“Were you stalking me?” I frowned.
“And why would I” he scoffed.
“He’s the photography lead. He’s going to be my first interview.”
“Is he now” It was not a question.
“Yeah. Tomorrow. In his studio.” The words came out in a rush, and I instantly feel like I’ve said too much.
Nolan stops walking, forcing me to stop too.
“Jamal’s a good guy,” he says, dipping his hands into his pocket. “A great artist. Just… be smart, be careful.”
I frowned and turned to face him. “Why does everyone keep telling me what to do? Asher, you… I can handle myself. I’m not some fragile doll that needs to be kept in a glass case.”
“I know you’re not.” He smiles. “That’s what makes it so…” He trails off, shaking his head. “Forget it. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Immediately, he turns and walks away, leaving me standing there, more confused and angry than ever. “That’s what makes it so… what?” I screamed after him, huffing angrily before going off to find Asher’s car.
The next day, the hours drag. Every class feels like an eternity. My mind is a whirlwind of potential questions of Liam’s expectant face and most persistently, of Jamal’s honey–gray eyes and that slow, knowing smile.
When the final bell rings, I practically sprint to the art wing, my notebook and digital recorder clutched tightly in my hands. The art wing is a building apart from the main school—the air smells of turpentine and clay, and the walls are a vibrant tapestry of student work, describing the riot of color and emotion.
I find the door marked ‘J. Williams – Studio‘ and take a steadying breath before knocking.
“It’s open!” a voice calls from within.
I push the door open and freeze, my jaw going slack.
The studio is breathtaking. It’s not a classroom; it’s a sanctuary. Large, north–facing windows flood the space with soft, perfect light. Canvases of various sizes lean against the walls, some finished, breathtaking portraits and abstract landscapes, others just ghostly outlines. One wall is meticulously filled and organized with sketches, photographs, and inspiration clippings. The other is dominated by a large, unfinished painting of a dancer, her form captured in mid–leap.
And in the center of it all stands Jamal, wiping his hands on a paint–stained rag. He’s wearing a faded band t- shirt and jeans splattered with a rainbow of colors.
“You’re late,” he smiled, turning to face me
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55 vouchers
“I am not! The bell just rang.”
“For a journalist, you’re not very precise. You’re two minutes and seventeen seconds late.” He gestures to an old but comfortable–looking armchair in the corner, positioned perfectly next to the fan. “Your throne, your highness. Make yourself comfortable.”
I settle into the armchair, the worn velvet soft against my skin. He pulls up a wooden stool opposite me, picking up a sketchbook and a piece of charcoal,
“Okay, Reporter Morales. Fire away.”
I click on the recorder, placing it on a small table between us. “So, Jamal Williams. National award–winning artist. Tell me about the weight of that name.”
He doesn’t answer immediately. His eyes are on me, but his hand is moving across the sketchpad with quick and sure strokes. Is he drawing me?
“It’s a double–edged sword,” he begins, “The award–winning part opens doors but it was a little hard at first because I didn’t use my last name. But when I finally won an award at the age of twelve without using my last name, Galleries returned my emails. Teachers give me more leeway. But it also creates a… expectation. Every new piece is held up against the last winner. It’s not just ‘Jamal made this.’ It’s ‘Is this as good as his last award- winning piece?‘ The name becomes a standard you have to constantly meet, instead of just a person trying to create.”
I nod, scribbling notes. “Do you ever wish you could be anonymous? Just create without the pressure?”
“Sometimes,” he admits, his eyes flicking from me to his sketchpad and back. “But then I remember that the name is also a platform. It lets me tell stories that might not otherwise be heard. My current series is about the kids who work in the kitchens and clean the halls of places like Crestmont. Their names are never on any plaques, but their stories are every bit as important.”
I paused, smiling. “That’s… incredible.”
He shrugs, “It’s just what interests me. Now, my turn. Aria Morales. Newly minted. What’s the weight of that name to you?”
The question catches me off guard. I’m supposed to be the interviewer, interviewing him, not the other way round. “I… I don’t know yet. It’s still new.”
“Come on,” he prods gently. “You must feel it. Something”
I look down at my hands, “It’s like wearing a costume I didn’t choose. Everyone sees the sequins, but no one knows if the person inside is comfortable, or scared, or… or just faking it.”
“Are you? Faking it?” He asked softly.
I met his gaze. “I don’t know who I’d be without it right now,” I smiled, “but I’m comfortable with it because of the people sharing the name with me.”
Jamal stops drawing, locking his gaze with mine for a long moment, his expression unreadable. “Wow.” He smiled
Chapter 64
“Wow?”
“Most people in your position would just lean into the sequins because of the beauty, not because of the quality.” He flips his sketchbook around.
My breath catches.
“Jamal… that’s…”
“It’s just a quick sketch,” he says, suddenly looking a little shy. He closes the book. “For the article, we’ll do a proper photo shoot. But I wanted to capture that… It’s fascinating. You’re fascinating
田
Sara Lili is a daring romance writer who turns icy landscapes into scenes of fiery passion. She loves crafting hot love stories while embracing the chill of Iceland’s breathtaking cold.
