Sleeping Beauty, Infiltrates. Part 1

Apparently, no booking is required for a mere visit.
Though fundamentally a solitary type at heart, I possess an abundance of initiative.
Some might call it a tendency to run wild.
Thus, I decided to make a dash for it.
A ten-minute walk from the station revealed a square building with the feel of a ‘tiny school’.
　Ignoring my momentary hesitation, Shizuku strode briskly inside.
Beside the entrance was a reception area, with a counter protruding beneath the window.

“Hello.”

Shizuku showed the receptionist something resembling a card, then turned to me.

“This girl wishes to observe the drawing session.”

“I see. Please fill in your address, name, and contact details here.”

“Ah, yes.”

“The location is the large classroom upstairs.”

With that, Shizuku promptly headed further down the corridor.
She could have waited for me, given this was unfamiliar territory. Heartless little thing.
After filling out the paperwork and receiving a brief explanation of the rules, I climbed the stairs.
　Where exactly is the large classroom on the second floor? I wondered, but seeing others heading there made it clear.
Easels and canvases lined up in rows. The smell of paint.
The air felt tense.
Unconsciously, I searched for Shizuku’s figure and felt relieved to see her back, sharpening a pencil with a craft knife.
After a moment, Yomi-san entered the classroom.
She really is teaching.

“Right then, good afternoon. Today we’ll be doing still life sketching—”

Her gaze swept swiftly across the room, pausing only briefly before my face.

“Let’s get started. I’ll take attendance.”

But it truly was just a moment; she immediately began calling out names as if nothing had happened.

†

How to put it… I’m bored.
For the first ten minutes or so, I watched Shizuku sketch.
　Naturally, she looked so serious I couldn’t very well interrupt her to chat.
That said, fiddling with my phone in this atmosphere felt awkward too.
I’d come hoping to speak directly with Yomi-san, but it didn’t seem like the right vibe.

“Would you like to try drawing?”

Just as I was thinking of leaving, someone spoke to me.
Yomi-san. With a smile.

“Since you’re here. I can lend you the tools.”

“No, I…”

I couldn’t say I’d only come to talk to her.
Yomi-san placed an empty easel in front of me and set up the canvas.
She leaned close and whispered softly.

“Try drawing.”

“But—”

Our eyes met at point-blank range.
Yomi-san had, how should I put it, such quiet eyes. Like a sea without a single ripple, utterly calm.

“I’d like to see what kind of picture you paint. I won’t line them up for critique or anything.”

That got my goat.

“I don’t mind if you do.”

I snatched the offered writing implements and turned back to the canvas.
I glared at the apples and bananas laid out on the central table, thinking, just you wait.

“Right then, let’s begin the critique. Starting from the top left—”

Of course, that doesn’t suddenly make you a better artist.
Or rather, everyone else is just too good.
Ever since I can remember, I’ve never thought my drawing was bad. It feels odd to say it myself, but
it’s not just drawing – I’m generally better at most things than others. The only thing I’m genuinely bad at is cooking, and even that I could probably manage if I properly studied it.
　But looking at all these sketches lined up, I realise.
It’s completely different. This is what they mean by it being presumptuous to even compare.
Well, obviously.
This is an art college prep school, a place where kids aiming to make it in that world gather.
The world of serious competition is still a bit dazzling, painful on the eyes.
As promised, Yomi-san didn’t critique my drawing.

“Shinomori-san”

After the critique session ended and participants began trickling out, Yomi-san called me over.

“What is it?”

“We’re supposed to have interviews with visitors. To discuss the critiques of their work and career guidance, that sort of thing.”

“…I see.”

“Of course, you can decline if you wish.”

When asked what I intended to do, I naturally replied, “I’d appreciate it.”
Glancing briefly at Shizuku, I saw she had already finished tidying up and was about to leave the classroom.
Before I could say anything, she raised one hand and swiftly exited through the door.

　The interview room was a small space, like a preparation room.
Two stools sat opposite a desk.
The walls were crammed with art books and reference materials, almost overflowing.
It felt like a university professor’s office. Purely an impression, mind.

“I saw your painting, Shinomori-san.”

I froze, taken aback.
Could this person seriously be about to give me proper art advice?

“I thought, ‘This one’s serious.’”

“Eh?”

“Setting technique aside, the lines conveyed a genuine effort to capture form. You probably never intended to draw yourself, yet when you did, you finished properly within the time limit.”

“So,” she continued.

“I thought, ‘Serious.’ And proud too, refusing to show weakness until absolutely necessary. That sort of feeling.”

“Do art school lecturers do counselling too?”

“Goodness, no. But I can sense things.”

The hard stool was uncomfortable, making me restless.
This person… somehow makes me feel uneasy.
Facing her, I felt as if she could see right into my soul.
Then, Yomi-san’s lips suddenly curved into a smile.

“You don’t need to be so wary.”

“Eh?”

“Me and Ame? It’s nothing.”

Seeing my flustered expression, she pressed on.

“Oh? Wasn’t that what you came here to talk about?”

Ouch.
She’d taken the initiative, completely setting the pace.
Honestly, she’s impossible to deal with.