Page 20

Chapter 20

Easy A

Keene

I knew the second I signed up for this class that it was a huge mistake. I needed one last art or literature class to graduate. I’ve been delaying this until the last possible second, because I hate these types of classes. Give me numbers and cold, hard data all day long. But don’t torture me with essays or even worse, art.

Unfortunately, there was a delay with the transfer of my credits from the online university I’ve been attending while on active duty. That meant that when I was finally ready to register for the classes I’m gonna take this semester, all the best stuff was gone.

When I saw that there was room in this Intro to Visual Arts class, I jumped on it. I was under the assumption that it was going to be an easy class. All I expected to do was spend the weekly class looking at paintings and discussing how they made me feel.

Boy, was I wrong.

This class isn’t about discussing visual art. It’s about making art. Talking to Connor, I found out that I’m not the only student who signed up without reading the class description.

When I turned up for the first class, and I found myself in front of an easel and a blank canvas, I realized my mistake. By then, however, it was too late.

Even if I had wanted to drop out, all the other arts or literature classes available to seniors were full.

So I accepted my fate.

Our teacher, Professor Elena Cantucci, is an expert in modern art with a real hard-on for the Impressionists, Cubism and Van Gogh.

We’ve been studying Picasso and Dali for about a month now and our professor has been going on and on about how these great artists portrayed reality from a unique point of view.

She then assigned us a project. We had to paint something we feel passionate about. No restrictions on style or type of colors used. The only stipulation is that it has to be on a canvas.

I think I did a very decent job with my painting. I made a portrait of Poonani napping on the rail of our deck.

Professor Cantucci is a rail-thin woman with long, wavy blonde hair. I could place her age anywhere from mid-forties to early sixties. She’s still in excellent shape, and she emphasizes that by wearing short skirts and sky-high stiletto heels.

I watch her with trepidation as she walks around the room to evaluate our canvases and stops to discuss each student’s work, assigning a grade at the end of the discussion. We’re all encouraged to participate, and the atmosphere in the classroom is relaxed and easygoing. I have to wonder if her reputation is just one of those academic myths that has no element of truth whatsoever. The professor who’s supposed to terrorize her students is actually joking and laughing. She stops at a certain point to tell us a story of when she was invited to touch the famous Sunflowers painting at the Van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam.

“The museum’s director was very obviously flirting with me, but I said yes. I mean, wouldn’t you? I was allowed to touch greatness. The experience was so intense, so transcendental, that I fainted. Can you believe it? I had never understood how teenagers could faint in front of their favorite rockstar, and there I was. A forty-year-old woman fainting, touching the canvas of one of the biggest geniuses in modern art. Just the power that exuded from each brush stroke was…” she shudders. “Anyway. Please don’t go around touching famous paintings like that. You will be arrested. If you really want to touch your favorite painting, ask for permission first. You might have to do a little flirting, but true art is worth it.”

She continues going from canvas to canvas, praising the work and effort of each student, finding common elements between each work and the art in this year’s syllabus.

“Mr. McKendrick,” she smiles, stopping at my side. “Or should I call you Sergeant McKendrick?”

I clear my throat. “Keene will do, Professor. I left active duty to finish my studies.”

The professor moves a lock of wavy blonde hair off her shoulder with a slim, manicured hand. “Nevertheless, please accept my gratitude for your service.”

I nod, my tongue tied. I never know what to say when someone thanks me for my service. It’s nice, but I didn’t join the army out of some idealistic view of life. I needed a honest way to support my family and hopefully continue my studies, and the army was my best option.

Of course, I know better than to say any of that to Professor Cantucci.

“Well then,” she smiles, turning her attention to my canvas. “Let’s see what you painted for us. Hmm, interesting choice. Surrealism is absolutely one of my favorite trends. I can clearly see how you’ve been influenced by The Persistence Of Memory in your work. But rather than a clock, you distorted a car tire. The strokes of your brush are?—”

I should let her speak. Everyone today has gotten an A or a B so far. My First Sergeant always said that I need to think before I speak and that my big mouth one day will cause me more harm than good. Today would have been one of those occasions in which I should have bitten my tongue and let my art professor drone on about the melting tire on my canvas.

