This class was his favorite. Oscar adored the quiet of the room and the solitude he was allowed. Doctor Chilton was a phenomenal educator. Everything covered in her classes was both relevant and intriguing. Oscar found himself able to leave the time spent with her and immediately apply techniques and notes to his work. He had created some of his most complex pieces in Dr. Chilton's workshops (he'd taken three during his four years) and it had been with her encouragement that he had entered two sculptures in a recent auction, both of which had been sold at high bids. Afterward, an article in the Arts and Entertainment section of the city paper had listed him among the up-and-coming artists of the area, stating specifically that he was one of "the finest new inspirations in the metal arts and mixed media world." He'd enjoyed seeing that, in print, right after his name: Oscar Marcus. It was as if pieces of his life were, amazingly, falling into place. He'd never believed it could happen. Not so quick—not so easily. It was almost too unbelievable to be real.

Oscar had always wanted a life in the arts. He'd begun creating things at a young age, persuaded to exercise his talents by a mother whose only love in life was her little boy. As an only child, Oscar had grown up privileged, though not monetarily. His mother had worked hard to provide for her son after having to force her husband out of their lives. The man, while loving in his own ways, had been slippery with money, and though she hadn't wanted to divorce him, Alessandra Marcus had known it was the only way to raise their son properly. Alone, she might have been able to endure the man's faults in light of his magnetism; she had been attracted to him originally for his striking youthful looks and his alluring personality. He was a good man, albeit a foolish one easily deceived by the false promises of easy money; by herself, Alessandra would likely have put up with the bad in order to enjoy the good. Once a child entered into the mix, though, she had known it would be wrong to raise him in the shadow of her husband's demons. Children inherit the traits to which they're exposed, she believed, and she couldn't have on her conscience the sin of corrupting her own son. So she'd filed for divorce and left the man. He hadn't seemed to see it coming, but when it did come, he hadn't made any fuss about it. Oscar hadn't seen his father more than twice since the age of five, when the man had moved out.

His mother had recognized her son's love for color when he began putting together his own outfits in kindergarten. She'd begun formulating ideas as to how to get him involved in the right places when she'd seen him building strange, lovely things in the backyard with random materials that others, considering them scraps, had left out for the trash collector. She'd praised every little drawing and carving and papier-mâché sculpture he'd created, instilling in him the idea that he was imaginative, artistic, perhaps even genius. Alessandra had known that public schools would never appeal to the mind of a child such as Oscar. Their teach-to-the-average mentality would not only bore the boy but would, because of his lack of interest in their mediocre agendas, write him off as a daydreamer and lose him through the cracks of the public education system, where he'd be convinced to behave, where he'd be discouraged from standing out—where his gifts would dwindle down to a desire to be normal and finally fizzle out. No, the public schools were no place for Oscar. Alessandra had seen his talent and persuaded herself that, whether she had the money or not, the boy must be educated in an atmosphere that would understand and advance his aptitudes. She'd worked hard, very hard, to be able to afford him the best education with the hope that, someday, Oscar would be recognized for his abilities. Perhaps she'd spoiled him with her praise and her love, but in the end, the confidence she was sure she'd given him and the schooling he'd received over the years would make all her worries and monetary struggles disappear.

Her planning had begun to pay off the moment Oscar had received a hefty scholarship to Corland University. It hadn't been an art school, specifically, like he'd hoped for, but Corland had an extensive offering of degrees in the fine arts and, because it was a smaller program within the university, there was the chance for the development of strong personal relationships between students and teachers. It was what Oscar needed, his mother was certain: the opportunity to stand out amongst the rest and foster connections with people who could assist him in mapping out a profitable future.

He seemed to be doing that, now. In his fourth year at Corland, Oscar was finally feeling as if he was becoming someone. At last, he was beginning to envision himself as a real artist—not someone with a day-to-day job who painted or constructed on the side, as a hobby, but as someone whose passion was exactly what he was paid for. To live off of one's passions—that was the only beauty in existing.

All the anxious questions of where he'd be left after graduation were, maybe, close to being answered. And if things kept going his way, the answers would be the ones he wanted to hear.

Truthfully, Oscar wasn't sure if he should be so certain, yet. Somewhere inside him, there was a chord of warning sounding, telling him not to get his hopes too high. Two sold pieces and a mention in the newspaper didn't mean fame and fortune or even a steady income. He'd only sold those sculptures because, at the last minute, Dr. Chilton had noticed some gaps in the auction line-up and found him working late in one of the school studios. They'd exchanged some hasty conversation, and then she'd asked if he had any recent work with which he wouldn't mind parting; he'd handed over two projects recently graded—ones he hadn't been too attached to anyhow—and that had been that. So his small success had been pure luck because he'd stayed late on a day when no one else had. It had worked out for him, but how was he to be sure that anything else would come of it? Oscar had a slight notion that what his pieces had sold for (and who the buyers had been) had surprised Dr. Chilton herself. She likely hadn't expected to make much of anything off an amateur, unheard-of artist, no matter how interesting and well-designed his pieces were. Now that she'd seen what he could do, Oscar hoped that she would look to him again, sooner rather than later.

