It was Wednesday morning, and I was in a damn good mood as I strolled across campus. I’d gotten through that one class with that cocky bastard and now I never had to see him again.

Imagine my surprise when I walked into the all-too-familiar drawing studio and saw none other than him there again.

I nearly spit out my coffee. How was it possible that he could be even more attractive today? God, he looked even more beautiful than he had last time. I had to purposefully avert my eyes to avoid looking at this golden god with the perfect body. And despite my highest hopes, that strange connection, that magnetic pull towards him, was still there.

However, he did have this glow about him filled with… happiness? That held my intrigue. But there was also something I sensed in the air that wasn’t quite right.

Carefully, I walked around him, taking extra care not to make eye contact as I made my way to my usual desk.

I plucked out my art supplies from my carrying case and unfurled my giant drawing pad, ready to get this over with.

A prickling feeling plucked at the back of my neck; I could feel his eyes boring into the back of my head.

Then I felt the heat rise into my cheeks.

The rest of the class filed in, but the tension did not go away. I began fiddling with my kneaded eraser, pressing the gray blob into different shapes. But each shape that formed continued to remind me of the strong curves of the adonis standing in the middle of the classroom.

As the hustling died down and everyone took their seats, Professor Washburn swept into classroom to make announcements as usual.

“Class!” She started with a wicked glint in her eye, “I’m making this announcement because many of you in this class are my mentees,” she began. “As you know, I’ve been working with the other professors here to assign projects that will fit the strengths of each student. And perhaps fill in the gaps where they’re lacking.”

The class fell silent. At least half us us were seniors, and we were paying attention with a surprising amount of focus.

I started picking at my cuticles as Professor Washburn began writing each senior’s name on the board.

Chancing a sideways glance at Evan, he quickly looked away.

Had he been staring at me?!

But then the professor wrote “Sam Belle” on the whiteboard with a fresh green marker and my eyes were back on her.

“All the seniors are going to be assigned a theme, and that theme is central to what each of you is lacking as an artist.” She wrote the last senior’s name on the board with a dash next to it.

“That isn’t to say that you’re bad at anything,” she continued, “It’s meant to pick on areas of your crafts which, if mastered, could take you from excellence to world-class!”

I winced as I felt a sharp twinge of pain on my finger. Looking down, I saw that I’d picked my cuticle so much that I was bleeding.

“Shit…” I hissed under my breath.

Just when I was about to get up and retrieve a bandaid from the first aid kid on the wall, Evan appeared next to me. He held out a piece of paper towel.

I looked up at him, puzzled, and took it gently from his hand. “Thanks,” I mumbled.

He winked and gave me a thumbs-up, then returned to his original place in the center of the room.

As Professor Washburn began to write themes for the other students, I realized that Evan must have been watching me to notice I’d hurt myself. He was probably watching me even now.

“Sam Belle!” Professor Washburn called out when she got to my name on the board, as if she was surprised I was up there, even though she’d written it less than a minute ago.

I sat up straight, my heart beating fast. Not figure drawing, not still life, please make it something interesting… I begged the universe.

She marked a dash on the board next to my name, then wrote in big loopy green letters, “Emotional Expression.”

Huh? She thought I lacked emotional expression?

Without missing a beat, she was on to filling in the next student’s challenge as if labeling me meant nothing to her.

But my mind was enveloped in turmoil. How could she think I, of all people, lacked emotional expression in my work? The art school told me the same thing when I turned in the first draft of that god-forsaken article to their marketing department so they could put it on their website. “Too stiff,” they said. Then when I revised it to make the language more liquid, they shot it back saying it was “too scientific.” When the third time came around, I got frustrated. I filled it with the most flowery, vomit-provoking language of all time, and of course they loved it and published it.

“Sam,” Professor Washburn said, leaning on the corner of my desk.

I jumped in surprise.

She carried on, either not noticing or not caring, “You saw your theme, right?” She asked, fixing me with a look of concern.

