Not Today, But Someday(4)

“Art can’t be planned. Art is felt.”

“Then what’s that?” she asks, pointing to my sketch.

I crumple up the paper and toss it toward the trash can at the front of the class, missing by a few feet. “That was how I felt yesterday,” I tell her as I get up to retrieve my trash and place it in the recycling receptacle.

When I return to my chair, the girl is holding my paintbrush tentatively in front of the canvas. “And how do you feel today?” she asks, moving her wrist as if practicing the motion.

Ten minutes ago I felt the same. Four minutes ago, even. But right this very second, something in me changes. I don’t have the words to describe it, so I answer her vaguely. “Different.”

I turn the canvas on its side, and with a pencil, I draw a line down the center. The girl smiles and starts painting on the half closest to her. I pull another brush out of my bag, as well as some more colors. I’m drawn to a tube of cadmium green I’d never used before. I start mixing it with white, trying to recall from memory the color of her eyes without having to look back. When I finally think I’ve mixed the two pigments correctly, I engage her in conversation again to compare my creation with the real thing.

“You picked the best seat, you know. You’re lucky. You’re sitting next to the best artist in school.”

“And who gave you that title?” she scoffs, barely looking at me... barely giving me the opportunity to look into her eyes. There’s a tiny bit of blue, I think. I pull out another tube of paint.

“It’s just a fact.”

“Lucky? I’m not sure I will enjoy sitting here, actually. Already, you’re a little too arrogant for my liking.”

“Arrogant, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“Some women like men with confidence.”

“Well, if you call that confidence, this girl does not.”

“Sorrrr-yyy.” I’m not at all offended. I just can’t wait to hear more, and try to egg her on.

“My dad’s arrogant,” she mutters.

“Well, they say girls are attracted to guys who remind them of their fathers.”

“You like to speak in generalities, don’t you?” she asks. She continues before I can respond. “Again, not this girl. My dad cheated on my mom. That’s why I got to transfer to this f*cking school in Jersey mid-year.” She stares into my eyes, long and hard. I expect tears, after hearing that news, but I only see anger. She’s waiting for me to talk.

“Well, hello, Fiesty. There’s the red-head I was hoping to meet.”

One corner of her naked lip turns up into a grin. “And who are you?”

“Nate Wilson.”

She nods and turns her attention back to the painting. She doesn’t talk to me anymore during class, even when I try to get her name out of her.

“So should I just call you Fiesty, then?” She chuckles a little, but rolls her eyes. “Chaos?” I suggest. When the bell rings, she sets down the big brush she’d been using and picks up the small one I had just set aside. Light green paint with a tinge of blue still coats the bristles. In the bottom corner, she scrawls three letters, signing her work.

emi

She pushes her chair back and hands the brush to me before picking up her worn Hello Kitty backpack. It looks odd with her destroyed denim jeans and black combat boots, but everything about her makes me smile.

“Nice meeting you, Emi.” She keeps walking until she exits the room, at which point she turns her head quickly, her once-pale skin entrenched in a deep, red blush. Dimples press far into her cheeks as she grins back at me.





CHAPTER 3 - EMI





Bad timing, again. It’s the story of my life. Was he flirting with me?

If I believed in fate and happily ever after and – hell, even love – I might be excited about this. He’s just my type... except for that whole arrogance thing. How does someone like that get to be so cocky, anyway? Sure, he’s cute, but he’s not all that. He’s too skinny to be all that. But his hair is cool... dark brown with reddish highlights. I don’t think that’s his real hair color, though. Hovering over his eyes are brows that are much lighter. The fuzz on his chin is almost blonde, too. And he has nice skin. And that smile. My stomach feels queasy, remembering his smile as I left the art room.

He smelled like cigarettes, though. I’m sure he thinks it looks cool. So, he’s just my type – except for the unexplained cockiness and the smoking. Already I’m lowering my standards.

I look for Nate Wilson in the rest of my classes, but it seems like art is the only period we share. Nate Wilson. Such an unassuming name. It’s not the name of someone with charisma and charm. Nate Wilson sits in the middle of the class, hoping no one calls on him. Nate Wilson doesn’t strike up conversations with girls who are trying to be as unapproachable as possible. Maybe it’s not his real name. I laugh under my breath at the way my imagination is already setting expectations for this guy I just met. Even if I wanted a boyfriend, this poor guy wouldn’t have a chance in hell. Nate Wilson doesn’t have girlfriends. This time, an audible giggle escapes, and a few people turn to look at me as I walk alone down the hallway.

My typical instinct is to focus on the ground as I walk, but I’m in a new school where no one knows me. Chris was trying to ‘reinvent’ himself here, and judging by the interest of some snotty girl named Amelia, he was achieving that. He’d encouraged me to do the same – if nothing else, to test our acting chops. We were both in drama at our old school. Neither of us signed up for the class here. We’d both seen enough drama for one year.