Robin des Bois ✓

twenty-nine. Friends

I wandered aimlessly in the large white rooms of the gallery, my eyes skimming over the paintings and sculptures artfully scattered about, not quite catching on anything.

I'd put on a yellow sundress and felt ridiculously out of place –most people milling about wore elegant cocktail dresses in dark, muted tones, as if to not interfere with the vivacity of the art all around, and carried flutes of champagne in hand. I tried to tuck my neck in between my shoulders, tried to be as small as I could make myself –I wanted to disappear into myself, vanish into the black hole at the very center of my being.

As the sole splash of color, and with the whirlwind of loose curls and my toenails painted a flashy orange, I couldn't help but feel so very garish.

I finally decided to seek out what I initially came for.

It wasn't hard to find.

The painting encompassed an entire wall. It was a woman, half naked, lounging on a loveseat languidly, her eyes half shut, a Mona Lisa smile dancing on her lips. It was sensual, beautiful, enrapturing –the vivid colors and the masterful technique truly took your breath away. No wonder this had been the best project in our class –it bespoke of a talent that couldn't be learned. You were either born with it or not.

I glanced at the small plaque with the artist's name. Julia Wong. I vaguely remembered her. She was petite, unassuming, wore thick-rimmed glasses and barely ever spoke up. I'd felt a sort of kinship with her –among all the other art majors, we were the two loners, mostly quiet and so it had connected us somehow –we'd spoken a couple of times during the year, mostly to share our anxiety over projects and exams. I'd seen myself in her, that unsure, slightly haunted look in her eyes suggesting that she wasn't sure whether she really belonged there, with all these flamboyant, expressive people. If anything, this painting proved that she had nothing to worry about –she belonged, there was no doubt about it.

It was a wonder, truly, how someone so small and quiet could create something so majestic, so bright and bursting with life.

Even now, as I searched for her among the crowd, I found Julia standing in a corner near a statue of a headless man, who held his severed head in his hands, covering his own eyes.

She looked tense, her eyes darting about, as if she wasn't sure what she was doing there. When she saw me approaching she smiled tentatively, relaxing slightly after she recognized a familiar face.

"Thank you for coming," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "This is all so nerve-wracking, I literally threw up this morning."

"Your painting is..." I struggled to find the right words. "Amazing. Really. You're so talented, it's almost unfair to the rest of us."

She smiled weakly. "Ah, well, thanks. I'm glad you think so. I spent almost every minute of every day up until the deadline on this and nearly failed the History of Art final to finish it. At least it paid off, I guess."

"It did. It's really incredible."

She was about to say something else, but then Mrs. Locke appeared next to us and she closed her mouth with a nearly audible snap and paled slightly.

"Oh, Isis! How nice to see you here. I'm glad you came over to show support to your classmate."

I was almost too surprised that the professor remembered my name to answer. "Uh, hi. Yeah." I retreated a couple of steps.

"Well, congrats Julia, I'm glad I got to see your project. I'll get to the other stuff here!" I waved awkwardly and hurried away, leaving a bewildered looking Julia with Mrs. Locke, who had launched into an animated monologue about the virtues of layering oil paint.