Page 1 of The Kiss Class
CHAPTER ONE
My love lifeis a big bah humbug. Seated in the lecture hall for my final class of the semester before the start of Christmas break, my pencil slides across the notebook margin, sketching a cold and calculating man with a scowl and gold coins reflected in his eyes.
A therapist would have fun analyzing the meaning of this and the cross-section of my scholastic life and love life.
Footnote: It doesn’t exist.
Do I have Daddy issues? Nope.
Might I have an itty bitty problem with control? Perhaps I should see a shrink.
Do guys want to date a perpetual student? I ought to take a poll.
Is something off balance in my life? I inwardly groan.
Only a woman who has been in school since she was three would think to survey guys rather than, well, I don’t know what a person with more dating experience would do.
“When you return after the holiday break, I expect you to have some solid material that we’ll critique as a class.” ProfessorFujiyama gives us the hairy eyeball. “I’ve been doing this long enough to know whether you actually went on location to sketch your subjects or if you slacked off and watched videos to work from.”
Not only am I a lifelong student, but I’m also an overachiever and would never even think of slacking off. It’s not like I want to spend half my winter break in an icy arena, but Professor Fujiyama has a point.
He says there are three kinds of drawing:
1. From the creative well of one’s own mind.
2. From a still, which could be a photo, a video (even though technically it’s not still), a bowl of fruit, or even a model.
3. Live action, which is the most dynamic and difficult, if you ask me. Because movement is involved, you more or less have to rely on the other two types to fill in the gaps when the action passes, shifts, or changes shape. It’s also the most interesting because it’s a combination of what the artist sees in real-time and the lapse that they fill in from memory and creativity.
The professor continues, “To achieve excellence and become a master, you have to do the hard things. Otherwise, everyone would succeed. Art would be boring. Don’t be boring. But do have a splendid holiday. Happy drawing.”
The zipping of bags, sliding of chairs, and muted chatter indicate the class is over and vacation has started.
Even though this is an upper-level program, the younger twenty-somethings take this as a cue to celebrate. The classrooms that empty into the hallways of the austere sandstone building are a cacophony that would make me think I’d traveled back in time to freshman year of high school. The mood is like a riotous hockey game as everyone makes their escape.
Although I love Christmas, I’ve been . . . at this for a while. I’m not the oldest person in the classroom. No, that would be Professor Fujiyama. But I’m not that far behind.
“Heading home, Cara?” he asks.
“Yep. Cobbiton, Nebraska.”
“Never been.”
“It’s a suburb of Omaha. Usually, people say they’ve never heard of it.”
He taps the air. “I remember now from when you submitted your project proposal. Your father is the hockey coach.”
I nod. My father is also the one footing the bill for my ongoing studies, even though there has been a change in my enrollment status—one he isn’t aware of.
Should this be a topic of conversation when I’m home? Yes.
Will it be? Pray for me.
“Are you traveling or staying here?” I ask, shouldering my bag.
He lets out a long breath, like serenity will be found as soon as the door closes behind me. “I have to pick up my sister from LAX in an hour. We have plans to visit three botanical gardens,” he lowers his voice, “and the one at CSU Long Beach.”
My eyebrows shoot up because they’re a rival school.
