Chapter 8 8

Ciara POV

It was ten to eight when I arrived at Princeton. The sun had already set, and the world was painted in blues and blacks. I wasn't anxious walking down the road since the neighborhood was well lit, but the night was chilly, even for late September.

As I walked inside the main building, art folder in hand, my hands started to shake, and it was suddenly hard to breathe. Why was I reacting like this? He was just a professor, nothing more.

A very hot, very young, very intimidating professor, I added in my head.

The halls of Evergreen were completely vacant. My footsteps, although light, echoed through the building.

When I finally reached the Art building, I scanned the sign at the entrance to see in which floor the professor's offices were located. The sign said on the last floor, so I made my way to the elevator. Inside, I checked myself in the mirror. I brushed my flyaways and smoothed out my clothes.

The elevator doors opened way too soon. I stepped out, making my way to the offices. I read the names of the professors on each door. Each time it wasn't Dr Woodley's my heart skipped a beat.

I just wanted this to be over with.

It was when I reached the last door that I finally read "Dr Rufus Woodley". I took a deep breath and softly knocked on the door.

"Come in," his voice sounded from within. I opened the door extremely slowly. It felt like any noise that I made was amplified due to the deafening silence of the empty floor.

Professor Woodley kept his eyes on a paper he was reading, a red pen resting leisurely in his right hand.

"Professor Rufus Woodley," I said softly. His eyes darted up. He motioned me to take a seat in the chair in front of his desk.

His office wasn't much, but it had the essentials. A wide, wooden desk with papers mounting on either side, a bookshelf filled to the brim with books and folders, a cabinet file, and a coat hanger.

"I didn't expect you to come." He said, leaning back. He took off his glasses, resting them on his desk.

"I took it as a challenge." I said. I was starting to think my sassiness was my way to appear confident when, in reality, I was not.

"Why so?"

"Exactly because you didn't expect me to come, Sir."

He sighed, shaking his head and rolling his eyes.

Dr Woodley extended his hand to me "Just give it to me already." I gave him the folder, holding my breath in anticipation.

He lifted the cover, revealing the painting inside. He was totally silent for a few seconds. Then, he furrowed his eyebrows, tilting the painting slightly. He then placed in on the desk, tossing it to me.

"This is lousy work, Miss Lotus." He said sternly. "I'm not gonna lie, I expected a little more from you. With you it's a lot of talk, but no action."

My heart hammered in my chest painfully.

I reached for my painting and brought it close to my chest, protecting it like a scared puppy.

"Why? What's so wrong with it?" I asked. I sounded hurt by his rude comment. I immediately regretted showing my emotions.

He leaned forward, extending his hand once more, wiggling his fingers "Give it to me." I reluctantly obliged.

"See here," he said, picking up a pencil, "The lines are just messy and incoherent. There is no distinction between the shapes. And this wall, for example... The angle is wrong." With everything he pointed out, he made a thick circle with his pencil, leaving a graphite mark. "The shading around the lamp is questionable at best. The chandelier looks like an afterthought, doesn't belong there at all. It's distracting even. And this portrait of the man in the suit... Why would you give yourself the trouble of painting it if you can't even see the face properly? And it's so dark, why is it so dark? It truly feels out of place."

I was stunned. It was like I had been stabbed in the stomach multiple times. Tears started to sting my eyes, but I forbade them from falling.

I looked at the painting I had worked so hard on, now all ruined with pencil marks. A sudden wave of anger came over me. Did he just call me here to humiliate me?

"It's not a chandelier, it's a candelabra. It symbolizes the old convent. The lines are blurred because, with you, I can't make the distinction between what is acceptable and what is not." I said, mustering all the self-respect I had for myself to defend my work to a man who was clearly there just to make fun of me for his own amusement.

I got up, tossing him the painting roughly.

"The man in the portrait is as dark as the man who inspired the painting, but you wouldn't get it because you're not an artist. Good evening." I said, my tone cold as ice.

I turned around and walked out of Dr Woodley's office, not giving a fuck about what he thought of me from there on out.

"Alison, wait a second, come back here." He said from his desk, but I was already halfway out the door.

"I said good evening!"

Involuntarily, my voice cracked at the end, tears falling down my face.

What a fucking jerk. Who did he think he was?

As I walked down the empty hallway, I heard him dragging his chair and locking the door of his office behind him.

"Alison, you're being immature." He said, walking in my direction. I ignored him and kept walking, not looking back. Once I realized he was following me, I decided to take the stairs instead of the elevator.

Once I started going down, I realized he had given up and wasn't on my trail anymore. I wiped my tears away, careful not to smear my make-up.

When I reached the ground floor, my breathing erratic from descending lightning fast, my stomach fell once again to the floor.

He had taken the elevator.

Of course he fucking had.

"Ciara Lotus, stop right there." He said commandingly. He reached for my upper arm, halting my stride. His touch wasn't harsh or hard, just solid. He kept me in place. "What happened back there?"

I turned to him, my mouth in the shape on an "o". What happened? Was he seriously asking?

"Dr Lotus, with all due respect, but are you fucking kidding me?"

"Language, Lotus." he said gravely, but I cut him short.

"You ask me to come here, to your office, at this hour, to show you a painting I did outside of the academic context, when you're not even my art teacher, just to smear in my face how terrible it is?"

He let go of my arm. Maybe my speech made something click in his brain.

"How do you think that made me feel? You aren't even a painter! This was just mean. And I won't apologize for disagreeing with you, what you said wasn't constructive criticism, at all."

He was silent, my voice echoing in the deserted entrance hall.

"I came after you because I forgot to say a few things." He said, his hand reaching the back pocket of his pants. "I liked the colors. They were bright and warm. I also liked the blotches of light coming in from the window."