Messed Up Vita

Chapter Four

   Joey starts to walk away through the doors, his instrument still clutched in his hands. I hurry after him. "Wait!"

   He turns on me suddenly, like I've been annoying him. "What?" His eyes were hard.

   I narrow my eyes, too. "I was just going to ask if your girlfriend was here."

   "She's not, alright?" he snaps, turning around. He pushes through the band door in his fit of sudden anger. I stay out in the hallway, staring after him. What was that all about? I hold my guitar tighter and stare down at it. My favorite guitar- my only guitar, actually. I've had it for. . . what, eight? I've only started getting serious at age nine, and I gradually got a little better. I've learned so many songs by heart on this, but none of them seem to come back to me right now.

   Joey pushes back through the door, guitar gone. He brushes past me without a glance. I glare after him, wondering what his problem is. A few minutes ago, he was congratulating me and smiling. Now he's acted as if I'd killed his dog.

   I push through the doors to the band room, and quickly pack my things up in the case. I shut it and stare at the cover. 

   How did I possibly just do that on stage? Now people will look at me different. Treat me like I'm a musical genius or something. I've seen it happen before. This one nerdy kid started to sing, and poof. He ditched his glasses and grew out his hair, playing in a suckish band on weeknights in a coffee shop or something. Hopefully the same doesn't happen to me, I think with a shudder.

   Leaving my guitar in the room, I quickly make my way out. Passing down the hallways instead of down the auditorium, I make my way to the back row of the audience. I push my hair out of my face as I walk down the hallway. My legs itch to run around the track at the moment, wearing the way of the past-worry and nervousness. I want to feel the beat of my feet hitting the track, listening to my Ipod. I wanted to escape this world, to dwell into my own mind and music. But my step mom doesn't want me running- she says it messes up hair and gets you sweaty. I argued back it kept you from getting fat. She shut up after that, because she's a huge dieter.

   I sigh and open the doors quietly to the huge room, shutting them quietly. A boy onstage is painting a canvas hastily with his bare hands, smearing what seems like random blobs of paint on the huge white tarp.

   I sit in the back by myself and watch in fascination. There's some kind of body now. . . an animal body. I watch as he starts smearing the head into place, dipping his hands into the plates of paint for different shades. His body blocks the view, so I look at the body. It wasn't what you called realistic art, but you could tell it was a body by the four legs, thick torso, and a long trailing tail. It was hard to make out the color, whether it was orange or tan. 

   The boy moves to the side, allowing a slight view on the head. It was a lion's, a huge dark mane surrounding his proud-looking face. His jaws were gaped in a snarl, defense hard in his eyes, like he was protecting his territory.

   He finishes with a long three-striped claw mark over the whole lion in red paint. He steps back, and somebody hands him a towel. He wraps his hands and wipes them off as people clap. I clap loudly, wishing I knew how to whistle loudly like some people can through their fingers. They move his artwork to the back of the stage, so more people can come up. They take the tarp off the floor that kept any paint from spilling onto the stage.

   "This is the last act, everybody," the principle says. I look up at the clock. It's three twenty-five. We get out in five minutes. I turn my attention back to the stage.

   My heart drops to my feet. I stare at the person entering the stage, recognition flooding throughout my body. I know who that was. They broke my heart last year, and didn't even regret it. Shock turns to hatred as I stare at the boy entering the stage, along with two other people.