But seriously, didn’t she have anything to do other than stand in the same place all day long and mock me? Or was she just working this campus street corner, waiting for rich upperclassmen to come along and buy things for her?

Probably.

SAMANTHA

I ran into the Visual Arts building and blundered down the hallway to the sculpting studio. Inside, I heard an echoey voice. The door was locked, so I knocked furiously. After a minute, the voice stopped, and I heard heels clicking closer and closer to the door. Someone opened the door.

“Perhaps if you were on time, you wouldn’t have to interrupt the entire class,” the woman holding the door said snidely. Despite her casual clothes, she had big hair and carefully applied makeup. Her hair was a work of art unto itself. She didn’t strike me as the sort of woman who would be teaching a sculpting class. Maybe fashion design or even a cosmetology class.

I was breathless from running. “I, uh, had, an, on, campus, job, interview.”

Despite her striking lips gloss, her lips thinned out of existence when she frowned at me. “Next time, be on time.” She held the door for me, still irritated.

I cringed as I skulked past her. The sculpting studio was a high-ceiling room with exposed pipes painted black hanging overhead, and a concrete floor beneath. A wall of windows mounted on high-tech steel frames allowed ample light. It was not nearly as warm and comfy as Professor Childress’ inviting Life Drawing room had been last quarter, but it was better than another boring lecture hall.

I searched the room for Romeo. He waved, but the positions next to him were taken by other students. I grabbed the only remaining spot.

Like drawing and painting, the students surrounded the center of the room in a circle. But instead of easels, everyone had their own elevated square table on wheels. The table was not much bigger than a barstool. I set my stuff down on the floor next to mine.

I noticed that everyone’s table was adjusted to a different height. I realized there was a twisty handle on the side of the lone post supporting the table top. I twisted it and…BLAM!! My table top crashed down to the lowest height. The noise boomed throughout the room.

I think the echoes lasted for three or four minutes. The room had a cement floor, after all.

Everyone stared at me. Of course.

“Sorry,” I mumbled. Undeterred, I twisted the handle slightly to add some friction, so the table wouldn’t slam down again and maybe slice my fingers off. I lifted it up slowly. Somebody had forgot to oil my table.

!!SQUUUUEEEE!!—

I had to put my foot on the base to hold the stand down while I lifted. It was really sticking now. I put my back into it. Needed to adjust it sooner or later.

—!!EEEEEEEE!!—

Everyone was staring again. I shrugged my shoulders sheepishly, still lifting. May as well get it over with now that I’d started.

—!!EEEEEEEE!!—

Several students were wincing like they were getting their teeth drilled.

—!!EEEEEEEE!!—

Almost got it…

—!!EEEEAAAK!!

There! All finished! I smiled at everyone. Why did I feel like I was in the gas chamber and all the people around me were about to witness my execution?

Whatever. Smile!

:-)

The woman who had opened the door for me shot me a bow-and-arrow glare before rolling her eyes dramatically and huffing, “As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, my name is Marjorie Bittinger and I am the sculptor in residence here at SDU. I will be teaching you the basics of figurative sculpting. I hope you all came prepared.” She singled me out again, “Miss, did you forget your supplies in addition to being late?”

Wow, what a bitch. “No, I have them right here,” I said confidently, holding up my bag of sculpting supplies from the bookstore.

“I don’t see a proportional caliper sticking out of your bag,” Professor Bittinger gloated.

I was confused. “What’s a proportional caliper?”

“Exactly,” she sneered. “Would someone care to show our late arrival what a caliper is?”

A couple of students pulled these giant metal things out of their own bags and held them up. They looked like giant metal earwigs with those freaky pincer tails on one end, and a smaller matching pincer mouth on the other.

Oh. How had I missed those? I must have been in too much of a hurry at the bookstore.

Marjorie raised her eyebrows triumphantly. “I hope you will come prepared next time, Miss…what is your name?”

“Samantha Smith.”

“Miss…Smith.” The look on her face made me think that Major Bitchinger had spent her childhood torturing squirrels and kittens, doing their hair and makeup after strangling them. I refused to be her next victim. “Did you at least remember to bring your armature wire, Miss Smith?”