“Actually,” the words leave my mouth before I can stop them. “That isn’t a tire, and it isn’t melting.”

“Oh?” the professor stops talking, clearly taken aback. “It isn’t?”

I shake my head, instantly regretting that I didn’t keep quiet. “No. That’s my cat. She’s sunbathing on our deck here on campus.”

The woman’s thick, long eyelashes flutter as she tilts her head to take a closer look at my painting. “Why on Earth would you melt your cat in a painting? If you need help with trauma experienced on the battlefield, I can point you toward some excellent resources here on campus. I’m also sure the military has help available for any service members who?—”

“I didn’t melt my cat.” I explain. “That isn’t my attempt at surrealism, Professor. And while I appreciate your concern, I don’t have PTSD. That’s just a portrait of my cat sunbathing on the rail of our deck. It’s just straight figurative art. I decided to go for realism and paint Poonani during her favorite activity.”

“What did you just call me?” the professor’s eyes narrow as her slight body tenses.

“Poonani is my cat’s name, ma’am.”

Professor Cantucci crosses her arms over her chest, staring at my work as if it had personally offended her. “You’re telling me that’s supposed to be a cat?”

I nod again. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Stop calling me ma’am!” she snaps. “I was clear you can call me Professor Cantucci or Elena. I should call animal protection if that’s a realistic portrait of your cat. I don’t even know which part is the front and which is the rear of that poor animal. It’s either you suck at drawing, or your cat is being abused. Which option is it?”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “That’s the front, and that’s Poonani’s tail, ma—Professor Cantucci. And I treat my cat like a princess.”

The teacher doesn’t look convinced. “I beg to differ.” She points a finger to Poonani’s lounging form. “Whichever end is the front, that must be her spine. That cat doesn’t look right.”

I open my mouth to explain that Poonani loves to lie down in the oddest positions I’ve ever seen, but someone intervenes before I can set the record straight.

“He’s telling the truth, Elena.” Tucker says from behind his canvas in the last row. “Keene loves that cat more than anything else in the world. He brought her home all the way from his last deployment.”

“I’m sure Keene can speak for himself without your help, Prescott.” The professor snaps. “And by the way, how do you know how he treats his cat?”

I close my eyes, knowing that there’s no way to stop Tucker from disclosing something I wasn’t hiding, but I haven’t exactly advertised with Professor Cantucci.

“Because we’re teammates.” He says. “Poonani is the unofficial mascot of the hockey team, after Keene brought her with him to summer training. He adores that grumpy little kitty cat. I swear, if there was a fire and Keene had to choose between saving Poonani or the Stanley Cup, he’d let the trophy burn.”

Professor Cantucci considers Tucker’s words. Her eyes flit between me and my canvas. “Very well. I hadn’t realized you were an athlete, Mr. McKendrick. That explains a lot.”

Jesus, fuck. I’m almost afraid to ask what kind of conclusion the professor has reached, but I don’t have to.

“I should have known you were a collegiate athlete.” Her eyes sweep up and down the length of my body, assessing me the same way she was assessing my work a few moments ago. This time, however, I see a different reaction. Even though I have to give it to the professor, she hides her appreciation pretty well.

It’s a fleeting reaction, however, and it’s gone as soon as she blinks. “So, class, let’s discuss the appropriate grade for Mr. McKendrick’s work. My assessment would be different if we were looking at surrealism or even abstract work. But your colleague has stated clearly that he intended to portray his cat to a realistic likeness. With that in mind, what grade would you say he deserves?”

“An A.” Tucker says. “If you had met Poonani, you’d know how hard it is to get that little hellion to sit still long enough to draw her.”

I appreciate Tucker’s attempt to help me, but it falls on deaf ears.

Professor Cantucci turns to look at the rest of the class. “Would anyone else care to weigh in? Please keep in mind the hesitant brush strokes and the pedestrian use of color. There’s no shading, no study of how light would affect the scene captured on canvas. Maybe Mr. McKendrick has spent too much time playing hockey, because that black blob perilously perched on a wobbly rail resembles more a puck than a cat.”

Silence descends into the classroom, but our professor isn’t satisfied with the lack of participation and insists.

