As a rule, I avoid being at school any more than I have to, but true to her word, Trixie texted me the details for an art class on campus today.
TRIXIE: I signed us up. Class is at 6:00 p.m. I’ll be at the front steps at 5:45 p.m. Don’t be late.
“Why are you at school?” Jen’s voice from behind startles me, and my phone slips from my gloved hand. Cursing, I pick it up and thank the Goddess nothing broke.
“I think the better question is why are you here?” I ask, peering at her from the corner of my eye.
“I’m here because you’re here. So why have you brought us here?”
Us. Like we’re a set already. “I’m meeting someone for an art class if you must know.”
Jen perks up, flipping her ghostly blond hair over her shoulder. “Like a date?”
“No,” I splutter, though now I’m not entirely sure. I glance down at my outfit: the same beat-up Docs I wear every day, dark-wash jeans, and a long-sleeve shirt. At least I decided to do my hair today. If this is a date, maybe I should have dressed up more.
“Definitely feels like a date,” she teases. “Look how red your face is.”
A car pulls up in front of me and Trixie climbs out, waving to her mom before coming to me.
“Go away, Jen,” I say through clenched teeth. I hear her chuckling as I cut her off from me.
“You’re early,” Trixie says as she climbs the steps.
“You sound surprised,” I say, shoving my hands in my pockets to keep them from fidgeting. I will my cheeks to cool, but I don’t think it’s working.
“Maybe a little. Come on.” Trixie leads me into the building and to the left. There’s an art studio at the end of this hall. I’ve never actually had a reason to go in it. “I’m glad you said yes. I didn’t want to come by myself.”
“I’m sure someone would have said yes. I’ve seen you talking to other people at school,” I say as Trixie opens the door.
“I could’ve, but I wanted to come with you.”
I try not to look too closely at that statement as I head into the classroom. The room has about twenty easels, with a stool in front of each easel spread out in the space. A small table with a tray, a cup of water, and a selection of brushes stands next to each one. Each easel is set with a fresh white canvas. The smell of paint clings to the air, covering something else I can’t quite place.
“Oh,” I say. “So this really is an arty art class.” A variety of watercolors lean against the wall in the front of the room. They’re all skillfully done, but there’s almost something cold about them.
“What other kind of class would it be?” Trixie laughs as she heads to two easels next to each other. “Don’t you like art?”
“Sure,” I say. “In the theoretical sense. I’m more of a writer than a painter.”
Trixie looks back over her shoulder. “A writer, huh? You’ll have to let me read something sometime.” Luckily, she turns back around before she sees the heat creep up my neck into my cheeks. As we get closer, I see each table has a small picture of a landscape on it. Both mine and Trixie’s seem to be of the river at different times of the year, hers fall and mine winter.
“Inspiration?” I ask, picking the picture up and showing it to Trixie.
“I guess so,” she says, settling in across from me.
“You never said what kind of class this is. I’m assuming painting?”
“Watercolor.”
“Why did you want to take a watercolor class?” I glance around the room. We’re definitely the only high schoolers here, let alone the only ones under fifty.
“I don’t know. I’ve never taken one before and I like art, so when I saw the flyer, I figured why not. Plus, it’s free.”
“Free? Who paid for all the paints and canvases?” I don’t know how much painting supplies cost, but I can’t imagine they’re cheap.
“No idea, but you can’t beat free.”
“Who’s the teacher?” I ask, looking around for someone authoritative. “Maybe she’s paying for it.”
“The teacher is a he.” Trixie nods toward something behind me. The sense of something else creeps in, raising the hairs on the back of my neck. Slowly, I turn to look as she continues. “Silas. Apparently he’s going to run one once a month.”
As if on cue, Silas walks into the classroom, an easy smile on his face. I whip my head back around, panic gripping my chest. “He just got here, and he’s already running painting classes?” I say, hoping my voice sounds natural. My palms are already sweating in my gloves.
Trixie shrugs. “He must like it, especially since he’s doing it for free.”
“And probably paying for the canvases.” I pull my gloves up my wrists a little higher. I never should have come here. I’m going to have to leave. “I will warn you: I am terrible at painting. Maybe we should do something else.”
Trixie holds up her hand. “I swear not to judge and just to enjoy your company.”
I want to bolt, but I hesitate, the promise of a night with Trixie the only thing keeping my butt in the seat. It might be worth an uncomfortable evening. Besides, I doubt I kill him here, in a room full of people.
Though I never saw myself as a killer to begin with, so what do I know.
Rolling my shoulders, I try to relax a bit. I can do this. Just enjoy the night and don’t touch him. The death was a weird fluke anyway, I have nothing to worry about.
Either way, self-preservation has never been my strength.
* * *
By halfway through the class, my canvas just looks like a blurry mess of colors. The tremor in my hand whenever Silas walks near has made it almost impossible to make anything resembling a clean brushstroke. “I don’t think it looks like the picture.”
Trixie walks around to look at my canvas. She tilts her head to the side. “Well, no, but you can just say it’s abstract.”
“I told you I am terrible at art,” I grumble. I may not try at a lot of things, but I hate failing when I do.
“You did. And I said I wouldn’t judge.”
