My fingers are covered in oils, and I’m sure my nose has a streak of rosy pink going down the center. “Mmmm,” Professor Rodrigo says, pausing at my easel. “Mmmmm.” And then he walks away. I really wish I could figure out the difference between the good ‘Mmmm’ and the bad ‘Mmmm.’ “It drives me crazy when he does that,” a girl says to me. She’s delicate-looking, her features fine, porcelain skin with long blonde curls that tumble romantically down to her waist. She has soft periwinkle eyes, and she’s covered in paint. “I never know if it’s good or bad.” “I know,” I whisper back. “He’s always cryptic. And then when he calls you up to his desk after class . . . it’s . . .” “Frightening,” the girl next to me says. “Last time he told me I was holding myself back. That I had to find my voice.” “Like that’s so easy to do.” “Exactly,” she says. “I’ll just snap my fingers and I’ll totally get it. And what’s worse is that I thought I wasn’t holding back.