Why was she singling me out? Whatever. I reached into my bag and pulled out the ring of wire. I didn’t know what it was for, but I held it up proudly. “Right here,” I smiled my fakest smile.

The professor nodded while smiling smugly.

Had I made a mistake signing up for this class? I didn’t want to think about it.

“Do you have any further interruptions before we begin, Miss Smith?” she glared at me. She was expecting an answer.

After a minute, I cracked. “No.” Did I sound like I was thirteen after being scolded by my mom? I hoped not.

Professor Bitchinger gave me a curling smile, “Very good.” She turned to address the entire room. “Today, class, we’re going to craft a simple armature and start doing quick sculpts of the model. Please get out your armature wire.”

The professor, who was sadly a total bitch, was also a total professional. She quickly demonstrated how to make a twelve-inch tall stick figure out of the armature wire by bending the wire into the proper shape and twisting the wire around itself to add rigidity. She walked the room as students repeated the process from her demonstration. When necessary, she made corrections and improvements to the students’ efforts. She was not kind, but she was very informative and knowledgable.

Luckily, she circled in such a way that she came to me next to last, so I had time to build my armature.

“Let’s see what kind of mess you’ve made, Miss Smith,” she snarked.

I held up my completed armature and smirked.

The look of superiority on her face did not falter as she scanned my armature. “Well, it looks like we have an over-achiever in our midst,” she said, loud enough for the entire room to hear.

Okay, she was lame. She hated me, whether I was a screw up or top of the class. Whatever.

The professor abruptly yanked the armature from my hand and turned it over and around, wiggling it in several places before slapping it back into my hand. “Good job, Miss Smith,” she said dismissively, turning her back to me as she walked to the final student and inspected their work.

“Okay, class,” she said in a clear voice, “everyone place your purchased clay into the bin next to the clay warmer. After you’ve done that, take a few blocks of warm clay out of the warmer.”

The clay warmer turned out to be a refrigerator that had been converted into a re-warmerator. Inside it, something circulated hot air, and on the shelves were dozens and dozens of warm chunks of green clay.

I grabbed a few and returned to my sculpting table.

Miss Bittinger turned to a cute guy in a bathrobe who sat casually on a chair in the corner of the room reading something on his smart phone. His bare feet were casually crossed and laid out in front of him.

“Hunter,” the professor said, “would you please take the stand?”

Hunter walked onto the dais in the center of the room and threw his robe open dramatically. Whoops. He was hot. No tattoos like Christos, but definitely chiseled and manly, with flawless tan skin. None of the other male models in Life Drawing had been remotely attractive. This Hunter guy was quite handsome. He had a mess of blond hair, striking amber eyes, and the requisite six pack, heavy pectorals, and bulging shoulders. He clearly worked hard to maintain his impressively rock-hard physique.

Well, I was here to sculpt, not gawk.

Romeo took care of the gawking for me. His eyes popped and his mouth was a big O. He was in heaven.

I smiled at him and waved my finger in an “uh-uh-uh” gesture.

He stuck his tongue out at me.

“Is something funny, Miss Smith?” the professor asked.

I frowned. “No.”

“If you can’t maintain a professional attitude, perhaps you’re not ready for this class?”

I opened my mouth to protest. I was here to work. Whatever. She’d decided I was the flake student. I’d have to prove her wrong.

“Hunter,” the professor said, “please take a relaxed standing pose.”

Hunter settled his weight on one leg and cocked his hip. He was the California surfer version of a perfect marble statue.

It turned out that a “quick sculpt” took a lot longer than a quick sketch. At first, I wasn’t sure what to do. Everyone around the room started slapping clay on their wire armature. I did the same, noticing how warm the clay was. It was really squishy and buttery, sort of like lard in terms of firmness, but not greasy at all. I could squish this stuff around all day long. Warm clay. Who knew?

It didn’t take long for me to get the hang of the actual sculpting. It was like playing with Play-Doh, but easier because the armature helped keep the clay in the right places.

Soon, people pulled out a variety of wooden tools from their own bags. They used the tools, which looked like a variety of wooden letter-openers or butter knives, to further shape the clay. Some people just used their fingers. I was a hands-on kind of girl. Fingers seemed to be easiest.