Dance for Me(51)

I’m sure she’s right, but that doesn’t dull the churning feeling gripping me right now. Retrieving a white fluffy robe from cabinet near her desk, Mrs. Jackson directs me to a room that looks to be a teacher’s lounge that she claims all the models use and is completely secure. There are textbooks littering a small circular table at its center, and a short row of cabinets along the wall behind it that house an overlarge coffee maker, stacks of Styrofoam cups and stirrers, various creamers, and a microwave. It’s exactly what I imagined a teacher’s lounge to look like.

Glimpsing a mini fridge humming off to the side, I steal a bottle of water and gulp it down, hoping it will give me enough distraction to calm down.

Then I realize what a total mistake I just made, because I’ll end up having to use the bathroom a dozen times, so I spend the next ten minutes in the adjacent bathroom trying to evacuate my bladder.

Twenty minutes later, and I am standing outside a closed door completely naked but for the robe clenched around me. The blue and cream speckled linoleum is cool under my bare feet. Through a long, rectangular window, I can see Mrs. Jackson lecturing her students. There’s a mix of men and women, all roughly my age, seated on their stools in front of the canvasses they will be immortalizing my image on.

It strikes me all over again that I go to school with these people. If they didn’t know me before, they will now. I’ll be the-girl-who-took-her-clothes-off.

Before I can freak myself out more, Mrs. Jackson notices my presence and her burgundy painted lips split into a wide grin. She says something to the class, and they all turn their heads to look at me.

God, I should run now. But I don’t.

Mrs. Jackson walks over and opens the door. “Come in, come in. We were just talking about you.” She waves me inside with a flip of her hand, and I follow her into the room. My focus is on her back, on the way the fabric ripples like soft ocean waves with each step she takes. If I look up, I’ll bolt. It’s that simple.

“Please drop your robe and stretch out on the table,” she directs.

My fingers tighten on the plush fabric for a brief instant before I shove it away. I climb onto the table, feeling the slight chill of the wood seep through thin cotton sheet against my buttocks. Turning onto my side, I allow Mrs. Jackson to manipulate my limbs how she wants them. My right arm stretches out, is bent at the elbow with my hand opened wide to support my head. My left arm is brought forward on the table to steady me. My legs, which are clamped tight together and stretched long, are separated. She brings one knee forward, and I tense as the air touches between my thighs.

My mind goes wild imagining what the students positioned directly south of me must see. What will they draw? Do they like what they see? Are they turned on, or just as embarrassed as I am? I may take off my clothes for a living, but that doesn’t make me an exhibitionist. I don’t enjoy showing off my body to anyone willing to look at it. At least, not in this context. Even in a strip club, there are boundaries, limitations.

After I am positioned just how Mrs. Jackson wants me, she leaves the circle, taking on the role of an observer. “Okay, class. As you know, you have twenty minutes to perform your first sketch. Try to capture the form as you see it. Focus on light and shadow and use it to create depth in the drawing. I will be walking around the room to take a peek at everyone’s work. If you have a question for me, just raise your hand and I will come over. Clock starts now.”

With the exception of the light scratching of pencils on canvas and the dull clack of Mrs. Jackson’s pumps as she moves around the room, everything is silent. At first it makes me even more aware of all the eyes on me, but as the minutes tick by, I begin to relax and I find my thoughts drifting inward.

I’m in a nearly sleep-like state by the time we’re halfway into the second pose, when I hear the knock on the door. It’s a faint rap, and my gaze flicks up, following Mrs. Jackson’s back as she walks over to answer it.

She opens the door a crack and sticks her head out—murmurs follow, the words unintelligible. Although curious, I retreat back into myself.

I know I shouldn’t, but I’ve been using this time to reflect on my relationship with Ransom. Annie’s suggestion is still fresh in my mind and with the end of class looming on the horizon, I’ve come to realize that I am not over him. Not in the slightest. Severing ties hasn’t worked. Having to see him every day, in fact, has only made the distance worse.

Seeing but no touching. The detached way we speak to each other. The longing looks and denial that nothing is going on between us. All of it keeps the wounds fresh.