“Actually,” the words leave my mouth before I can stop them. “That isn’t a tire, and it isn’t melting.”
“Oh?” the professor stops talking, clearly taken aback. “It isn’t?”
I shake my head, instantly regretting that I didn’t keep quiet. “No. That’s my cat. She’s sunbathing on our deck here on campus.”
The woman’s thick, long eyelashes flutter as she tilts her head to take a closer look at my painting. “Why on Earth would you melt your cat in a painting? If you need help with trauma experienced on the battlefield, I can point you toward some excellent resources here on campus. I’m also sure the military has help available for any service members who?—”
“I didn’t melt my cat.” I explain. “That isn’t my attempt at surrealism, Professor. And while I appreciate your concern, I don’t have PTSD. That’s just a portrait of my cat sunbathing on the rail of our deck. It’s just straight figurative art. I decided to go for realism and paint Poonani during her favorite activity.”
“What did you just call me?” the professor’s eyes narrow as her slight body tenses.
“Poonani is my cat’s name, ma’am.”
Professor Cantucci crosses her arms over her chest, staring at my work as if it had personally offended her. “You’re telling me that’s supposed to be a cat?”
I nod again. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Stop calling me ma’am!” she snaps. “I was clear you can call me Professor Cantucci or Elena. I should call animal protection if that’s a realistic portrait of your cat. I don’t even know which part is the front and which is the rear of that poor animal. It’s either you suck at drawing, or your cat is being abused. Which option is it?”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “That’s the front, and that’s Poonani’s tail, ma—Professor Cantucci. And I treat my cat like a princess.”
The teacher doesn’t look convinced. “I beg to differ.” She points a finger to Poonani’s lounging form. “Whichever end is the front, that must be her spine. That cat doesn’t look right.”
I open my mouth to explain that Poonani loves to lie down in the oddest positions I’ve ever seen, but someone intervenes before I can set the record straight.
“He’s telling the truth, Elena.” Tucker says from behind his canvas in the last row. “Keene loves that cat more than anything else in the world. He brought her home all the way from his last deployment.”
“I’m sure Keene can speak for himself without your help, Prescott.” The professor snaps. “And by the way, how do you know how he treats his cat?”
I close my eyes, knowing that there’s no way to stop Tucker from disclosing something I wasn’t hiding, but I haven’t exactly advertised with Professor Cantucci.
“Because we’re teammates.” He says. “Poonani is the unofficial mascot of the hockey team, after Keene brought her with him to summer training. He adores that grumpy little kitty cat. I swear, if there was a fire and Keene had to choose between saving Poonani or the Stanley Cup, he’d let the trophy burn.”
Professor Cantucci considers Tucker’s words. Her eyes flit between me and my canvas. “Very well. I hadn’t realized you were an athlete, Mr. McKendrick. That explains a lot.”
Jesus, fuck. I’m almost afraid to ask what kind of conclusion the professor has reached, but I don’t have to.
“I should have known you were a collegiate athlete.” Her eyes sweep up and down the length of my body, assessing me the same way she was assessing my work a few moments ago. This time, however, I see a different reaction. Even though I have to give it to the professor, she hides her appreciation pretty well.
It’s a fleeting reaction, however, and it’s gone as soon as she blinks. “So, class, let’s discuss the appropriate grade for Mr. McKendrick’s work. My assessment would be different if we were looking at surrealism or even abstract work. But your colleague has stated clearly that he intended to portray his cat to a realistic likeness. With that in mind, what grade would you say he deserves?”
“An A.” Tucker says. “If you had met Poonani, you’d know how hard it is to get that little hellion to sit still long enough to draw her.”
I appreciate Tucker’s attempt to help me, but it falls on deaf ears.
Professor Cantucci turns to look at the rest of the class. “Would anyone else care to weigh in? Please keep in mind the hesitant brush strokes and the pedestrian use of color. There’s no shading, no study of how light would affect the scene captured on canvas. Maybe Mr. McKendrick has spent too much time playing hockey, because that black blob perilously perched on a wobbly rail resembles more a puck than a cat.”
Silence descends into the classroom, but our professor isn’t satisfied with the lack of participation and insists.
“Anyone care to give me their opinion? Let me remind you that participation in our discussions accounts for ten percent of your final grade.”
Someone clears their throat.
I recognize her from one of the Zetas parties. I think the girl is called Heather.
“I guess the work needs to be refined. As it is, it has a rough charm to it that still draws the eye despite being a little two dimensional.” She grimaces when she says the last part. Her eyes meet mine and I see sympathy in her gaze. “I would appreciate Keene’s effort and give him a C.”
Sorry. She mouths when the professor turns to take another look at my canvas.
