Derek had always been a disturbed young man. As a brand-new teaching assistant, first time in a college classroom, Janie had been ill equipped to deal with his mood swings. She’d tried to give him some stability by partnering him with other students.
But they mostly avoided him.
She’d sought help early on from Patricia Reynolds, the course’s main instructor and chair of the art department.
“Derek needs this class more than anyone else,” was Patricia’s response. “Right now he’s antisocial with a bad temper, but if he can make a connection with art, feel good about something he’s created, who knows how his future might change.”
Janie had nodded. There’d been a teacher in her past—Mrs. Freshia, seventh-grade English—who’d read one of Janie’s personal art-book entries and taken the time to ask, “Are you all right?” And then she’d believed Janie when she’d said, “No.”
Mrs. Freshia had testified in court on Janie’s behalf so that she could go live with her sister, who at just eighteen years old, wanted to be her guardian.
Katie had wanted her. Janie had hoped somebody wanted Derek.
So Janie had offered him alternatives to some of his more gruesome ideas. She’d tried to be friendly, to engage him in conversation. He’d smirked, then drawn a scar down the side of one of his female warrior’s face. A scar just like Janie’s, maybe a bit more pronounced.
She’d long ago come to terms with her physical scar, though. He couldn’t hurt her that way.
She’d lent an ear, but he hadn’t wanted to talk. So she’d backed off, hoping Patricia was right. Derek hadn’t been willing to talk to her, but maybe he’d been willing to draw and write.
I’ve never been a nature boy. I prefer the city with its bright lights, crowds and constant noise. I never want be hot again. It was so hot that night. The radio man said we’d broken a record for heat. I never want to hear the noises of nature again. I hate the eerie sound the wind makes. It’s like someone’s walked over your grave. It’s like a loud whistle, probably to get your attention. It says, “I know what you’re about to do.”
Janie heard the wind outside the student union windows and shivered. If she were painting tonight’s scenery and mood, she’d only use black, white and grays.
Her least favorite colors unless she was painting zebras.
In the animal world—and she was a nature artist—bright colors dominated. Tigers were orange, giraffes were yellow and camels smiled.
As a rule, she didn’t watch horror movies or read scary books. Like this one...
Brittney Travis didn’t scream. She didn’t beg. She tried to run and stumbled. Why do girls always stumble? Then, Chad shot her in the back. It was all in black and white. The blood was even black. Funny, I expected to see red, even in the darkness.
The art book dropped from Janie’s hands, and a shiver of doubt spiraled with such sincerity that she stood up, almost upending the chair she’d been sitting on.
Brittney Travis?
Janie knew the name...but from where? She wasn’t sure. Couldn’t remember.
Suddenly, there wasn’t enough light in the student union , not enough people, and the air seemed to decrease in volume. Scanning the room, she searched for a familiar face: a teacher, a student, even a janitor would do. Two students, not hers, cuddled in a corner. They were young, innocent. She recognized one of the English adjuncts. CeeCee Harrington. She was an animated woman who would talk your ears off if given a chance. As the shadows of evening fell, people were leaving. At this time of night, people didn’t linger.