Not Today, But Someday(3)

Misty. Said in between grunts and groans coming from some car nearby. His car, I’m sure, that piece of shit Chevy that he had to ‘fix up’ every weekend. The same Chevy that half of the cheerleading squad could describe the interior roof of, where the fabric hung down seven inches, keeping Clark from seeing the road behind him through the rearview mirror.

What kind of girl sleeps with her ex’s friend anyway?

Misty.

I guess Clark was her friend first, and he certainly isn’t my friend anymore. I really didn’t have any until she came along. It wasn’t easy transitioning to a new school in the tenth grade.

I knew she was that type of girl when I started dating her. Why I thought I’d be the last guy she dated, I’m not sure. She’s not in it for love. Fuck, I wasn’t either.

I wasn’t until I fell for her.

“Mr. Wilson, class started ten minutes ago,” the vice principal warns me as I try to sneak in through a side door. “You weren’t smoking, were you?”

“No, not at all,” I tell her with a warm smile, trying to convince her to believe me. I know the smell of my new leather jacket isn’t enough to cover the offensive tobacco odor, and in fact, probably makes it worse, but I lie to her anyway.

“I didn’t think so. Did you need a note?” she adds.

“That won’t be necessary.” I breeze past her, knowing that I can charm my art teacher just as easily. I’m her favorite student anyway. Plus, Ms. Martin has smoked with me behind the gym on occasion.

I open the classroom door quickly, letting it shut loudly behind me, not caring if the noises distract my classmates.

“Thanks for joining us,” my teacher says. I nod and grin in her direction as I head to my seat. Two rows before I get there, I see this diminutive girl sitting in the chair next to mine.

I’ve always been one of two students lucky enough to get their own workstation in art. I’d earned that seat, having honed my talent since I was a kid. I needed the space to spread out, to be messy.

I stop in my tracks, staring at the girl in the chair at my table.

“We took a vote at the beginning of class to see where our new student would sit. Without you here, it was unanimous,” Ms. Martin says. I want to turn to her, to glare at her, but I can’t look away from this fair-skinned girl who sits quietly with her head rested on folded arms. Even though we’re talking about her, her gaze is straight-ahead and distant. She doesn’t bother to look at me, which gives me ample time to stare at her mesmerizing green eyes. Light sage. Cucumber. Honeydew. I can’t figure out what word best describes the color of those eyes, but they’re unique and clear and enchanting.

I finally start moving again as some of my classmates laugh quietly at my reaction to my new neighbor. I grab my easel and a blank canvas from the side counter before I sit down. She has no supplies in front of her. I’m not sure her position or demeanor would change if she did.

She looks so sad.

I set up quickly, adrenaline coursing through me to start a new project. I pull out the sketch I’d drawn over the past couple of days. I’d started plotting it last week, but only got the inspiration to paint today. I glance over to the girl every few seconds, wondering if she’s going to participate in class. Maybe she got put into art because all the other electives were full. I doubt it, though, judging by her hair and clothes. Underneath an oversized black coat, she’s wearing a concert t-shirt that I actually own. I went to that show last summer. I had to sneak in the bar to attend, so I assume she did, too. And her reddish-blonde hair looks messy, but intentionally so. She looks artistic. I know from experience it doesn’t mean she is, but she does look the part.

After preparing my paints on the wax-paper palette the school provides us – so cheap and temporary compared to the nice wooden one I use at home – I start to paint with a large brush. Heavy, dark strokes coat the edges. It’s going to take forever to dry, but I don’t care. This is how I feel and this is how it should look.

“I don’t think they have enough black paint for both of us.” I turn my head quickly at the sound of her voice. Her words were mumbled because she didn’t lift her head from her arms to speak. Although I understood her the first time, I want to hear her again.

“Sorry?” I set my brush down and give her my full attention.

“I said I don’t think they have enough black paint for both of us.” Her eyes finally focus on something. They focus on me, and I immediately feel my heart start to pound in my chest.

Who is this girl?

“I’d share,” I tell her as I push my tube of black paint a few inches closer to her. “You need a canvas or something. Did you want me to–”

“No, I can’t paint,” she says, finally lifting her head. She moves her hands to her lap, but she maintains her slumped posture as if she’s caving in on herself.

“But you just said–”

“I know what I said. I was joking. If I was going to paint, it would just be smudges of black. That’s all.”

I totally understand. “Like this?” I ask, gesturing to my own work and smiling at her.

“Kind of,” she huffs.

“Show me,” I suggest, handing her my brush.

“No, you have, like, structure and order and a plan. I have chaos.”