What are we doing here, Daisy and I? We do not belong with this mass of people. She is too sweet and I am too mean and hard.
“I do not know yet what I will do.” I stand. “I like art for art’s sake, not for what art can do for me.”
“Yes,” the professor breathes reverently. He grabs for me and I jerk away, my hand slipping inside my coat before I can stop myself. His eyes widen and his hands raise in a defensive gesture. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
I force myself to relax. “Nyet, it is I who apologizes.” I dip my head. “I’m unused to these friendly American ways.”
He chuckles nervously. “I did wonder about your accent. Russian?”
I bite my tongue to refrain from correcting him. “Da, Russian by way of New York City.” It is my cover story now. Daisy and I met in New York City while she was on vacation. I fell in love and followed her here. My family was wealthy and I inherited the money when both my parents died in a tragic Russian highway accident. Anyone who watches a video of Russian driving on the Internet would not doubt the story for an instant.
The tattoos are hard to explain but I do not want to remove them. I may despise what they stand for, but they are my past. I will not erase it. So I do not correct this man who assumes I am Russian even though I am from Ukraine. It is one and the same for most Americans and even for some Ukrainians.
For me, I was raised in Russia by a mafiya prince, a warrior who trained foot soldiers for a powerful Russian crime syndicate. Perhaps I am Russian then. Perhaps I am Ukrainian. Perhaps I was nothing before I met Daisy, before I had a chance to rebuild myself.
The professor’s nervousness melts like the snow. He smiles, friendly and open once again. “I hope you think about it. You have a unique point of view. Our department could use a fresh perspective.”
“Thank you, I will.”
“You will what?” Daisy is at my side. I turn at her touch, bending down to brush my lips across her forehead. She’s warm from the indoors. I draw her hood tighter around her neck so the chill of the wind does not penetrate and steal away her heat.
“Is this your girlfriend?” The professor’s eyes gleam as they rove over my Daisy. She is beautiful—an artist’s dream even through the thick layers of her coat. Her skin is luminescent, as if the sun shines from within. The snow is beginning to fall and stick to her eyelashes, making them sparkle. She’s the perfect winter beauty in her tall boots and fur-lined, hooded coat. My urge to bundle her away grows strong.
I manage a nod. “Yes, this is Daisy. Daisy, this is Professor Hare. He is my teacher for Dimensional Drawing.”
They shake each other’s gloved hands.
“This is Christine.” Daisy pulls a shadow from behind her. The pale-haired, thin girl gives us a faint, weak approximation of a smile, and then gazes at the ground. There is an ominous air about the girl—she refuses to look us in the eyes. She stands half behind Daisy as if Daisy is her shield. I do not like it. “We’re friends,” Daisy announces with delight and pride.
My sweet Daisy is an easy mark. Worried she is too different, she exposes her beautiful heart to those who will not hesitate to abuse her if it suits their purposes. But that is why I am here, I think, to protect her—to stand between her and those who would do her harm, so that she can go on and spread her kindness and joy without reservation.
“Then I am pleased to meet you, Christine,” I offer. “I know why you are friends with Daisy. How can you not be drawn to her kindness and generosity?”
The girl flinches.
“Nick,” Daisy replies with a slight note of reproof.
I smile guilelessly in response.
Professor Hare coughs. “Well, I should be going. Daisy, it was nice to meet you. I’ve been telling your Nick that he should apply to the fine arts program. He’d be an asset.” Hare claps me on the back. Fortunately for all of us, I anticipate this action and do not react by whirling around, grabbing his hand, and throwing him to the snow-covered concrete.
Daisy suppresses a smile as if she knows what I’m envisioning.
“I will think on this,” I promise Hare, and I will. Perhaps I will like it. Daisy can help me decide.
“Why don’t we get lunch?” Daisy proposes. “I invited Christine.”
“Very good,” I nod. This will allow me to interrogate the girl and see if she is worthy to be a friend to Daisy. Christine raises her eyes to Daisy and in them I see both uncertainty and hunger. She is hungry as evidenced by the way she unconsciously licks her lips but she is wary of something . . . or someone. Whatever it is, my instincts tell me she presents a danger. “Come,” I command. “We will go to the Village Bean.” It is one of my favorite campus places because of the deep roast they serve and the unpretentious atmosphere. Although, around the campus, most places are unpretentious. The University is not a place that is teeming with wealthy people anxious to spend hundreds of dollars on one meal.