paint palettes and cameras

A photo and a paintbrush

His arms weren't the only thing that lay so gently. His coal-black sweater embraced him, offering warmth and a gentle hug. The way his jeans defined his long skinny legs fitting like glue. His hair fell lightly against his forehead as his thin pale fingers raised slightly to adjust his circle glasses. His cheeks were rosy and his eyebrows were brushed and squared to perfection across his forehead. The freckles that stain his skin are a pure delicacy. His hand moves softly toward the paper, as the ink soaks through the pages. He even writes gently, I thought, as I press my left cheek harder into my hand, adoring him from afar.

"Mable?" "Mable." The teacher says, looking sternly into my eyes. "Oh, yes, sorry...Mrs.Rein," I clear my throat as my classmates' eyes burn into me. Not able to bear eye contact, I look down at my textbook as my heart beats out of my chest, stabbing me with every thump. "What is rhetoric?" She asks. "Rhetoric," I state. "Rhetoric, it's," I clear my throat, and brush my thin, dark bangs out of my face. "It's the use of logic, reason, and emotion to persuade others. Pathos, ethos, and logos. It's mainly used to make someone or even a group of people understand your argument, by using facts and information or some sort of pity from emotion. Either way, it's drawing them in, from, your argument. To prove a point that you firmly believe in, or to make your way of thinking someone else's," I breathe out, tapping the other end of my pencil against the desk, my eraser growing harder with every smash and beat against the wood. "Very well said, Mable," Mrs.Rein says, enthusiastically.

The class turns back to their notes, but I see his eyes brushing up against mine when I look up at him—he turns away.

The bell rings, and I place my notebook into my backpack, tossing the pencil with the rubbed-out eraser inside. I swing it over my shoulders and walk toward the door. Heading down the hallway and into a closet, I walk up the stairs and sit on the floor. Opening the small hidden door, I slip my body inside and close it shut behind me. The room is incredibly small. Only about two or three people could fit inside. It's a hidden room that nobody else but me knows about—I think. I spend my days in there during off periods, eating cheese cubes and cookies while sketching and painting or writing poetry. My dark brown hair falls to the sides of my face, and I gather it into a ponytail as I wisp my bangs out in front. I sketch for some time as my pencil and sketchbook lay lightly within my grasp. After a few hours, I check my watch. 12:04. School ends at 2:00, and I am currently within the last hours of my off periods. No more classes. I sigh as I press my feet into the wall in front of me. Closing my eyes, I begin to dream of him. The smell of chocolate and oranges fill the air as his laughter melts my heart.

****

I wake up to the room completely dark. I search for my phone, only to wither away when I read the time. 7:34 PM. No, that's not possible. It was just 12, there is no way that I have fallen asleep for seven hours. There are six missed called from my dad. I text him that I stayed over at a friend's house after school and that I would be home around nine. He tells me to be home no later than ten. Great, I think, placing my sketchbook and pencil into my bag, swinging it over my back letting it embrace me. I climb out of the tiny room, down the stairs into the school. The lights are off. My light brown flats tread one after the other down the hall. Out of the darkness, there is a red light coming from a room. I walk near and down its hall. The light becomes bright when I look through the window. It's the boy. He's faced toward the glass, but looking down, holding pictures within his thin pale fingers, and I begin to feel myself smile. He looks up, and I gasp, quickly crouching down on my feet. I hold my knees steady as my other hand is against the wall. He opens the door to my right and steps out. Looking down, he sees me huddled like a puppy who is afraid. Great. So not only has he heard my stupid answer on rhetoric during English but he's caught me practically being a weirdo after...school hours. I think, realizing that I'm not the only one to stay after this late, even though it was accidental on my part.

"Mable?" He says, and his voice makes my heart flip a thousand times. I step up, slowly, waving my hand with a slight smile. "Hi, um, what's your name?" I say, holding my hands together tightly in a ball in front of me with pressed shoulders. "Oakley," he says, gently. "I had no idea that others stayed after this late from school, what are you here for?" He says, with curiosity in his tone. "Art," I say, smiling with my lips together in a soft, bouncing piece of thread. "Photography," he says, chuckling. "I'm working on something if you want to check it out," he says, welcoming me into the red room. My heart pounds with excitement and anticipation as my feet begin to tremble. "Sure," I say, walking inside. The red tint is not the only impeccable detail in the room, for the photos that are placed on the table and lined on a string above claim that title as well. He walks over to the table and places his photographs down, spreading them across. I follow behind, standing beside him. The photographs are black and white of streets, lights, and alleyways. Some are more chaotic, filled with people's feet dancing far up a street or cracked beer bottles. "This is amazing, wow," I say, admiring his work. "Thanks," he says, gathering them and placing them into his charcoal portfolio. He swings his camera around his neck, the rope hanging like a necklace. "Your art?" He says, with much excitement and expression of pondering in his words. I think for a moment before responding. "Oh, right," I pull out my sketchbook and flip through pages of paintings when his eyes grow huge. "Well, it's beautiful from what I can see, but this room isn't going to do much for its color. Show me where you do your art," he says, pushing his glasses further up to his eyes. I begin to panic because I can't show him my special place—nobody knows about it. He looks at me with confusion. "No special place?" He says, almost disappointed. "I do have a special place," I say. "Come."

****

We travel down the hallways and chatter. I learn that Oakley loves sketching as well, but he's not so good of a painter. I also learn that he enjoys English just as much as I do, and we talk about Shakespeare and Mary Shelley. I turn around the bend and lead him into the closet, up the stairs, into the room and open the small door. "Well this isn't...exactly what I was expecting," he says, with a small laugh. "School closet, huh?" "But not just any school closet," I say, excited. Opening the door, I crawl inside, helping him in. His fingers grasp mine, and my heart skips a beat. He crawls inside and shuts the door behind him. "Woah, this is super cool!" He says, looking around.

"Woah, those paintings are so beautiful," he says, with a glow in his eyes; a look of interest and admiration. I nod, tucking my hair behind my ear. "I get it, the whole, you know, privacy thing—I wouldn't want anyone distracting me from my work either," he says. "Yeah," I say, pulling my brushes out. "I always stay here during off periods and after school, but never this long—I fell asleep, today, that's why I'm here, normally I wouldn't—Let's paint for a little while," I say, passing him a piece of sketchbook paper and brushes as I clear my throat. We paint for a little while, talking about what we enjoy doing and how much homework we have. Soon, I check my phone and the time reads 9:26. "It's pretty late, I should be going home," I say, gathering my brushes and paints and placing them in my bag along with my sketchbook. "Same, it's been fun. Thanks for showing me your art corner," he says with a smile. "Yeah, and thanks for showing me your photography room," I say as he hands me his painting. It's a park scenery with a bench and a lake with some trees. I smile, seeing how beautiful his painting is; and I couldn't be any more in love, but I remembered something. "Hey, Oakley, you said you weren't that good of a painter? How is this incredible then?" I laugh. "Ah, thanks I guess, but it's not really," he chuckles.

****

We get to the school's main doors when he turns to face me. "I could walk you home?" He says. "Oh, sure," I say, tightening the strap of my backpack with my fingers. "I wish I had a car, but, I've only just turned 17 and in no way fit to drive a car," he laughs as the autumn breeze swirls outside against the darkness. "Autumn birthdays are cool, mines in winter. I'll be 17 in three months," I say. "Nice, my brother's birthday is in three months as well." We walk along the sidewalk. I offer my earbud and he gladly takes it. We listen to Greek Tragedy by The Wombats, (play song:,) ), all the way home.