I didn’t reply. I couldn’t think of a thing to say. I glanced at him from the corner of my eye. He was looking at me with an amused smile. The warmth on my face told me that I was blushing. I have reddish-brown hair and the palest skin that blushes fiercely, all the way from my chest to my forehead.
‘What brings you to Cornwall?’ I asked eventually, as I held open the door.
He hesitated. ‘Work. My dad’s work.’
‘It must be tough arriving halfway through the school year. With exams and stuff.’
‘It’s not so bad. Everyone is so friendly.’
Mrs Link was in the classroom, meeting and greeting and watching us swipe in. As usual she was wearing a kaftan that accentuated her enormous hips. And she reeked of the hazelnut coffee that she always drank.
‘You must be Ryan Westland,’ she said, shaking his hand vigorously and beaming. ‘Now, where are we going to put you? Eden here doesn’t have a partner. You can sit with her.’
I sat down in my usual seat and looked away while Ryan sat next to me. I heard the scrape of stools and whispers as several of the girls angled themselves for a better look.
‘So you’re from America?’ I said after a while.
‘Yeah.’
‘My aunt’s boyfriend is from America. His accent is way different to yours.’
‘It’s a big country.’
‘Which part are you from?’
‘You ask a lot of questions, don’t you?’
I got the hint so I took out my sketch pad and flicked through the last few pieces we had worked on. Hands, feet, eyes. All embarrassingly badly drawn. I closed the pad with a snap, afraid that Ryan would see.
‘I’m from New Hampshire,’ Ryan said softly. He was smiling. ‘A small town in the countryside.’
‘Take out your sketch pads,’ Mrs Link interrupted, handing a blank one to Ryan. ‘Today we will be sketching portraits. Face and upper torso.’
I felt my stomach clench. This was awful. I was going to have to sketch Ryan’s face. I was terrible at art in general, but I was particularly bad at drawing people. Mrs Link chose a boy from the front of the room as her partner and then modelled how to approach the task.
‘Thirty minutes each,’ she told us.
‘Do you want to model first or draw first?’ Ryan asked.
Both options sounded bad. I figured that if I sketched last, I might not have to show him my effort. ‘I’ll model.’
I didn’t know where to look. I looked out of the window. I looked at the art on the wall and then at the door.
‘Do you think you could keep still?’ Ryan asked.
‘I’m sorry. I find it hard not to fidget.’
‘Maybe you could find something to look at.’
I shrugged and looked around the room, trying to find something interesting. ‘What would you like me to look at?’
‘You could just look at me.’ He must have spotted the look of horror on my face. It would be impossible for me to maintain eye contact with him without blushing brightly. ‘Or you could look out of that window.’
I chose the window. There wasn’t a lot to focus on: just a palm tree swaying slightly and a breeze-block wall. Mrs Link put on some slow jazz that was clearly designed to be relaxing. Piano and trumpet. I tried to think myself somewhere else. I thought about the beach party that Amy was planning. I thought about my Aunt Miranda and her boyfriend, Travis, who she was crazy about. And then I thought about the good-looking boy opposite me who was intently sketching my image. I could feel the colour burning my cheeks still.
‘Why don’t you take off your sweater?’ Ryan said after a few minutes.
‘Excuse me?’
‘You look like you’re burning up. Are you feeling OK?’
‘I’m fine,’ I said. ‘Just a little hot.’
His attention was making it so much worse.
‘Then take off your sweater.’
‘Won’t that mess up your sketch?’
He shook his head. ‘I’m still working on your face.’
Slowly, I pulled my sweater over my head, ensuring my school shirt didn’t rise up with it. I unbuttoned the top of my shirt and loosened my tie, knowing full well that it wouldn’t make the slightest difference to the colour of my face.
‘I have high colouring,’ I said.
Ryan skimmed his eyes from my chest to my face, finally resting on my eyes. He smiled and continued drawing. I tried to focus on the music, but it was slow and achingly romantic and, ridiculously, I found myself imagining what it would be like to dance with Ryan, the two of us barefoot, the sun setting over the sea, while this piece of music played in the background. I picked up my sketch pad and waved it in front of my face, trying to cool myself down.
‘Does the school have a science club?’ Ryan asked.
‘There’s a revision club after school. It’s for people who need to improve their grades.’
Ryan frowned. ‘Isn’t there anything else? A club for people who love the subject?’
‘Not really. Unless you count astronomy. I guess that’s science. My friend Connor goes.’
Ryan put down his pencil and looked at me. ‘Connor?’
‘You met him at lunch. He’s the blond boy who stopped you and asked about your accent.’
Ryan nodded. ‘That sounds perfect. When does it meet?’
‘Fridays. Mr Chinn runs it. Connor will be able to tell you more.’
Ryan was looking at me intently. ‘That’s just what I’m looking for. What’s Connor’s surname? I need to catch up with him.’
‘Penrose. He’s one of my best friends. I’ll introduce you.’
‘Thanks.’ He picked up his sketchbook and began to scratch his pencil across the paper. I looked at the palm tree again.
A waft of hazelnut coffee alerted me to Mrs Link’s approach.
‘Very good, Ryan,’ she said. ‘You’ve captured her expression beautifully.’
After thirty minutes of unbearable self-consciousness, Mrs Link told us to switch roles. I wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or mortified.
‘How do you want me?’ Ryan asked, his eyes twinkling playfully.
‘I don’t mind.’
I didn’t know where to begin. I looked at his eyes: brown. Not muddy brown or coffee brown or dirty brown. His eyes were all the colours of autumn leaves brown. Closest to the pupil they were a rich chestnut, further out a deep copper. Near the whites of his eyes they were almost gold. They were the most beautiful eyes I’d ever looked at, and they were looking at me with amusement.
‘Actually, maybe it would be better if you looked out of the window,’ I said.
‘At that tree?’
‘That would be fine.’
‘What sort of tree is that?’
‘Just a palm tree,’ I said with a shrug.
I tried to capture the shape of Ryan’s eyes. But I couldn’t. They were just eye-shaped. I could explain in words that they were open, warm, smiling, but I couldn’t transcribe those thoughts on to paper.
I tried to sketch his hair. It was light brown, with a rich warmth. If I was talented, I would have chosen twelve different shades of brown and blended them together. It was pushed back from his forehead so that it fell in all directions. I used my pencil to try and show the various directions that his hair fell, but the result on my pad just looked chaotic.
I went for a generic oval face shape, confident that I wouldn’t be able to capture anything resembling his cheekbones and square jaw. The face on the page looked like the efforts of an eight-year-old child and I toyed with the idea of ripping my pad into shreds. Sighing inwardly, I moved on to his body. He was angled slightly away
