voice, “Absolutely, Professor Locke. It’s the right bracket. And, if I might add,” he clears his throat and looks over at me quickly before continuing, “I find this class incredibly fascinating.”
“Thank you, Mr. Ruiz.” Professor Locke’s voice is dry. I wonder if he’s thinking suck-up, like I am. He turns back to me. “Perhaps Mr. Ruiz can give you a few pointers. Or here’s a thought, and this is for the whole class—maybe you all can actually practice the material before you come to class?”
A few giggles ring out, muted. Now the burn in my face is embarrassment. He didn’t have to be such a jerk about it—and I do know the material.
“I…”
But he’s talking again. “Your next assignment is to create a self-portrait entirely in Photoshop. You can use photographs, text, shapes, textures—let your creativity be your guide.” His voice is urgent and compelling. “Full details will be on my page in the portal.”
I know I’m not the only person in this class who has a crush on him—I see the way the others look at him.
But beyond his face, there’s something mesmerizing about the way he gets into the material, making it come alive. I’m already inspired to start work on my assignment, because—like Mr. Ruiz—I find this class fascinating.
When I’m not napping, that is. I sigh.
The bell rings and the class snaps into instant disarray, people chattering like a light switch turned them on, closing laptops, stowing gear. There’s one man in his sixties, but most students in this class skew to the late teens and very early twenties. I doubt most of them are even old enough to legally drink.
The professor looks Hispanic, like I am. And it seems like he’s about five years older than my twenty-five, probably close to thirty—how weird is that? He’s accomplished so much in the same time I’ve done, well, nothing.
At least I’m doing this now.
I don’t have a laptop case, so I wrap my precious computer in a strip of bubble wrap I saved from the warehouse and slide it into my canvas grocery store tote. Then I look up to see if Professor Locke is still there.
He is. And he’s staring right at me. “One minute, Miss Garcia?” He raises a brow.
“Certainly.” I brush down my jeans and straighten my shoulders, hoping my attraction to him isn’t broadcasting like a lighthouse.
The reverberations of heels down the shiny hallway fade as the group, jolly with freedom, scatters into the world, and the intensity of the new silence makes me catch my breath.
I assume he’s going to chastise me for being lazy. Instead, he turns to his laptop and taps a key. “Your application caught my eye.”
“What? I mean, it did?” I adjust the canvas bag on my shoulder. “How so?”
He twists the laptop. “This. You painted this—by yourself?”
I step closer to him to see. It’s the scan I sent of my favorite recent artwork: a mural on my back wall, a dark yet colorful homage to Day of the Dead. Full of color and intricate shapes and skulls, whirling dancers, it came into my head one day fully formed and I worked for days to complete it. It’s one of my best creations, and I’m proud of it. Someday, maybe I’ll get the city planning committee to actually look at my ideas and let me paint murals around town.
“Yes, I did. I hope you’re not implying I plagiarized it or paid someone else to do it.” I narrow my eyes, heart racing.
It wouldn’t be the first time someone underappreciated me, and I’m sick of it. At the same time, just being this close to him is sending all kinds of tingles through my body.
“I’m implying it’s excellent.” He gives me a stern look back, as if scolding me with his expression for assuming. “Your use of shape and color…” He breaks off and shakes his head. “It’s like a combination of the best of Lalo Cota and El Mac. Yet the sophistication on the detail is even more stunning. The color is perfectly balanced.”
“Well, thanks.” I duck my head, pride and relief mixing. Yeah, I thought it was good, too. But it’s nice to have someone real agree. Not that my Abuela isn’t real, but she loves me unconditionally. She’d like anything I created.
Professor Locke regards me evenly. “And I have to ask myself why someone so talented is barely paying attention in class.”
I shift. “It won’t happen again.”
“That’s not an explanation.” He crosses his arms. I swear to