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  I try to pretend their words don’t hurt, but they do.

  I bite my tongue and shake it off.

  They don’t know that this isn’t all I have to offer. They don’t know that my entire body is a canvas of torment and my hands could paint a picture that would move them to tears.

  They only see me as I want them to see me. The optical illusion.

  Mediocrity.

  I try to tell myself that it isn’t true. That I can do better. That there is hope.

  But it’s hard to cling to that notion when I am the only person who has ever seen it.

  “I just feel like you keep creating the same piece over and over,” Emily notes. “Only a different version.”

  I wait for Mr. Vaughn to speak. To offer his insight. To jump in and defend my honor. But his eyes are simply on my face. Watching for a reaction.

  I shrug my shoulder, which is the best I can do in these circumstances. It doesn’t matter. None of it matters. Until he speaks, and then everything matters a whole awful lot.

  “I’m inclined to agree.”

  That knife I was thinking about earlier? It’s there, lodged in my heart now. And I can’t bring myself to look at him.

  Of course he would agree.

  He’s the greatest artist I’ve ever known. A creator unlike any other in this room. In this entire campus, or even in this country.

  The world probably won’t see another Keller Vaughn for decades. Maybe even centuries.

  And I had expected him to be impressed with this hot mess on a canvas?

  There is pressure in my face. Behind my eyes, specifically.

  God, if my father could see me now. Nearly crying over some paint on a canvas.

  In the end, I am his daughter. So I hold it together. Like a good little soldier. Blocking out the rest of their words and observations.

  Eventually, the critiques move on to someone else, and I am left to the sanctuary of my mind. My longing for the rooftop. For the late evening hours when I can finally be free.

  When class ends, I gather up my portfolio and bag and move towards the door. But Mr. Vaughn stops me with a single word.

  “Chloe.”

  I turn and meet his gaze. Those gray eyes so stormy I feel the need to cling to him before we both get swept out to sea. There is concern in those eyes. For me. And something else. Something I can’t quite identify. But I wish I could.

  “Would you mind staying for a moment?” he asks. “I’d like to speak with you.”

  I walk to his desk and try to ignore the somersaulting of my stomach. The flutter of nerves and butterflies that I feel every time his attention lands on me. Sometimes, I catch him staring at me. But he never asks me to stay. And I have the most dreadful feeling that he’s going to tell me I’m a fraud. To get out of his class and never come back.

  “Yes?”

  “I didn’t mean to upset you,” he tells me. “During the group critique.”

  “You didn’t,” I lie.

  His brows draw together, and it surprises me a little. But it shouldn’t. He isn’t like the others. Of course he can see through my lies.

  “I meant what I said,” he explains. “I think it would be beneficial for you to expand your horizons.”

  Those words, and his voice, trigger a reaction in me. Because I want to expand my horizons. More than he could ever know.

  And right now, as I stand before him… his student and his devoted protégé, I can’t stop my eyes from traveling down the long length of his body. Solid and well defined. And even though he is thirteen years my senior, my heart beats wildly for him. For this man.

  I’ve never even been with a boy. But I never want to. I only want him. In my dreams. In my fantasies. The muse for all of my creations. The ones that are real and good and that the world will probably never see.

  “How can I help you?” he asks.

  My heart is screaming out the answer. Begging for him to set me free from this prison. But my mouth and head are doing the thing I always do best. Pushing him away. Lying. Keeping my armor safely in place.

  “I don’t know,” I answer. “I’m only taking these classes because I thought it would be easy.”

  The disappointment on his face burns worse than all of the other disappointment I’ve ever seen.

  “I see.”

  The space between us is fraught with tension, and his eyes are doing that thing they do. Moving over my face. But today, they venture a little further too. Down my body. Over my faded tee and ripped jeans. And I don’t think my heart can take it. I’m certain he can hear it. Feel it beating for him.

  “I have to go,” I tell him.

  His eyes snap back up to mine, and there is confusion on his face.

  “Of course,” he mumbles. “You should go.”

  And yet I don’t. At least not for another full minute, in which we both continue to stare at each other. He is the one who finally breaks the spell. Tearing his eyes from me as he takes a seat at his desk. Turning his attention back to his work.

  And away from me.

  Chapter Five

  Keller

  Forty-nine days.

  Until what, I can’t say.

  Only that I’m eager for this semester to be over. I try to forget the fact that I’ll be doing it all over again next year. And every year after that for the foreseeable future.

  Because I can’t see any other alternative. And because this is what I deserve.

  I still see their faces. In my mind, every day.

  The faces of the people who came to see Rellek. The ones who died in that theater because of me. I draw them in my mind, every day, so I don’t forget.

  And I always wonder if I’d responded to that man, if I’d paid more attention, if the results would be different.

  Now, I never make the same mistake. I always pay attention to my surroundings. To those around me.

  Especially her.

  Today, her shoulders are defeated in class. Her earbuds in, her head turned down and the golden halo of hair hiding her pretty and tormented face.

