied her short black hair back into a pony tail. The reason why she had kissed her bangs goodbye, the reason why she wore old, loose-fitting clothes to the workshops. Paint would eventually cover her whole body. She showered daily, but some of the spots would only leave her skin through intense scrubbing. Kathleen had given up on that weeks ago.
"I think..." Obviously Harrison was marking this special occurrence by telling everyone about it. "I think you and I should talk after this workshop."
"Yes, sir."
Kathleen's stomach turned. She tried to keep her hand from shaking to use a detail brush, but she couldn't. She was going to be sorted out. They just ran about and picked one every day now. Failing here meant she could kiss her dreams of becoming an artist goodbye. It had been hard enough to convince her parents to let her go here. If she failed, she had to study business, become an accountant, pushing folders around at some anonymous company inside her very own coffin of a cubicle. She could still try to go to another college. But where would that lead her? To being a well-educated painter with a six-digit debt. Poverty for the next twenty years after.
Screw this talk. Failure was not an option. This Harrison guy was just one more brick wall between her and her dream. And the brick walls, Kathleen's father had told her, were there to stop the other people. The people that just didn't want it badly enough.
Her stomach turned. Her hand trembled. She could feel tears coming, but she wouldn't allow herself to cry. Not for this guy. Not for any. Her hand put in the next detail. And the next. And the one after that. Until all of them were there. For a true artist, time was irrelevant. If it took eight hours in front of a canvas or fourteen, she hardly knew the difference anymore.
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Harrison had a wrapper made of uncured leather. The emblem showed a coat of arms Kathleen did not recognize. No doubt it was the latest brand that true artists just had to purchase. The smell of cheap aftershave was gnawing away the insides of her nose.
"You wanted to speak to me?" Translation: I am going to pretend that I don't know what this about. Maybe you will have just forgotten the topic of this meeting and I can move on with my day.
"Yes, Miss Harrison, I am sorry to inform you..." No such luck. Her heart started racing immediately, but her hands did not shake. She would not give him the satisfaction of showing fear.
The dramatic pause held up.
"...you are on my short list. For the next student who will have to leave our institution."
Tears. Fight them back. The truth was not as bad as the fear.
"I see.", she said. She tried to keep her voice leveled, but some of the fear still showed.
"I just wanted to inform you, out of fairness."
When she left the room. The tears started flowing. She could hate that pretentious idiot all she wanted, he was still holding the destruct button for the best way to achieve her dreams. She had to find Marianne.
* * *
Marianne was one of the lucky ones. She had survived the selection process and was now in her third year. How she had managed to retain her humanity was a mystery to Kathleen, but she had a feeling Marianne had not always been lumpy. She had never asked her about that. She valued their friendship too much.
Kathleen found her in yard, cross-legged under the old oak tree. A block on her lap, a piece of char-coal in her hand. She looked peaceful. Her hair was still long and her skin was free of paint. As Marianne looked up, her serene smile dropped into an expression of worry.
"Apple-cake, what happened?"
No one but the two of them knew the origin of that nickname and Kathleen hoped it would stay this way. Nevertheless, she liked Marianne. Talking to her was easy, spilling her heart out to her always felt good.
"So it's Harrison.", said Marianne.
"But he only said I am on his short list. Maybe he was just trying to scare me."
"No. I am afraid not. McClelland is by far the fairest of the judges. By far the most human." Marianne's expression darkened. "You are on the verge of being eliminated. Five steps away from 'Thank you for your interest. Don't let the door hit you on your way out.'"
"Could you possibly be a little bit meaner? There are still hopes left inside me that are uncrushed."
Kathleen hugged her legs, leaning back against the century old bark. Above her the wind whispered in the leaves and the light formed a beautiful soft green. She could never be an accountant. Not a chance.
"Sorry. I could have said that a lot less bluntly."
"It's OK.", Kathleen whispered. The sunlight broke through the tiny holes between the leaves. "Is there still hope."
A long silence. Just her, the sound of wind and distant laughter. Some people were playing hacky-sack at the other end of the yard.
"There is something. But... well. It is kind of harsh, kind of over-the-edge and... I have to be blunt... I don't think you want it badly enough."
"You are not recommending that I fuck McClelland, are you?"
"Get in line. There were already three girls in your class with the same idea. Two of them are gone now."
"The one left is the one with the curls who always wears slutty tank-tops?"
"Not important. What is important that you ask yourself some deep questions of what you are willing to try and how far you are willing to go to realize your dream. When you are done asking, go to 245b Elwood Drive. Ring for Miss LaCroix.
"Now this is the important part. Don't expect an answer. You will have to sit down on the doorstep and wait. Just wait. However long it takes."
Marianne looked Kathleen straight in the eye.
"May God have mercy on your soul."
If he doesn't, Kathleen thought, I will still have the devil to negotiate with.
* * *
Elwood Drive was the big, traffic-ridden scar, cutting through the nicer parts of the city. Kathleen had given speed on her bike, ditching the afternoon practice session. Her sense of discipline was protesting, but painting the fruit bowl again would have felt like polishing the silver on a sinking ship. She needed something better. Whatever it was. 245 was an anonymous building and she had almost ridden past it. It was five stories tall, dark-gray and all of the windows were obscured with different curtains. Kathleen dismounted of her bike and pushed it into the backyard. 245b was 245's identical twin. No sign of life. No bikes, no litter, no toys lying around in the yard. The plants had grown to form a jungle landscape all around.
Kathleen locked her bike, stepped to the door and yes, there she was. 'LaCroix'. Top apartment.
She rang.
There was no one answering her.
She rang again.
No answer. No noise of any kind, not even the distant sound of a door-bell. What did Marianne say? Ring the bell, sit down on the doorstep and wait. Just wait. However long it takes. This was stupid. Was she really that desperate?
Yes, she was. The old pair of jeans she was wearing, formerly black, now sporting a colorful spot pattern, connected with the concrete step in front of the door. The sun was burning down mercilessly on where she was sitting. Luckily there were gray clouds already pushing towards it.
An hour passed. The clouds had obscured most of the sunlight now and the wind was starting get colder. Her butt hurt. Should she just ring the bell again? She dared not move. Sitting on the doorstep and waiting. That was what she was going to do. Marianne had warned her this would be crazy.
Another hour passed. It started to rain. This was stupid. The front light of Kathleen's bike looked at her invitingly. Ride me, it said. All the way back to the workshop room. The light will have changed. Perhaps you can now receive the communication the fruit bowl has to offer. Even if not, what are you doing, sitting here, when you should be practicing?
This time I am not going to. This time I will stay put, she thought. Then the rain started for real.
Another half an hour passed. Her clothes stuck to her body and went see-through to her underwear and equally wet skin. She shivered. Sit tight, Kathleen, she thought. Then: What if nobody is home? Nobody would have heard the doorbell. How long would she be sitting here? She pictured herself sleeping on that doorstep like a dog, welcome prey for whoever strolled around here at night. She would most certainly catch a cold if-
Bamm.
It took her a moment to process what had happened. She was lying on her back. The door had opened. Her head had hit on the stone floor behind her making her dizzy. Had the door opened any faster she would be concussed now. Or unconscious. Or both.