‘I’m from New Hampshire,’ Ryan said softly. He was smiling. ‘A small town in the countryside.’
‘Take out your sketch pads,’ Mrs Link interrupted, handing a blank one to Ryan. ‘Today we will be sketching portraits. Face and upper torso.’
I felt my stomach clench. This was awful. I was going to have to sketch Ryan’s face. I was terrible at art in general, but I was particularly bad at drawing people. Mrs Link chose a boy from the front of the room as her partner and then modelled how to approach the task.
‘Thirty minutes each,’ she told us.
‘Do you want to model first or draw first?’ Ryan asked.
Both options sounded bad. I figured that if I sketched last, I might not have to show him my effort. ‘I’ll model.’
I didn’t know where to look. I looked out of the window. I looked at the art on the wall and then at the door.
‘Do you think you could keep still?’ Ryan asked.
‘I’m sorry. I find it hard not to fidget.’
‘Maybe you could find something to look at.’
I shrugged and looked around the room, trying to find something interesting. ‘What would you like me to look at?’
‘You could just look at me.’ He must have spotted the look of horror on my face. It would be impossible for me to maintain eye contact with him without blushing brightly. ‘Or you could look out of that window.’
I chose the window. There wasn’t a lot to focus on: just a palm tree swaying slightly and a breeze-block wall. Mrs Link put on some slow jazz that was clearly designed to be relaxing. Piano and trumpet. I tried to think myself somewhere else. I thought about the beach party that Amy was planning. I thought about my Aunt Miranda and her boyfriend, Travis, who she was crazy about. And then I thought about the good-looking boy opposite me who was intently sketching my image. I could feel the colour burning my cheeks still.
‘Why don’t you take off your sweater?’ Ryan said after a few minutes.
‘Excuse me?’
‘You look like you’re burning up. Are you feeling OK?’
‘I’m fine,’ I said. ‘Just a little hot.’
His attention was making it so much worse.
‘Then take off your sweater.’
‘Won’t that mess up your sketch?’
He shook his head. ‘I’m still working on your face.’
Slowly, I pulled my sweater over my head, ensuring my school shirt didn’t rise up with it. I unbuttoned the top of my shirt and loosened my tie, knowing full well that it wouldn’t make the slightest difference to the colour of my face.
‘I have high colouring,’ I said.
Ryan skimmed his eyes from my chest to my face, finally resting on my eyes. He smiled and continued drawing. I tried to focus on the music, but it was slow and achingly romantic and, ridiculously, I found myself imagining what it would be like to dance with Ryan, the two of us barefoot, the sun setting over the sea, while this piece of music played in the background. I picked up my sketch pad and waved it in front of my face, trying to cool myself down.
‘Does the school have a science club?’ Ryan asked.
‘There’s a revision club after school. It’s for people who need to improve their grades.’
Ryan frowned. ‘Isn’t there anything else? A club for people who love the subject?’
‘Not really. Unless you count astronomy. I guess that’s science. My friend Connor goes.’
Ryan put down his pencil and looked at me. ‘Connor?’
‘You met him at lunch. He’s the blond boy who stopped you and asked about your accent.’
Ryan nodded. ‘That sounds perfect. When does it meet?’
‘Fridays. Mr Chinn runs it. Connor will be able to tell you more.’
Ryan was looking at me intently. ‘That’s just what I’m looking for. What’s Connor’s surname? I need to catch up with him.’
‘Penrose. He’s one of my best friends. I’ll introduce you.’
‘Thanks.’ He picked up his sketchbook and began to scratch his pencil across the paper. I looked at the palm tree again.
A waft of hazelnut coffee alerted me to Mrs Link’s approach.
‘Very good, Ryan,’ she said. ‘You’ve captured her expression beautifully.’
After thirty minutes of unbearable self-consciousness, Mrs Link told us to switch roles. I wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or mortified.
‘How do you want me?’ Ryan asked, his eyes twinkling playfully.
‘I don’t mind.’
I didn’t know where to begin. I looked at his eyes: brown. Not muddy brown or coffee brown or dirty brown. His eyes were all the colours of autumn leaves brown. Closest to the pupil they were a rich chestnut, further out a deep copper. Near the whites of his eyes they were almost gold. They were the most beautiful eyes I’d ever looked at, and they were looking at me with amusement.
‘Actually, maybe it would be better if you looked out of the window,’ I said.
‘At that tree?’
‘That would be fine.’
‘What sort of tree is that?’
‘Just a palm tree,’ I said with a shrug.
I tried to capture the shape of Ryan’s eyes. But I couldn’t. They were just eye-shaped. I could explain in words that they were open, warm, smiling, but I couldn’t transcribe those thoughts on to paper.
I tried to sketch his hair. It was light brown, with a rich warmth. If I was talented, I would have chosen twelve different shades of brown and blended them together. It was pushed back from his forehead so that it fell in all directions. I used my pencil to try and show the various directions that his hair fell, but the result on my pad just looked chaotic.
I went for a generic oval face shape, confident that I wouldn’t be able to capture anything resembling his cheekbones and square jaw. The face on the page looked like the efforts of an eight-year-old child and I toyed with the idea of ripping my pad into shreds. Sighing inwardly, I moved on to his body. He was angled slightly away from me, gazing at the lone palm tree outside the art room window. He had taken off his jumper and rolled up his sleeves and I noticed the golden hair on his forearms. His arms were slightly clenched and his hands in fists. The muscles stood out, like taut rope. I followed his body upwards. The shape of his chest was clearly defined through his shirt. It looked hard and muscular.
‘Do you work out?’ I asked.
‘No,’ he said, sounding a little confused. I saw him notice me looking at his chest.
‘You seem pretty muscular.’ The words slipped out before my internal censor had a chance to stop them.
He raised an eyebrow. ‘Is that good?’
I blushed. ‘It doesn’t make a difference. I won’t be able to draw it. Art is my weakest subject.’
‘Can I see what you’ve done?’
‘Absolutely not.’
All too quickly the minutes passed and it was time for us to peer-assess our portraits. Mrs Link wanted us to identify what had gone well, and a target for development.
‘Here you go,’ Ryan said, pushing his sketch towards me.
It was good. The girl in the picture was biting her lower lip while gazing into the middle distance. Her long wavy hair was unruly and her eyes were intense. The shading on her cheeks suggested a slight blush of embarrassment. It was me all right. A much more attractive version of me.
‘So what went well?’ Ryan asked, smiling crookedly.
‘I like the movement in her hair,’ I said. ‘You’ve captured that really well.’
He smiled and thanked me. ‘So what’s my target?’
‘I don’t know. She looks too perfect. She doesn’t look real.’
‘I draw what I see.’
I bit my lip, unsure how to respond. ‘I wish I looked that good,’ I said eventually, shrugging my shoulders and smiling in what I hoped was a self-deprecating way.
‘Let’s see your sketch then.’
I pushed my sketch pad in front of him. ‘I’ll be happy with two targets for improvement. I’m well aware that nothing went well.’