I get up and follow Trixie around to her canvas. If someone told me this was the work of a famous artist, I would believe them. The landscape depicted on her canvas is a thing of pure beauty. She’s painted the river that runs through town, the oranges and reds of the fall leaves juxtaposed against the swirling blue of the water.
“You’re joking.”
Trixie looks panicked. “What? Is it bad?”
“It’s beautiful.” I wave my arm at the paintings lining the walls. “It’s almost as good as the pieces Silas brought in.” That’s not quite true though. Although Trixie’s painting depicts fall, when things are dying, it has more warmth than any that Silas brought.
“Almost?”
“Trix,” I deadpan.
She looks around at the paintings. “Yeah, those really are museum quality.”
“They are, but this is close.”
I don’t notice him until he speaks from behind us. “George is right,” Silas says. I take a step back, adding more space between us. “You’re very good, Trixie.”
Trixie looks almost bashful. “Not as good as you.”
I’m struck by a pang of something I just can’t place.
“Ah,” Silas says with a smile. It’s wide, showing all his perfect white teeth, but doesn’t quite reach his eyes. There’s something guarded about them, almost like they’re shuttered. “Don’t be disheartened. I’ve been doing this a very long time.”
Looking at him again, I wonder if maybe our definitions of a very long time are different. He can’t have been doing it that long if he’s only just barely older than us. He might pass for a senior, but he still looks like a high school student.
He notices my attention and turns to me. “What about your work, George? Let’s see it.”
Nervously, I lead him around to my easel. He’s quiet a long moment before he speaks. “I see painting isn’t one of your gifts.”
“It doesn’t appear so.” I have to swallow past the lump in my throat. Luckily, he doesn’t know anything about my actual gifts.
“To really give life to a painting, treat each color like its own living, breathing thing.” He runs his fingers down the canvas. A shiver creeps down my spine as I remember those fingers trying to push at my arms as I brought the knife down again. “Think of the color like it’s an individual, intermingling with the others, to become a complete work. They do always say that art is a work of the soul, do they not?”
“Work of the soul” certainly isn’t something anyone would say about my monstrosity. Still, his voice held such sincerity, I can’t help but answer. “Sure.”
He turns to look at me. This is the most attention he’s given me since he and I bumped into each other outside the bathroom Thursday, and I had a full-blown meltdown. Come to think of it, this is the most attention I’ve seen him give anything since he got here. In class, he’s completely focused on the lesson, entirely ignoring the looks and whispers that follow him. He’s warm and friendly, but seeing him with his art, it’s clear this is where his passion lies.
The weight of his attention is suffocating but intoxicating. It’s easy to see why everyone is enamored with him. He cocks his head to the side like he can hear my thundering heart, then turns back to my canvas. “I don’t know you can do much to save this painting. I can give you a fresh canvas if you’d like?”
“No, thanks. I’ll just watch Trixie until class is over.”
“Suit yourself,” he says, sliding his hands into his pockets and strolling away.
“It should be illegal how good-looking he is,” Trixie says from around her canvas.
I snort, trying to mask the second pang of jealousy. If I kill someone because Trixie finds them attractive, I’m going to be very disappointed in myself. “Gross. Are you hot for teacher?”
“Absolutely not.” Trixie wrinkles her nose in disgust. “I’m just saying you should have to be at least a little ugly to teach anything. He’s distracting students from their studies.”
“I say again, gross. Besides, this is just an art class.”
“Maybe, but he’s still distracting.”
Trixie doesn’t notice the roll of my eyes as I drag my stool around to watch her keep working. Silas continues to circle the room, offering tips to other students. He may be younger than most of his students, but everyone gives Silas just as much respect as they would if he were their senior. “He looks much more relaxed here. Maybe he’ll become the next art teacher.”
Trixie laughs. “That position will never be open. From what I’ve seen of Ms. Witte, if she dies, she’ll be teaching the class as a ghost.” I give Trixie a pointed look. She takes a second to catch on, and then she’s laughing. “I didn’t mean that when I said it, but I guess she could teach the class to you as a ghost at least.”
I look around instinctively, but no one is close enough to hear her. “Hilarious,” I say, but I have to admit, it is kind of funny.
* * *
Trixie opts to take her painting home with her. I, on the other hand, leave my sad canvas on the easel. Silas can dispose of it.
The temperature has dropped by the time we get outside. Trixie stands by me as I pull my bike from the rack. There’s no lock; this is Windrop, after all.
“So,” Trixie starts tentatively. “I’ll see you at school tomorrow?”
“Bright and early.” I’m surprised by how much I actually want to see her in the morning. I swing my leg over the bike as Trixie’s mom pulls up.
“Thanks again for coming.”
“I had fun.”
“Did you?” Trixie lifts a brow.
I smile. “I really did,” I say.
“Good. Well tomorrow, study hall. All things witchy?”
“Yup. I’ll be there.” Even though I just met her, this secret between us feels like a chasm. If anyone could help me figure out what happened, I’m pretty sure it would be Trixie. I’m also sure that telling her would change what she thinks of me, and I can’t handle that. “And Felix, he’s cool.” I hope she understands what I mean when I say that.
“I thought he might know, but I wasn’t going to assume. That’s good then. We won’t have to be that sneaky.” Trixie’s mom beeps her horn. “All right!” she yells. “Gotta go.” She waves her hand before bounding down the stairs to the car.