Not Today, But Someday(34)

“Maybe some other time?”

“Yeah, maybe,” I agree, looking her over once more as I walk away. I don’t stop at Emi’s table. In fact, I barely smile at her when those green eyes find mine. I have to keep walking. I either need to get laid, or I need another cigarette. Knowing I can only have one right now, I find the nearest exit and have one more smoke. Ten minutes later, I realize it’s not helping like I need it to. I decide to head up to the art room early and pull out my history book, reading about the revolutionary war. Nothing sexy about that.

“Get some sleep?” I look up to see Emi smiling down at me, kicking her work stool back with her boot. “Because you look like hell.”

“Thank you,” I tell her, touching the bags under my eyes. “And not enough.”

“Why not?”

“I can’t stop painting,” I admit. “I did three paintings yesterday.”

“Suddenly inspired?”

Suddenly inspired to take you out of this room, find a back hallway and kiss you like you’ve never been kissed before in your life. Has she been kissed before? I stare at her lips, imagining them on mine.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” she says, rolling her eyes and sitting down. “You’re weird sometimes.”

“Sorry,” I apologize, knowing how awkward that moment was. “I’m just tired,” I lie. “Did you get in trouble?”

“Not really,” she answers, pulling a manilla envelope out of her backpack.

“Good.”

“Does Mrs. Martin have any, like, glue or rubber cement?” she asks me, now emptying the contents of the envelope onto her desk. Hundreds of small scraps of paper spill out. She corrals them all to her side of the bench. “And some poster board?”

“Yeah, just a sec.” I get up to go get a canvas for myself and grab supplies for her on my way back. “What are you doing?”

“I get these art magazines, and they had this typography project that was really interesting. I wanted to try it. My cousins have this band and they’re putting together a demo. They need a CD cover. I think this would be cool.”

“So you do graphic design?”

“I guess, so. Yeah.”

“That’s really cool,” I tell her. “I hear there’s a lot of demand for graphic designers. Much more demand than, say, for a fine artist.”

“I’d trade my talent for yours in a heartbeat,” she says. “You saw my painting last week.”

“Yeah, I painted over that yesterday. Sorry.”

She smiles and gets a wild look in her eyes. “How cool will that be? Someday, they’ll be dissecting your four-hundred-year-old painting and find some crap underneath it. They’ll always wonder... who’s Emi? Damn. If only I could be around for that,” she laughs.

“Maybe you’ll be famous in your own right. Maybe we’ll become famous together, and they’ll always mention us in the same sentence. Nathaniel Wilson and Emily Hennigan. Can’t you see the headline?”

“Yeah, right. You hear about world renown graphic designers every day.”

“Andy Warhol,” I suggest. “That was what he studied. He just made it into fine art.”

“Well, no one knows him,” she says, picking out small letters from the pile of paper. I stare at her until she looks up at me. “Kidding,” she says, kicking me playfully under the table.

“I was just about to end our friendship.”

“Over Andy Warhol? Now that’s just dumb. End it over betrayal. Lies. Finding better friends. Don’t end it over Andy Warhol. What, then, did he live his life for?” she asks passionately. She stares into my eyes and continues. “No, Andy Warhol wouldn’t want that,” she says so seriously that I’m afraid to laugh. I can’t hold it in, though, and eventually let out a quiet chuckle at her statement. She finally starts laughing with me.

“Nate? Emi? You two should be working.”

“Sorry, Mrs. Martin,” I say, looking at the blank canvas in front of me. Emi ducks her head close to the table, trying to shield her pink cheeks as she continues to laugh. This time, I kick her shin. She kicks me back, suddenly looking up with this innocent expression on her face as she applies some fixative to the back of a large letter “P.”

“You’re crazy, Em,” I whisper, starting to mix colors on my palette.

“Then I’m perfect for your weird. I see the beginning of a long, crazy, weird friendship.”

“I couldn’t have said it better myself,” I laugh again.

Half-way through class, she speaks up again. “Did you figure out the color?”

“You know, I didn’t work on it anymore. I mean, without you there to compare it to... I didn’t see the point. I guess you’ll have to come back over.”

“You don’t have to ask me twice,” she says. “Although if I do, I may not want to hang out with you. I might just want to spread out... get comfy... that type of thing.”

“I don’t mind being used.”

“Cool,” she says. “What do you think?” She holds the poster board back about two feet so I can see her work. I can see a few words in the letters she’s arranged, and the shape is beautifully curved and distinct, formed with these scraps of paper into thick and thin lines.