  I am not the only one who notices her. There are two boys in the back who have eyes on her too. I can’t be sure if it is the teacher in me or the man who tells them to get back to work.

  She misses the entire interaction altogether. And too often, during class, I find my eyes drawn to her. To the delicate curve of her neck. Her hands as they work. So precise and yet so stagnate.

  Of all of my students, I know she is the one who needs the most work. Not with the skills themselves. But with allowing herself the freedom to create without fear. Something is holding her back.

  And both the artist and the man in me want to coax it out of her, but in entirely different ways.

  Instead, I avoid her altogether. Even though I tell myself that I am here to help these students. To make a difference in someone’s life. To do something good in an effort to make up for all of the bad. I do not possess the self-control I need to guide her in the right way. I do not trust myself alone with her, and yet I know she will not open up in front of anyone else.

  The delicate butterfly. The graceful dancer. And the tortured artist.

  I want to see what it is she harbors in that mind of hers. I want to see what she can create when her potential is fully unlocked and unbridled.

  But in the back of my mind, I also know that I am not the right person to give that to her. I am the worst person to give that to her. Of that I am certain. Because I would taint her with my darkness.

  I just know. Because I can’t help myself.

  Chapter Six

  Chloe

  When I get to the studio tonight, I hesitate before going inside.

  I know he’s here. Because the room is dimly lit. And I can see his shadow on the tile floor before I even step inside.

  I should go. But I don’t want to.

  So I walk in and move to my table. The same way that I always do. My
eyes downcast. Leaving him to his solitude until I know I won’t be caught looking at him.

  But tonight is different. Because I can feel his attention on me already. Instead of on his blank paper.

  “Chloe.”

  I look up and give him a false smile as I set down my bag.

  “Mr. Vaughn.”

  “You do spend a lot of time in the studio,” he remarks. “For someone who only wants easy credit.”

  His comment catches me off guard. My cheeks burn, and I give him another awkward shrug. At a loss for words.

  Tonight, he doesn’t linger. Which both saddens and pleases me. I want him to stay. Always. But I want my art too. My secret place.

  “I’ll leave you to it then,” he says as he rises from his desk.

  Again, his eyes linger on me, and mine on him. For longer than what could be called appropriate. And I briefly wonder if he sees me as anything other than a student. As someone who is off limits.

  Those thoughts chase him out the door when he leaves without a glance back this time.

  There is tension in my chest as I gather the things I need and stuff them into my bag. And then I wait, listening to the silence.

  The building is empty and I am alone.

  So I walk down the hall and to the stairwell. My flats echo off the cavernous space as I ascend. All the way to the top. Where the only thing separating me from my freedom is the window and a fire escape.

  It isn’t easy to climb up there with my bag, but I manage. I always manage.

  And then with just a few short rungs, I step inside my own paradise.

  Brick and paint and an explosion of colors. Dancers line one of the walls already. A project I completed the first month I started coming up here. Along the opposite wall is my own version of Eden. Eve and the poisonous apple. And the half-turned face of the man who inspired this creation. There is longing in his eyes. And fire. So much fire.

  I’m still as mesmerized by the piece as I was the first time I stood back to look at the final creation. The colors are rich and vibrant, the brick a perfect backdrop. The ultimate canvas.

  And one that only I can see.

  Nobody ever comes up here. To this space. It is mine. To do with as I please. To create and be free.

  I set down my bag and remove the materials for my newest creation. The walls were the icing. A decoration. But as I unroll the paper on the rooftop beneath me, this is the blank space of my masterpiece.

  Next comes my iPod. With the recordings I have stitched together myself. Taken from countless years of practice sessions. The videos that were intended to teach me where my weaknesses lay.

  Now I use them for something else. I use them to set myself on fire.

  My clothes come off next. Until only a pair of hot-pants and a sports bra remain. The music begins to play first. Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake. And then my father’s voice.

  I douse myself and the canvas beneath me in colored chalk and paint. And then I light myself on fire. Moving. Feeling. Self-destructing and resurrecting all in time to the beat of his voice.

  Weak.

  Pathetic.

  Broken.

  Disgrace.

  Toil, bleed, collapse, repeat.

  Again.

  One. Two. Three. Four.

  Perfection is not a gift.

  Five. Six. Seven. Eight.

  It is forged through the endless repayment of your blood, sweat, and tears.

  Repeat.

  Fracture is a sign of weakness.

  Snap.

  I will accept nothing less than excellence.

  Snap.

  Sugar has no place in your mouth or on your thighs.

  Snap.

  Toil, bleed, collapse, repeat.

  Toil, bleed, collapse, repeat.

  The words move through me. Forging my creation. The fusion of art and movement. The thing that makes me feel free. The place I channel all of my hatred for him. For his expectations.

  And for myself.

