Something Like Shame (BWWM)

Chapter 3

The trained constancy of the priestly vocation never prepared me for this sensation, this itch. I could have easily quoted the Laws of Leviticus at the drop of a hat, but I knew not where to begin with such a romantic pursuit. The maintenance of said restraint was my only option thus far. Yet, for that very reason, the itch only worsened with continued exposure to- her. I simply had to scratch...

My swollen fingertips were still smudged with charcoal from the ideas I'd been sketching out. The concepts were always hard to grasp on paper and it was stressful to say the least but I needed something in my portfolio that could give the Dean of admissions pause; my grades were nearly perfect Sophomore through Junior year and my extra curricular stuff was fine. It was now the time to work on my pull-factor, the pulp of the application.

Mr. Wick sat at his desk surrounded by three stacks of books he had to have brought from home. I highly doubted that our school had such a modest abundance of art literature.

In the corner closest to Wick's desk, Seth slouched with his head down, scribbling on an answer sheet as I took my seat a few desks away. It wasn't until my bag and books hit the ground with a thud that either of them noticed.

Wick shuffled his papers aside and flicked his gaze up to mine, "Ah, Henna, I brought all of these things from the trunk of my car- everything that wasn't an empty can of Coke. Take one." Flushed, he handed me a thick book on Dada.

I flipped through the pages and smiled, "Is this your favorite one?"

"What makes you say that?"

There were highlights and notes on every single page; some of the notes had nothing to do with the subject while others were so deeply worded that I was almost certain he lived in that period. I shrugged, "It's intense."

"A word so many people have chosen to describe me." His eyes burned into mine as he folded a sheet of paper he'd been writing on, "Henna? Um, do you mind if I ask you about your hues of choice?"

"What do you mean?"

"I was wondering if you've ever," He rubbed the line of stubble along his jaw and stumbled for a word, the discomfort was written clearly across his face, "experimented with different shades."

"Yes." I smiled shyly, suddenly aware of what he might have been asking. It was a half-lie; I'd never dated anyone before, so I had neither "swirled" nor kept to my own race. In the end, it was all the same to me. Yet still, it was hard to ignore the fact that his pale, yellow skin was a brilliantly sharp contrast against my own dark complexion, "Yes, I have. My Mom raised me in a very open way."

He smiled and raked his eyes over me once again. "Good. Great."

Another book caught my eye. It lay beside his foot and wasn't in a stack exactly, "Who's that one about?"

He handed it to me, "This one? It's on Kara Walker. She's got a lot more straight-forward social commentary than Dada but both could be a help. And I think that's where you're headed."

I turned it over and smiled. From the soft edges of the pages and countless dog-ears, I could tell this one was another favorite and I had to check it out. The image on the cover was disturbing. In it was the silhouette of a girl clicking her heals in joy as she slit her wrists and I was amazed by the brilliance, "I think I've found my inspiration, Mr. Wick. Thank you."

He shot out of his seat and crossed the room, grabbing supplies in one hand and dragging an easel behind him in the other until he was in the middle of the room. Seth narrowed his eyes, watching with annoyance probably aimed at the noise we made, "Then, let's see it."

"Huh?"

"Show me." He pushed a brush into my hand and gestured to the small canvas.

I gripped it in my hands and blended a few warm colors on the tray. "Okay."