“Anyone care to give me their opinion? Let me remind you that participation in our discussions accounts for ten percent of your final grade.”

Someone clears their throat.

I recognize her from one of the Zetas parties. I think the girl is called Heather.

“I guess the work needs to be refined. As it is, it has a rough charm to it that still draws the eye despite being a little two dimensional.” She grimaces when she says the last part. Her eyes meet mine and I see sympathy in her gaze. “I would appreciate Keene’s effort and give him a C.”

Sorry . She mouths when the professor turns to take another look at my canvas.

I shake my head. I know she couldn’t have graded it any higher, since our teacher obviously doesn’t like it.

“A C?” the professor chuckles. Her tone is kind when she addresses Heather. “Miss Pullin, I understand what you’re doing. Kindness is definitely commendable, but grades have to be fair. They need to reflect the quality of the work presented, and the effort put into the work. We’ve talked about light and perspective since our first class in August. Most of you have applied what you’ve learned in your first project. Because most of you take this class seriously. Unfortunately, the same thing can’t be said for some of you who enrolled in my class thinking that they would get an A just for showing up. Maybe because art class was an easy A in high school. A class athletes would take to keep their GPAs high enough to make them eligible to play.”

Professor Cantucci looks straight into my eyes when she says that. Her lips curl into a triumphant smile when my shoulders slump.

I wonder why she hates athletes. The reason, however, doesn’t matter.

“If you chose this class expecting an A just for gracing us with your presence,” her tone hardens as she zeroes in on me. “I’m afraid you’re in for a rude awakening. Grades in this class are earned through understanding of the curriculum and hard work. Taking that into consideration, I’m afraid this portrait of your cat deserves an F.”

I don’t know what kind of reaction Professor Cantucci expects, but I’ve been yelled at by higher ranking NCOs and officers in way more stressful situations, so I keep my cool.

The problem is that this project accounts for twenty percent of our final grade, and an F puts me at risk of failing this class. That would be a disaster because it would mean not graduating and also, since this class lasts only one semester, failing it would make me ineligible to play hockey. The school is adamant that all collegiate athletes are mandated to maintain a minimum C average in every class. Scholarship students are held to even higher standards.

I think Professor Cantucci is trying to get a reaction from me. She’s trying to bait me into being disrespectful or into a fight. So I don’t give her one. I keep my mouth shut and endure the rest of the class as she moves on.

By the end of class, I’m pretty sure that the rumor about her bias against student athletes has some truth to it. While I’m the only F, pretty much everyone gets A’s and B’s. The only other exceptions are Tucker, who gets a C minus and a girl on the volleyball team who gets a C.

The professor begins talking about abstract art and how to represent our reality through a different lens than figurative art. She shows us several examples of different currents of abstract works and then assigns us a new project due in six weeks.

I wait until everyone files out of the classroom and approach the professor, who’s still putting away her laptop and the rest of her things.

I’m pretty sure she’s aware of me, standing a few steps away from her desk, but she makes a point of pretending that I’m not there.

“Oh,” she lifts her gaze to meet mine as she zips up her laptop bag. “Mr. McKendrick, can I help you?”

My fists are clenched with the effort of keeping my tone as polite as possible. “I wonder if there’s a way I could submit another work for this project? I’ll take your feedback into account and I’m sure I can improve my grade.”

That last part was obviously the wrong thing to say, because the professor’s lips twist into a thin, angry line. “And why would you think I should allow you to redo this project, Mr. McKendrick? Is it because you think this is a filler class, or because your status as one of the stars of this school’s hockey team makes you special?”

Fuck.

I rack my brain, searching for a way to defuse this landmine. This is a trap. There’s no right answer here.

The only way to salvage this situation is to ignore her loaded question. “I don’t expect special treatment,” I begin, and I know I already fucked up when her smile widens.

“Good. I guess that then answers your question. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m on my way to a department meeting.”

When she takes a step toward the door, I step to the side, putting myself in her way. I hate to use my size to intimidate anyone, especially a woman, but I can’t afford to keep getting F’s in this class. The professor obviously hates athletes and has taken a dislike of me after today. I need to find a way to fix this.

