Beneath The Skin(72)

Minnie purses her lips, gives a short shake of her head. “That, my friend, is an incredibly arrogant thing to do.”

“It’s not arrogance. It’s selectivity. How would you feel if you submit five inferior works and a sixth work that is your pride and joy, and then one of the inferior pieces gets selected and shown to the whole world? All you are as an artist, all you amount to, all that represents you … is that inferior piece.”

“Or you could be arrogant, putting only one piece in for consideration, and have that one piece not get selected, and then you’re not in the Showcase at all. And you won’t exist to the world.” Minnie shrugs, irritated at me, then pulls a piece off her blueberry muffin. “I really thought I knew you, Nell.”

“No one does,” I huff under my breath.

I’m not sure if she heard me, but she doesn’t react either way. She lets a deep breath in while chewing, then pushes it all out. “Well. Do you at least have … your one piece … ready for submission?”

“Working on it,” I answer vaguely.

“What is it?” she asks, squinting at me suspiciously. “What’s this one amazing piece that’s gonna blow my vagina off this planet?”

“I doubt anything can blow your vagina off this planet,” I tease.

“Try me.”

If I’m honest, I resent that Minnie acts like her opinion has suddenly elevated to a level where her magic eyes are the ultimate pinnacle of artistic judgment. She must think that I’m so lucky to know her, like she’s Klangburg Art School royalty. She’s becoming worse than Renée Brigand. Bitch, I was the one holding your hair every time you bent over a toilet freshman year. Maybe that should be my submission piece. Me, kneeling by the toilet and holding back the curly locks of a friend after her long-awaited party, a turned-over bottle at the foot of the toilet and mascara smeared down her snot-filled, greasy face. I’ll title it: Happy Birthday.

“You’ll see it when I submit it,” I answer.

Minnie studies me with curiosity, her expression softening. “That look in your eyes …”

I lift an eyebrow quizzically.

“The piece is about your father, isn’t it?”

I feel the weight of a cold, heavy brick in my gut. I often overestimate Millie’s intelligence, then seconds later underestimate her intuition. She may not know everything about me, or the specifics as to why my dad is no longer a part of my life, but she knows me. She has seen all my work, and she can distill the truths beyond just what’s on the canvas.

I shake my head. “No.”

She crosses her arms on the table, leaning forward. “Whatever it is, it better be damn good. I want my Nell in the Showcase. I want my Nell front and center. I want the world to know your name.”

Quite suddenly, a flash of Brant’s face crosses my mind, and I hear him say my name. I love the way he says it, the way it comes off his tongue. Nell. He puts so much tongue into it that every time he says my name, I’m drawn to his mouth and I get wet.

Even now, I’m clenching my thighs together, feeling the pressure of need down there. He has a masterful tongue.

This isn’t the best time for these thoughts. I’m getting horny about something completely unrelated to Minnie and the Showcase and what piece I’m going to submit.

Maybe it’s completely relevant. Maybe my piece will be Brant’s tongue and the many, many ways he uses it. To make words. To softly utter names. To tickle earlobes. To suck my hard, pebbled nipples.

To enter me and blow my vagina off the planet.

An hour later, Minnie decides she’s going to stay and visit with some of the professors while I swing around to the School of Theatre. I still feel the cold kiss she gave either of my cheeks as I enter the theater. In the lobby, I pass four students rehearsing a scene—freshmen, if I had to guess—and make my way to the main auditorium.

I push open the doors and feel the frigid wave of air conditioning wash over me. For a moment, I believe I’ve walked into an actual performance, what with the dramatic lighting and actors performing a scene on stage, until I realize there’s no one in the audience.

Except Brant.

And he’s standing up high, precariously balanced with each of his feet on the back of a seat. He licks his lips, aims, then—

Flash.

He looks into his camera, then gives a thumbs up to the stage where I notice Dessie emerge from a crowd of what appear to be fairies or elves. “Very good. Can we get one with just Oberon and Puck? No fairies.” And following her command, the actors on stage disperse to assume a new scene.

Brant, so confident in his awkward balancing atop the backs of those seats, starts bouncing to some song in his head—the endearing way that he does so often—and then he turns his head, as if sensing me.