“Er… yes.” I said. “I don’t see how—”

“You have to trust us.” She implored, a knowing glint in her eye.

Then she turned to the class and announced, “You all have your themes now, right?”

There were scattered nods throughout the classroom.

“Each of you is going to take your theme,” She said, taking a few dramatic steps through the classroom, “And make a thousand unique art pieces,”

I swore I could hear the class collectively gasp.

“Based on only one model.”

“For the whole semester?!” Kelly asked in disbelief.

“For the whole semester.” Professor Washburn confirmed.

The class gasped and muttered intelligible protests. Assigning us this much work right at the end of the first semester was a low blow. People had exams to study for.

I mean, sure we knew the art school was notorious for ridiculous amount of work, but a thousand unique pieces? That was ridiculous. I mean it wasn’t uncommon to have us do fifty to a hundred thumbnails for one project, but a thousand?

If the thing that stood between me and this BFA was this assignment. I had to pass, and in order to do that, I had to channel some kind of powerful emotional expression into this project. My eyes slid over to Evan. He looked… happy? Right, because this gave him a job for the rest of the year.

I scoffed. Though, I did feel something towards him, even if it was hate and disgust. But, it would be nice to draw someone so beautiful; I didn’t have to go through the trouble of including physical imperfections because there truly were none. He was physically perfect.

And in the art world, “perfect” meant “easy.”

The professor continued, “Now I know you all may be thinking that this is a lot, but trust me when I say that practice makes perfect! And you’ll need to be able to draw figures for your careers as artists! So suck it up, haha!”

She continued jovially, ignoring the daggers coming from the eyes of most of her students. “Let me show you some examples.”

The professor clicked a button on the projector and an image of a highly detailed figure drawing which looked 3D appeared. She clicked it again and there was a beautiful photograph of a nude model covered in oil.

“The study of the human form is one of the most important artistic subjects you could cover, and will help launch your career into new heights as artists,” she reasoned.

“You’ll each be assigned a model,” she continued with a gesture.

Fourteen people, all in varying shapes, sizes, and ages walked into the classroom. “You’ll get assigned one that you’ll work with for the rest of the semester; this person will be your muse,” she giggled. “We’re going to put names of artists and models in these two boxes here, and whatever name you get, that’s the one you’ll have to study!”

Panicking, I locked eyes with Evan. His steely blue-gray gaze sent shivers through me.

Giving in, the other students were writing their names on pieces of paper to put in the box. I wondered who I would be paired with?

There was an old lady, a fat man, what looked like a college freshman girl, and older people of all types.

And then there was Evan, essentially the Statue of David himself.

And it was in that moment that I knew that if anyone else got Evan, I would be unbearably jealous. I had to think fast.

Evan was looking right at me, and I wondered if he was thinking the same thing. Did he want to be paired with me…?

Taking a leap of faith, I gestured for him to come over to my desk.

He looked behind him, to see who I was gesturing at. Then he raised one of his thick, gorgeous eyebrows and pointed to himself, as if to say, “who, me?”

I nodded and gestured again.

While the classroom filled up with the racket of the students chatting, Evan came over to me.

When he got close, I got a whiff of his his cologne. It poisoned my judgment.

“You’re popular on Instagram, right?” I whispered softly into his ear.

He bashfully looked down with fake-modesty. “Well you might be able to say that; I have Six-hundred thousand followers.”

Ugh, I hated him so.

“So you’re somewhat famous, is what you’re saying.” I accused.

He shrugged bashfully.

Please.

“I have a business opportunity for you.” I offered, trying to play it cool. “If you agree to be my model, I’ll pay you twice as much as whatever the art school is paying you.”

Money was no object to me. But getting to draw a thousand pictures of a semi-famous college athlete would be a straight path to success.

“Make it triple.” He demanded, a hint of avarice in his eye.

You greedy son of a bitch, I thought acidly.

“Done.” I declared without expression.

He was a dirty little extortionist, that was for sure. And for that, I would be getting my money’s worth.