“Please ma’am… I mean, professor. If I can’t fix this grade, I need to improve my performance for the new project you just assigned. I’m sure you appreciate that failing this class could mean suspension from the hockey team.”

She’s perfectly aware of it. “Then take this class seriously. Participate in our discussions and make sure you give yourself plenty of time to plan and execute your next project. Each lesson will give you more guidance on the kind of quality I expect to see in your works.”

That doesn’t help one bit. But I can’t say that. I choose my words carefully. “With all respect, professor, that’s what I did with the portrait I presented today. You might find it hard to believe, but I’ve been working on that painting since the day you assigned it.”

It’s the truth, whether she believes it or not.

“Well, Keene,” she laughs. “If that’s the kind of quality you can produce in six weeks, maybe you’re in the wrong class.”

I’m starting to agree with her. “Maybe. But if I fail this class, I’m not just going to lose my eligibility to play. I’m on track to graduate in May, but I need your class to do it.”

“No, you don’t. You can drop out and take another art or literature class next semester. Easy fix.” She shrugs.

Panic begins surging in me, but I push it down. “My next semester is packed, and…”

“And the hockey season will enter in its final phase. Especially if the team makes the playoffs.” She finishes.

I nod. “Yeah. I need to pass this class this semester. Please, I’ll do anything you require from me. I’ll hire a tutor, anything you deem necessary to get a final passing grade.”

To my surprise, Professor Cantucci doesn’t shoot me down. I guess I humiliated myself enough to appease her, at least enough to take pity on me. “There isn’t any tutoring available for visual arts, I’m afraid.” She muses. “And I don’t have time to give you extra lessons. Let’s face it, I doubt your grade is going to improve by doing the same thing you’ve been doing with the project you just presented. However, if you spent some extra time painting under some kind of guidance…”

I have no idea where she’s going with that, but I’m desperate. “I’m willing to do anything you think will help me pass this class.”

Professor Cantucci opens a side pocket of her laptop bag, handing me a flier. “Tomorrow night is the grand opening of the new Art Center sponsored by Zeta Theta Beta. I’m one of the faculty patrons of this project. As a past Zeta sister, I’m excited about bringing art to the masses. Especially to those students who haven’t made it a priority in their academic careers. I helped create the schedule for the classes and activities offered at the new center. There’s a free art workshop that runs twice a week, and I think it’s the right place for you to get more in touch with your inner artist. If you produce one project each week, and I see some tangible improvement, I’m willing to take one of those projects as extra credit and bump up your F to a C.”

That sounds like a real pain in the ass, and something that will make my already packed schedule even more taxing. But beggars can’t be choosers, so I have to do what it takes.

“I’ll have to see if these workshops are available at times I can attend.” I say, studying the leaflet. “I understand the importance of making up that grade, but between classes, hockey practices, and games once the season starts next week…”

The professor interrupts me. “The workshop goes from two to eight pm on Mondays and Wednesdays. That should give you ample opportunity to devote at least one hour each day and create something new every week. The center hired a student instructor who’s going to be there to offer help, guidance, and teach some basic techniques. I just interviewed them first thing this morning and I’m confident you’ll get the basic knowledge you’re lacking right now. One original work every week, Keene. And I expect you to get at least a B on the next assignment. Take this seriously, or you can forget passing my class. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

I watch as the professor walks out of the classroom.

I’m not excited about this extra work, but I meant it when I said that I’m willing to do whatever it takes to graduate at the end of this academic year.

Besides, since Bex has moved into our condo, I’ve spent all my spare time in my room or in the library. At first, it was to avoid bumping into her. But since she’s started seeing Jamie, the only way I can tolerate being home is to use noise canceling earphones to avoid hearing the moans coming from whichever bedroom they’re in.

I can’t believe she turned Jamie Hart, the school’s playboy, into a relationship guy in a matter of a few days. I mean fuck, she’s gorgeous. But Jamie has been going from one gorgeous woman to another ever since I met my teammates at summer training. What can Bex have to change Jamie on a dime?

I walk out of the Art History building in a foul mood. Since Luke’s sister moved in, I can’t even have some peace and quiet. I wish there was a way to send Bex back where she came from.