He hadn't told Eve about his pieces, yet. It had been over a week since his work had sold and his name had been put in the paper, and yet he still hadn't mentioned a word of it to her. Oscar wasn't sure why, exactly—he'd told all his classmates and a few professors (most of whom had heard the news, already). He'd told his mother, as well; she'd been so excited it had nearly caused him to yell at her in attempt to convince her it didn't mean much. He'd told pretty much everyone important to him . . . except for Eve.

He didn't know why he felt such reservation to mention the auctioned pieces to her. It was a success for him on more than one level, and he knew she'd be pleased to hear about achievements he made. Still, something kept him back. Something nagged him, made him refrain from mentioning anything over the phone or even in person. And then there'd been Friday. He'd gone out and had a little too much fun; it had wound up embarrassing him. He didn't like for Eve to have to take care of or even notice his mistakes. He hated that he allowed her to see him being stupid and careless. He was supposed to be someone she felt proud and privileged to be with, to be loved by, and to love. And yet he kept laying naked parts of his ugliness in front of her. Parts of his idiocy. So that she was probably slowly beginning to wonder why on earth she was wasting her time with him. When he began to speculate how much she questioned what they had, he tore himself in two: part of him felt miserable to realize he could lose the most sparkling, captivating thing that he'd ever had, and another part of him was belligerent and angry that someone as unbecoming as she would ever think he was less of a person for the choices he made. She had no right to think anything at all of him! he'd usually decide, and then he'd list in his head the reasons he was above her criticism. He had talents beyond the other students in his program. He saw things—grasped concepts they could never dream of incorporating into their mediocre work. He, Oscar Marcus, was going to make it big. He was driven, and not only that, but his pieces were truly innovative; they were fresh, and inspired from a place deep within him that no one—not even Eve or the most powerful critic on the planet—could obliterate. And this understanding would calm his doubts, invigorate his heart, and cause him to round up people with whom he could go out and forget about anything that was hampering his confidence.

He admonished himself. He shouldn't be thinking about Eve in such a way. She was the kindest woman he had ever met; she'd never hold grudges against him; she'd never judge him. Eve wasn't like that. And he was letting his mind wander too much. His hands were straying, and the small piece of heated metal with which he was working had cooled to a non-malleable state.

"Idiot," he absent-mindedly rebuked himself.

Another student heard him; she was working a few yards to his left, but her hearing must have been good. She approached, her dark hair sparkling under the bright lighting. "Everything all right?" she asked.

He'd been too preoccupied to notice her arrival and looked up with a bit of a start. The metal fell to the floor. He neglected to pick it up. "Oh, yeah . . . I'm fine. Just . . . have to start over again, that's all." He struggled for words. He wanted her to leave. She was pretty, but he was busy.

She didn't leave. She was wearing an art coat and was messy. Smudges were on her cheeks and clothing. She exuded a haphazard cuteness. Oscar had spoken to her a few random times; he thought her name was Selene. She smiled and, lowering her voice and crouching a bit as if sharing a secret with him, said, "I saw your name in the paper. That's pretty impressive."

He met her eyes, finally, and found sincerity and admiration in them. Smiling, Oscar felt a warmth inside. "Thanks . . . I mean, it was nothing."

"Stop," she ordered. Mimicking a teacher, she shook her finger at him. "It definitely is something. Take credit for your talent." She flashed him one more grin before turning and heading back to her work.

Oscar sat still for several solid seconds, basking in her praise. It felt good to have someone he didn't even really know commending him, and feeling good made him want to keep working. That was the sort of person he was—like a little child who needed to hear good things. They made him melt inside and get the ideas flowing. He didn't need to doubt his worth. Self-deprecation did nothing for him; it just kept him back and made him worry. It was what put him in questionable positions. It was when he hated himself that he wanted to escape reality, the too-harsh reminders that the world wasn't really that lovely. That it wasn't something he could shape or mold—it was like the cold, unyielding scrap on the floor. Its abrasive edges needed to be softened when he recognized them, and whoever couldn't help assuage the pains they brought on or sympathize with his desire to dull them was no friend of his. The time he had in the world was too important to waste on people who couldn't understand him.

Suddenly, there was a hand patting his shoulder, shaking him from his thoughts. "Hey, you want to go out for a drink after this?"

Oscar looked back, turned halfway around on his stool. "Oh, yeah. Sure. I mean, I hadn't thought about it, but I guess I can."

"Good, cause Derek's going to meet me and we're going across the street. I want to buy you a drink. You know, celebrate the success and all."

Trying to hide his pleasure, Oscar allowed a bemused look to spread across his face. He'd known Mark since their sophomore year but hadn't seen much of him for a while; their friendship had fizzled out naturally. Then, suddenly, they'd fallen into this class together, and now Mark was ready to renew their camaraderie with a few drinks, just because Oscar's name had been in the paper. It was amazing how quickly people wanted to associate themselves with you once you'd had your name in print.

"That's nice, Mark. You don't have to do that."

"No, really. I want to. It's been too long, you know? We should catch up, anyhow. I got some of that good stuff back at the apartment, too. You should come on by."

Oscar nodded in affirmation and Mark went off. How nice it was to have some attention on him—Oscar wasn't used to it, but he hoped it wasn't going away any time soon.