Beneath The Skin(97)

“It wasn’t supposed to catch fire!” hisses Iris, swatting at the paper sculpture with a broom.

“You’re literally fanning the flames,” I tell her tiredly.

“What a disaster!”

“Actually, I think it improves the piece.” I tilt my head, observing it. “I mean, for something you’ve titled Shipwreck …”

“Shut up and help me!”

“Alright.”

With the help of three other art students involved in our little act of rebellion here, we dowse the flames—but not before another fire takes root further down the walkway at another “exhibit” we’ve set up. One of the other students curses, rushing off to put it out.

“Maybe the torch idea was a bit …” a guy at our side starts, wincing.

“That’s the whole premise!” shouts Iris, infuriated. “Flames. Fire. Passion. Snuffing it out. Snuffing us out. Oh, shit,” she breathes with a look of terror in her eyes, cutting herself off. “They’re already looking at us. Everyone in the gallery.”

I turn my head, noticing all of the people pressed against the glass windows, staring out at the fiery wonder.

“We have to move quickly,” I announce unnecessarily.

“Then move! And quickly!” barks Iris.

Then I spin at the sound of a siren and spot light flashing in the distance. To my utter excitement—yeah, I know, I should be terrified, but really, I’m feeling twenty times more thrill than I am fear right now—I discover that the flickering lights are those of approaching campus security vehicles.

“Campus security,” Iris mutters. “We’ve done all we can do. It’s time to leave it up to chance. Run.”

“Run?” throws in another girl, her hands and mouth covered in burgundy paint, looking in the dark like some feral creature who’d just clawed a man’s chest open and eaten his heart raw.

“Yes! Fucking run!”

We bolt from our spots, scattering like flies at the drop of a rolled up newspaper, and abandon our attempts to put out any more stray fires. After running toward the tunnel, I realize that Iris and the others have torn off in a different direction, which gives me sudden cause to hesitate. Aren’t we better off running away together?

Before I enter the tunnel, I realize I can already see flashing lights bursting out from within its shadowy depths. Turning on my heel, I rush toward my secret door at the back of the School of Art, relieved to find it unlocked. Thank you for your negligence, Kelsey! I shut the door at my back, then charge across the dark space and hurry toward the safe one. Up the stairwell I go until I reach my favorite door on the whole campus. Pushing through it, I tumble onto the roof of the art building and crawl to the edge, tentatively peering over.

The view is astounding. I see the torches burning yellow and gold, little pockets of brilliance that give life to the otherwise featureless dark of the path that leads to the gallery wing of the school. Already, people are pouring out of its glass doors, slowly stalking around the exhibits we’ve set up everywhere, exploring. This is a dream come true, I realize, my heart hammering in my chest. I’ve never done anything like this before. I’ve never felt a part of something so … political. Is it right to call it political? All the art school has been since my first day as a freshman is a game of politics, of who-you-know, and of favoritism. Let’s shake up the game, our little ploy seems to scream. Let’s put the judges in their places and rip open the back curtains.

But really, I wasn’t planning to burn down the damn university. The braziers are supposed to scream “atmospheric”, not “pyromaniac”.

I hear the shuffling of feet. I turn my head, annoyed for a second because all my hair blows into my face, blocking my view. When I pull it away like a curtain, my breath catches in my throat.

Brant stands there in a tuxedo. Neck to toe tuxedo. It’s fitted so perfectly to his body that I can literally see his pecs protruding from the shirt and his thighs flex in his tuxedo pants when he slowly crosses the roof, approaching me with that crooked devil’s smirk on his face. And despite the utter classiness of his attire, his hair is a wicked, sexy mess, reminding me of every time I’d pull on it when he buried his face between my legs, and how messy it’d look when he woke up beside me the next morning, sleepy-eyed and smiling drunkenly.

He thrusts his hands into his pockets, glances down at his shoes, then only flicks his eyes up at me, his forehead screwing up cutely.

I knew I missed him, but seeing him here in front of me on this rooftop melts everything bad or pained or awful inside me. It melts it all away and replaces it with something perfect.