Reckless

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.

At one point, I glanced over at Romeo. He was hard at work, but when he saw me looking at him, he held up his rough sculpture, which resembled nothing more than a rudimentary clay voodoo doll at this point, and pulled the legs apart with his fists. Then he jammed one finger up into the sculptures’ crotch while running his tongue around his own lips and giving me bedroom eyes before blowing me a kiss.

I winced, and tried to focus on the sculpture in my hand, but Romeo was still trying to get my attention from across the room. I glanced up and he bent his sculpture at the waist, then jabbed his finger into the sculpture’s butt.

I grimaced and giggled reflexively.

“I didn’t realize this was your own personal comedy club, Miss Smith,” the professor barked behind me. “Are you here to work, or goof off?”

“I’m working,” I said, sounding thirteen again. I held up my sculpture.

She looked down her nose at it, then glared at me for what seemed like an hour. She jammed her fists defiantly on her hips. “Well, keep working! Do you need an invitation?” She stalked over to the next student, her heels click-clacking.

Oh boy. What had I gotten myself into?

Chapter 13

SAMANTHA

“All right, class, now we’re going to find out why our tables have wheels,' Professor Bittinger said. “Please shift your table two positions to your right. If your bags are in the way, you can set them against the walls.”

Everyone moved their tables in the circle, but Hunter remained in his same position and pose. As soon as I looked at Hunter from my new vantage point, I saw all kinds of problems with my sculpture, so I went about fixing them, until we moved positions again. More problems. Sculpting was a whole different animal from drawing, but I kind of liked it. In some ways it was easier, because you could squish the clay around to fix things without using an eraser and then redrawing everything.

We shifted positions two more times in the next twenty minutes, then took a break.

The students circulated the room, chatting and looking at each other’s work.

“How’d it go?”

I looked up, right into the amber eyes of Hunter. “I’m sorry, what?”

He haphazardly strapped the belt of his robe around his waist, almost as if he’d just gotten dressed in the