  The rhythm is endless. The beat never stops. Even when the music has ceased and I crumple to my knees, breathless. It is there in my mind, keeping time. Always keeping time.

  The world around me does not exist.

  Not until I open my eyes and meet his. And then everything becomes real again. Too real.

  His eyes are moving over me. Over my art. Over the walls all around us. And over the most intimate part of me that nobody was ever supposed to see.

  Least of all him.

  I can’t catch my breath. And before I can think, I am moving.

  Running.

  Towards the fire escape.

  Away from him. Away from everything.

  But he catches me around the arm. His grip is unyielding, and I can smell his cologne before he even turns me around to face him. To face all of him.

  “Chloe?”

  There is confusion on his face. So much confusion. A demand for answers. Answers that I don’t have to give.

  I want him to feel vulnerable, in this moment. The way that I do. So I say the only thing I can think of.

  “Rellek.”

  His grip on me tightens, and his eyes move lower. Lower.

  As though he is only now realizing how little clothing I have on, and how close our bodies are. His heat mingling with mine on this cool rooftop beneath the moon.

  “Do you like it?” I ask.

  “What?” his eyes snap back to mine.

  And I lean up on my toes and do the thing that I’ve wanted to for a long time. I kiss him. And he kisses me back. Yanking my body close to his. So close I can feel the amount of his want for me. Pressed against my stomach.

  We devour each other. For two of the best minutes of my entire life.

  And then it all goes away. Because he takes it away.

  Retreating from me and shaking himself out of it.

  “Chloe…”

  His tone is agonized. Apologetic.

  “Don’t,” I tell him. “Don’t tell me it’s wrong.”

  My eyes move to his trousers. And he shifts his body away to hide himself, scrubbing a hand through his hair.

  “I’m your professor. This can never happen.”

  “It already did,” I reply. “It’s happening every day. You can’t look at me right now and tell me that isn’t true.”

  “I’ve never been inappropriate with you,” he answers.

  “But you wanted to. And I wanted you to.”

  His eyes move back to me, and I can see he wants to argue. But the words don’t come.

  “I shouldn’t have come up here,” he says. “I just wanted to check on you.”

  And then he moves away from me. Down the fire escape and out of my sight.

  Leaving me to the cold and bitter night.

  Chapter Seven

  Chloe

  For the next seven days, he uses avoidance to deal with what happened between us.

  I continue to dance. And I continue to decline. It is not even intentional on my part. But the pressure. I can’t handle the pressure. The ceaseless ticking of the clock above my head. My shelf life as a dancer. The repression of the one thing I want most. Isabel is on my case. My father is calling me incessantly. And I am spending more time than ever up on the roof.

  My figure drawing for the class has not improved either. But it doesn’t matter. It never matters what they think.

  That’s what I tell myself.

  Until today’s group critique. When Mr. Vaughn sees the piece and frowns.

  It’s another dancer. Graceful and elegant and the perfect picture of the same thing you could buy on a canvas at any chain store. The ones that little girls hang in their room when they dream of the ballet. It is not my best. It is just an imitation of my best. A shadow.

  And before any of the other students can even jump in to give their thoughts, Mr. Vaughn makes his loud and clear with a simple word.

  “No.”
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  I blink up at him, and so do some of the other students. Mr. Vaughn has always been calm. His guidance has always been well mannered. But right now, it most certainly is not. And his calm is nowhere to be found, replaced by sudden anger.

  “You can do better than this, Chloe.”

  I grate my teeth and bite back my own anger as I watch him observing my piece with disdain.

  “I did the best I could,” I reply. “I thought this was open to interpretation.”

  “No,” he says again.

  One of the girls next to me shuffles uncomfortably and scoots away as though I don’t belong here. She’s right.

  “If you want to stay in my class, you need to put in an effort.”

  Tears burn the back of my eyes, but I don’t let him see that. I don’t let any of them see that.

  I simply gather up my portfolio and my bag and I give him what he obviously wants.

  I leave the room, taking my wounded pride with me.

  ***

  It has been three days since I’ve been up to the roof.

  Since I walked out of his class and retreated back into myself. Into the only identity I know.

  I am dancing better than I ever have. Isabel is pleased. She says I am showing great improvement from the scare I gave her the week before. And suddenly, all is right with the world again.

  I tell myself it’s for the best. That this is what I was always bound for. Dancing, and dancing alone. My father will be happy. Mr. Vaughn will be happy.

  Everyone wins.

  My art has fallen by the wayside. And when I come up to the roof this evening, it is with only one intention in mind.

  I’m going to destroy it. All of it.

  That is what I set out to do.

  But when I arrive that urge is replaced by something else. Because there on the wall opposite me, in my vision of the garden of Eden, Eve has been reborn.

  Repainted.

  Into a likeness of me so startling and intense, the breath slips from my lungs and my feet cannot move. It is too much for my mind to comprehend. To take in. And yet, I can’t look away. She is exquisite. Angelic. Pure and intoxicating by nature.