Reclaiming the Sand(31)

Her brown hair was now in matted dreads down her back and her sunburn had faded into a healthy, golden brown.

“Guess so,” I responded, not in the mood for superficial conversation. The girl was clearly not tuned into subtle cues because she fell into step beside me. I gave her the ubiquitous once over and rolled my eyes. She was obviously of the pseudo hippie persuasion with patched jeans and dirty toes peeping over the edges of her battered Birkenstocks. Just give the girl a second hand guitar and the look would be complete.

“Is this your first year?” she asked and I thought about ignoring her. I hadn’t come to school to make friends. Hell, I could barely tolerate the ones I had, so I wasn’t looking to acquire any new ones. And small talk would invariably lead to conversation, which would end up in invitations to hang out and expectations to develop a relationship I wasn’t interested in beginning.

But some strange compulsion had me answering her honestly. “Yeah. It is. You?” Shit, why had I asked her that? Now she would think I was interested in anything she had to say.

“Nope. I’m a second year. I plan to transfer out of here in the spring. Get my Bachelor’s. Do something with my life, ya know?”

No I didn’t know. But I didn’t tell her that. No sense in unloading my lack of forward planning with a girl who obviously hadn’t washed her hair in a while.

I didn’t respond and we fell into silence. Awkward for me, easy and comfortable for her.

“I’m Kara Baker,” she said, offering her name in the same tone you offer a cigarette. Unbothered. Noncommittal. Whatever.

I nodded and kept quiet. She laughed after a few minutes. “Am I supposed to guess yours? Because I’m really bad at that shit.” Her rich laugh had me smiling in spite of myself.

Whether I wanted to or not, I kind of liked this chick.

“Ellie McCallum,” I answered.

“Ellie. That’s a cool name. Is it short for something? Eleanor maybe? Elvira? I know it’s Elora!”

I smirked and shook my head.

“Nope, just plain ole Ellie.”

“Plain my ass. You’ve got the whole tortured lone wolf thing going on. There are probably all kinds of crazy shit going on with you.”

“Not exactly,” I mumbled, the momentary softening I had felt already freezing over. I was officially done playing let’s get to know each other.

“There’s a story there. I can feel it,” Kara teased but I wasn’t in the mood for teasing.

“Nope, no story. Look I’ve gotta go,” I said abruptly. Without waiting for her response, I picked up the speed and hurried ahead. I heard her call something after me but this time I went with my first instinct and ignored her.

I pushed through a door I had only been through one other time and silently moved down the almost empty corridor until I found myself standing outside the large windows looking into the art studio.

And just like the last time, Flynn was sat at a table, his hands moving deftly through a mound of clay. His fingers molded and shaped without hesitation. I had always enjoyed watching him like this. Creating. He became someone else. Someone confident and almost ballsy. It was awesome.

I stood in the hallway a little while longer, debating whether I should go inside. I didn’t know if I would be crossing into territory I needed to stay away from.

But then I acted without thinking. I pressed down on the door handle and faltered only a second before taking the plunge. The door hit the wall as I pushed it open with more force than was necessary. The bang bounced around the quiet room.

Flynn looked up, his hands still deep in the clay and he appeared startled to see me.

“Ellie,” he said flatly.

“Flynn,” I replied just as emotionless.

I stared at him long after he had dropped his eyes and continued to work on his project. I was already second-guessing my brash impulsivity.

“I’m glad you came,” Flynn’s words carried across the room and hit me directly in the chest.

Not able to stand there any longer, I shuffled toward him, my flip-flops slapping against the tiled floor. My bag hung off my shoulder and my terrified reluctance echoed in every step.

I still hadn’t said a word. I didn’t know what to say. So I watched him and it was easy to fall back into an old pattern. I sat down on the bench beside him, careful to allow a certain amount of space between us. I dropped my bag to the floor and leaned forward, my hair brushing the backs of my arms as they braced the wood in front of me.

I followed the movements of his hands with eager eyes, wishing, not for the first time, that I contained an ounce of his talent. What I wouldn’t give to be able to express myself like that.

The clock on the wall ticked its way through the hour. Each second punctuated by a growing sense of familiar ease. His art was therapy. Not just for him but for me as well.

After almost thirty minutes, Flynn blew a lock of hair out of his eyes and rolled his shoulders. “My fingers are starting to ache,” he explained, pulling his hands out of the clay and flexing them in front of him.

I leaned my head on my hand and stared down at the tiny structure he had sculpted. It looked like a gingerbread house with a latticed roof and decorative trim. It was tiny and perfect.

“What is it?” I asked him, as he stretched out his back in exaggerated movements.

“It’s a house,” Flynn replied blandly.