Someone To Love

Falling Into Open Arms

The Fine Arts building is situated on the outskirts of campus. Its large circular architecture is reminiscent of an igloo if, in fact, an igloo was designed to stand seven-stories tall.

I stumble into the giant studio in which the "study of the human body" is conducted, and after experiencing countless miniature desks that progressively seemed to get smaller throughout the day, a cavernous open space is a welcome change of pace. Benches are laid out in lieu of a miniaturized workspace with easels situated in front of each one. A charcoal pencil lies at the lip of the unit, along with an eraser that looks as though it's made from a giant wad of grey gum.

After spending over four hundred dollars on less than five books for only two of my classes, I'm hoping the accessories list for this class won't break the bank. My scholarship strictly covered tuition, so books, and my non-existent dorm, are the only things my mother is taking a loan out for at the moment. I'm pretty sure it isn't going to thrill her to know she's spiraling into debt for coloring supplies. Although, technically, the loan is mine since I promised I'd pay back every dime.

The thin-lipped girl from "Professor Elton's" class sits two seats over to the left. Perfect. She'll probably be moved to overanalyze my work, and all roads of critical interpretation will inevitably lead to the fact I gave love the middle finger. And, really? Who the hell cares about my opinion? Well, apparently, she does.

A girl with a svelte red coat zips in and fills the space between us. Already, I like her for acting as a buffer between me and Miss I Will Find Love and it Will Prosper. Let's see who's so hot on love after a few volatile divorces and a bitter custody battle that spans states or, God forbid, countries. One day she'll add divorcee to her personal roster of achievements and will mark my words as the only truth she's ever known. Of course, my mother never referred to herself as a divorcee, she simply said she was "out on parole." And the whole custody battle never materialized for her either since technically both parties would have to want the child for those evil shenanigans to ensue. My father was far too busy procreating with the candlestick maker to deal with the family he left an entire state behind.

The girl in the crimson coat turns and gives a curt smile, so I take the initiative.

"Kendall." I offer her a quick handshake. Everyone at Garrison has been so nice. Back home, life was all about hard looks and keeping to yourself, but here, everyone feels like family. "Liberal arts."

"Blair Lancaster." She pulls her cheeks back without a smile. "Journalism, but photography is my passion."

There's something strangely familiar about her, and I just can't seem to place it.

A loud shuffling comes from the front as an older woman makes her way to the center of the room. She wears a long damask coat with a vomit-inspired color palate and layers and layers of beaded necklaces as though she robbed the accessories department at the mall and decided to don all the loot at once. There's an overall bohemian appeal to her, and innately I know this is Professor Webber. Her wiry red hair sprays out in every direction, and it's not until she turns my way do I realize she's taken liberty with cosmetics that should be restricted exclusively to Broadway plays and Halloween. She hands out a syllabus without so much as a hello, and I gawk at the list of essential supplies.

"I'm going to need a storage unit to house all this," I muse. "Let alone make nine trips from the bookstore to lug everything."

"Tell me about it." Blair cuts a glance my way. "But I bet a pretty girl like you has a nice strong boyfriend to help out."

I make a face before turning the paper around and gasp. The list goes on for another entire page.

"This is going to cost a fortune," I say, mostly to myself. "She is aware most of us have yet to outfit ourselves with a six-figure income."