“Da, this is true. Go to your class. I will meet you after and we will go eat together.”
My effort to honor her independence is rewarded with a passionate kiss full of tongue. She leaves with her baked goods, her backpack, and all the sunshine. After five minutes, I exit as well. I carry my gun, my sketchpad, and textbook.
It is not known to me whether she understands I must follow her and see her safely to her classroom. I suspect she knows and tolerates me. As long as I do not inhibit her freedom, my lurking about is endured.
When she disappears inside her building, I race toward my classroom. Inside the life drawing class, the model has already disrobed, and most of the class has begun. The professor frowns at me but says nothing.
I prop my sketchbook onto the easel and begin the outline of the model’s forehead, nose, and mouth. I start with the face always. Others do the body, but I prefer to draw only the face.
Bodies do not interest me. It is the expression in the eyes or the lines around the mouth. Does the model smile readily, or is the face in repose one of relaxation or meditation? Some models fall asleep, others look bored. Still others are angry that they are here. Those are my favorite.
I draw their eyebrows in dark slashes, and their frowns are exaggerated by deep pencil marks at the corner. There is more truth in the angry face than there is in the bored one.
This model is a bored one. His face is interesting, though. There’s a scar that bisects his cheek. By the jagged path, it appears a serrated knife sliced him open and he healed poorly. But his face is otherwise symmetrical, if a little thick in the cheek. Though he is reclining, I can tell he has poor posture by the downward slope of his shoulders.
I become lost in executing the scar perfectly. There is nothing else of interest to me, so I draw that again and again, carefully shading and revising to get the exact three-dimensional texture of the shiny, puckered skin. Around me the other artists are drawing his body, many of them taking pains to detail his groin in exaggerated fashion.
We work silently for many minutes, maybe a half hour, when we are all jolted by the intercom system coming to life. There’s a commotion at the front of the room as the professor throws a sheet over the model and then turns to us.
Nervously he clears his throat. “We are on lockdown. There is a situation on campus, over by the student union , and we are locking students inside the building until the situation is resolved.”
Daisy.
A lockdown means physical danger to the student body. Panic ensues. The sound of screeching metal mixed with shouts of shock and fear and annoyance mix together. Students are throwing their supplies in their bags and rushing out of class. I follow, marking every red exit sign. The front door is locked as we’d been informed. Excited chatter fills the air. Retreating backward, I find the hallway I’d noted previously.
Following the red exit arrows, I speed down the empty hallway. The soles of my feet echo loudly against the tile. I encounter a few students but none stop me. At the end of the hallway, the red arrow directs me to the left. I’m sprinting now. The metal door at the end signals that it is an emergency exit only. I blow through the door and the alarm sounds immediately.
Leaving the loud barking emergency alarm behind me, I sprint toward Daisy’s building. Every foot I cover is too many that separates us. Around me the sidewalks are clear of people. I see a few security guards inside buildings. One or two of them may call to me but I ignore them. In less than three minutes, I’m at Daisy’s building. The doors are locked and guarded by two security officers and beyond them I see a crowd of agitated students but no Daisy.
I pound on the doors. “Let me in!” I yell. One of their dumb lumbering heads turns. He looks at me and then whispers to his friend. The urge to pull out my handgun and shoot them both is overwhelming. Instead, though, I kick the frame, careful not to break the glass. They need to pay attention.
I kick once. Then twice. Finally the man opens the door, “Hey fucker, stop kicking—”
Immediately I dart inside, pushing him out of my way. “Daisy,” I yell. People are standing in my way and I push at them, weaving in and out looking for Daisy. I duck down a hallway and into a classroom but she is nowhere to be seen. Students run out of my way, cowering before me.
I must look menacing, but I’ve kept my head enough not to take my gun out.
In the back of my head I know I’m making a spectacle but I can’t stop. Every heartbeat, every ounce of blood in my veins is driving me toward her. I can’t lose her. Where is she? Where is she?
I burst into another room when I hear her. “Nick, is that you?”
Her beloved face pokes out of the last stall and I nearly fall on my knees in relief. “Daisy, Daisy,” I mutter sweeping her into my arms. “What’s going on?” she demands but I’m too busy kissing her all over her face, reassuring myself that she is unharmed. “Nick,” she repeats and I finally release her.