Beneath The Skin (A College Obsession Romance) Read Online Free PDF Page A

it’s too fucking obvious.”
    Everyone’s heads turn at the criticism, which had come from pink-haired Iris in the front. Her arms are crossed, legs are crossed, and eyes are squinted in mild scrutiny.
    “Care to expound?” offers the professor.
    She starts expounding before he even finishes the question. “It’s so literal. Cat. Sex. Boobs. Great, thank you, my mind is so stimulated. Where’s the creativity? Where’s the originality? I swear I saw a meme of this very thing in my Twitter feed last night.”
    “Let’s be constructive,” Linus coaches her. “How do you feel she might have better conveyed—”
    “I’m not going to do the work for her,” blurts Iris, crossing her legs the other way.
    I pay her words as much mind as they deserve: none.
    Linus itches his beard, studying my work. “Perhaps this picture is … providing us with the problem. And maybe what it lacks is a solution.”
    I can’t mask the smirk that comes over my face. “Solution?”
    “Your picture …”
    “ Pussy ,” I correct him, because he might as well say the name.
    He smiles, his every word gentle and carefully chosen. “ Pussy … is asking us, the viewers, a question. Yes? Perhaps what we’re lacking from your work is the answer.”
    “Oh. I see.” I consider the room of agreeing faces for a moment, then turn to my professor again. “Should I provide a spoon with my picture, then?”
    Linus doesn’t follow. “A spoon?”
    “Yeah. So you can spoon-feed yourself my work instead of having to think on a solution or an answer on your own,” I spit back. “God forbid my art causes anyone to think for themselves. Isn’t that the point?”
    Iris blows air through her lips, rolling her eyes. “I love how you pass this pretentious crap off as ‘art’,” she mutters, making air quotes with her fingers.
    The class is unrested for a moment, stools shifting and a whisper of scandal bursting here and there. I toss my hair at all of it and grab my work off the easel, refusing for it to be judged any further by these elementary morons. I head for the door.
    “Nell.”
    I stop only because it’s Linus who says my name. I turn, allowing him my last ounce of patience.
    “Sometimes we must hear the opinions of others. It’s the only way we can grow as artists, don’t you agree? It’s important to process the—”
    “I’ve processed enough,” I say, cutting him off.
    He lifts his brow, surprised by my lip, I assume. Then, with a tilt of his head, he asks, “Do you know when an artist dies?”
    I stare at him, deadpan. “Is this some kind of knock-knock joke? How many artists does it take to screw in a light bulb? What are you getting at?”
    “Do you know when an artist dies?” he repeats.
    I frown, then humor him. “When?”
    “When she thinks she has nothing left to learn.”
    The heads in the class turn slowly to face me, as if they’re afraid of my reaction to his frigid last words to me. The clench I have on my artwork tightens. My eyes narrow, hating everyone in the room in an instant, and suddenly I’m in sixth grade again clutching a picture of a girl cheerily hugging an enormous white dog. I’m in sixth grade and I’m wearing that bright green dress, feeling so proud that I could burst, and can’t wait to take my pretty picture home to show my mom—a pretty picture she’d never see.
    I miss that girl in the bright green dress.
    I let the door shut loudly behind me as I leave. When I pass the nearest trash bin, I throw my Pussy into it, then shove out of the double doors and into the courtyard. Ten seconds and a deep breath later, I slip back into the building, return to that same trash bin, and pull my work right back out, smoothing it gently against the wall. The longer I look at it, the more I start to calm down. One deep breath in, one deep breath out, and I give my deranged, whorish cat a soft smile.
    I really, really miss that girl in the bright green dress.
    Back outside, there’s something