right to look—it’s not like he’s hiding anything. But there wasn’t even an eye-drift.”
“Maybe he likes the flat-chested type,” she said, meaning herself.
“Yeah. Men. He’s totally gay.”
She shook her head. “Now, I’m not sure.”
“Wren, I’m telling you, not even a flicker.”
“Maybe he’s not gay,” she said. “Maybe he just has good taste.”
I made a face at her. “And a really fine pack—”
“Break time!” Claire called.
We squirted our sculptures with water, covered them in plastic to keep them moist, and headed outside. Ny was sitting contentedly in the back of the pickup. He loved break time, because a couple of the regulars always brought him treats.
“Hey, fatboy,” I said, scratching his head.
He gave me a little love, then wagged hopefully as he was plied with cookies. When the snack-vending students left, Wren and I sat on the open tailgate and drank our waters.
“Ugg boots,” I said. “I don’t care that the stars are wearing them.”
“Sleeve ruffles on men,” Wren said.
“Unless they’re on a mariachi outfit.”
She shook her head. “I don’t want to hear your mariachi fantasy again.”
“I just liked the movie is all. How about black jeans after 1992?”
“Forget ’92. Black jeans anytime after the Michael Penn song.”
“What if I were Ro-me-o in black jeans?” we sang.
“Snap-on ties,” I said.
“Too easy. Denim shorts.”
I shuddered. “Denim shorts.”
A male voice said, “Nice dog. Boy or girl?”
It was the male model, wearing a robe and flip-flops. I looked at his face for the first time. Boyishly handsome, with a lopsided smile. If I didn’t have Rip, I’d have tossed my hair and got down to business. The thought made me turn cold, as I realized: Wren was going to flirt.
“A boy. He’s a chow chow mutt,” I said, before she could say anything. “Mixed with I don’t know what. Chows have a bad reputation, but he’s totally friendly.”
“Hey there, boy.” The model put his hand out, and Ny perked up.
“He’s hoping for a treat,” I said. “He’s a bit spoiled—”
“I’m Wren!” She hopped off the truck and giggled nervously, looking up at him. “You’re tall. What’s your name?”
Oh, God.
“Kevin,” he said, and offered his hand.
She took it in a sort of death grip. “Hi! Glad to meet you. I saw you in class.”
“Yes, well—I’m the model,” he said, and looked toward me.
“I’m Anne. Wren and I were just saying how nice it is to have a male model.”
“We haven’t had a man in a long time,” Wren said, tilting her head. “I mean, not a man! A model. A male model. Not that a model’s not a man. I mean—”
Wren had just cut her hair. It was short and pixielike, bringing out the brightness of her eyes, the daintiness of her features, and the dippiness of her flirting. Still, her smile was sweet and inviting, even after I slid off the tailgate and stomped on her foot to shut her up.
“Have you done a lot of modeling?” I asked.
“No, this is my first time. Claire’s a friend, she asked as a favor?”
“That’s asking a lot from a friend,” I said. “How long will you model for?”
“A month. Then we’ll see. I hear the drawing class wants a male model. I guess it’s mostly women.”
“Actually, it’s mostly men who take figure drawing,” Wren blurted.
“He meant the models, Wren.”
“Oh, right! I did drawing for a while, but I like clay better. You shouldn’t be embarrassed, though. You’re a model. So your clothes are off. So you’re nude. Buck naked.” She offered a tinkly little laugh that ended in a snort. “Undraped, I mean. Not that I—I mean, you might as well be a fruit.”
“Bowl of fruit,” I said, grinding into her foot. “Wren loves doing still life.”
“I’ll try to remain motionless, then.”
“Oh, no!” Wren said, clutching his arm. “Move around all you want. Well, not all you want. I mean—no dancing. Unless you like dancing. But I mean—”
“Was that Claire?” I asked, glancing toward the classroom.
“I didn’t hear anything,” Kevin said.
Wren giggled horribly. “Neither did I.”
“And I do like dancing,” he told her.
“Me, too! Anne and I took ballroom dancing for a while—she dropped out, though, because she kept forgetting to let the man lead.”
“And you?”
She simpered. “I never forgot.”
“Wren—” I started. And, seeing her expression, words failed me. A full-throttle simper is not an expression which encourages conversation.
“Wren?” he said, smiling. “As in Ren and Stimpy?”
“Wren with a ‘W,’” she said. “Like the bird. The drab, brown bird.”
“But you’re not drab.”
Fortunately, before Wren gave herself a hernia from simpering, we were called back into the classroom.
“Not gay!” I said.
“Gay,” she said.
“He was flirting with you.”
“Pity flirting. He couldn’t believe what a dork I am. Why did you let me talk to him? I snorted. Did you hear me snort? I snorted. Like Miss Piggy.”
“And Kevin’s your Kermit.”
“Gay,” she said.
“Not gay. He likes you.”
“He doesn’t. He couldn’t.”
