Beneath The Skin(11)

The skin is the lie. The truth of all art, lovers, and monsters lives beneath it.

Right then as I’m thinking of monsters, I spot Brant strolling by on the main crosswalk with a dude at his side who looks like the singer of a punk band from the 90’s. His friend is decked out in a long-sleeved black button-down shirt (in this weather?) and grey acid-washed shorts that cut off just below the knee. Brant sports a t-shirt and jeans, his hair, a spunky brown mess. They both stop chatting to pay witness to a pretty girl walking by, after which they turn to each other and grin stupidly, punching each other’s shoulders encouragingly. Then, Brant lifts the camera hanging from his neck and snaps a shot of her ass from behind. Excited as a pair of prepubescent boys under bed sheets discovering their maturing dicks for the first time, the boys study the photo he took as they disappear, unseen, into the art school tunnel.

My heart would sink right about now.

Y’know, if I had one.

It wouldn’t be foolish of me to consider that exchange just another moment of fun between two buddies. Surely I’ve done similar things with girlfriends, passing by a hot guy on campus and snatching a creeper shot of his ass with my phone. I’m not riding some moral high ground when I look down on Brant (literally, as I sit up here on this grassy hill) and judge him for his horny photographic antics; I’m riding my self-pitying low ground upon which I’m so much better acquainted.

It’s easier living life on the bottom rung. There’s a certain security you find in the fact that you can’t sink any lower.

Fuck Brant.

I rise from the grass and make way for the opposite edge of campus, chasing the sun westward as I pass the University Center, the Quad dormitories, and the vast concrete desert we call a parking lot. When I reach the main street, I walk across the middle without bothering to head down to the proper crossway at the stoplight.

A forty minute stroll brings me to the front steps of the Westwood Light where a certain frizzy-haired caramel-skinned woman with pencil arms on a smoke break lifts an eyebrow. Upon recognizing me, she lifts her carton to offer me one.

I stare down at the box, my skin crawling and my heart jerking. I force my chin up. “No thanks, Alisa. How’re the kids today?”

“Quiet,” she answers.

I give her a nod, then pat her shoulder as I slip inside. The familiar musk invades my nostrils as I pass through the halls and into the activity room. The usuals are by the window. The other usuals are by the TV. The twin girls are sitting in their matching chairs, reading.

“Nell!” cries one of the boys, capturing the attention of the others.

And in no time, I’m assaulted by nine of them. It’s not unlike being assaulted by nine enormous dogs—except these are children ranging in age from seven to thirteen. Yeah, even the thirteen-year-old boy with the awkward spaghetti legs rushes to me, face beaming.

I guess I’m good with kids, too. It’s only because they don’t know any better.

“We ran out of paper,” complains one of the girls.

“And Miss Marcy took the markers away,” says a little boy, “because stupid Peter kept sucking on the red one like a lollipop.”

“No, I wasn’t!”

“Miss Marcy took the paints, too.”

I frown at them. “Well, darn. I didn’t bring anything with me this time.”

Then, in that same instant, I realize I left my own artwork on that grassy knoll back at campus. Yes, a delicately illustrated cat with big nippled boobs abandoned in the grass. Shit. By now, some vicious campus crows have likely abducted it, pecked it into pieces, and made little Pussy nests up in the trees with all my hard work.

There’s some sort of irony there about birds and pussy, but I’m too annoyed at my oversight to pinpoint it.

“What’ll we do, then?” asks a girl with big blank eyes.

Alisa has returned from her break, the nicotine cloud half-following her. In one hand, she has her carton of smokes and a lighter palmed.

I snatch the lighter from her, earning a gasp of protest. “Crayons?” I ask, surveying the kids. “Surely the crayons I brought last time—”

“Crayons are for babies!” whines a boy, scowling.

“Yeah, yeah, you say that now,” I mutter back, crossing the room with the lighter.

I snatch a dusty vase off the shelf and give it one quick blow, scattering little cloudy dragons of grey matter into the air. Then, between a toddler’s wire-and-bead maze and a basket of stuffed aliens and a purple lion that’s missing an eye, I claim the box of crayons.

“Here,” I say, setting the vase on the main activity table as the kids gather around curiously. Alisa watches from the door, squinting as I pop open the crayon box. “Which color should we do first?”