I wouldn't call myself your typical 16-year-old high school girl. Some girls won't wear white because of their bra or scared their period might rear its ugly head. I can't wear white unless I want to showcase my artistically placed scars created an...
Mr. Toma holds everyone's attention at the word 'project'. Groans, sighs, and protests are heard throughout the art studio. I for one, am barely controlling my excitement.
A low cough comes out of Mr. Tomas's mouth as he continues; "You are all instructed to draw a picture using whatever utensils desired. The theme is secrets." He looks around at all the boys who seem to be preoccupied with their conversations. "Since many of you have a concentration problem, this is due at the end of the hour."
All hell breaks loose.
"You can't do that-"
"It's a project grade-"
"What the hell does secret mean?"
I whip my head around frantically. The loud booming of male voices has me filing through old memories that are better kept in the cabinets. I'm on the verge of bolting out the door, or window, I'm not picky- when I feel a hand starts stroking my head. In the corner of my eye, I see Gabriel giving me a very concerned look while massaging my scalp. I know he just wants to touch my hair, and I'm oddly okay with that.
I instantly calm. Never in my sixteen years of living have I experienced this type of perfection before. I'm in total bliss. I've read about hair follicles and their sensitivity on the human body but I've truly never understood what dead cells could make you feel.
Gabriel's face tells me he's intrigued, shocked, bewildered, and very pleased with my reaction. He looks like a someone who found something they weren't supposed to.
"It's all fucking right trouble. These dick heads don't know how to act when they don't get their way. These motherfuckers are true rich bitches who do nothing but sit on their asses all day sucking on society's shit-filled dildos."
I stare at him for a few seconds before I burst out laughing. Tears stream from my eyes as I bend over with both hands on my stomach. I haven't laughed in so long that the sound is alien to me. Making so much sense while making no sense at all must be Gabriel's specialty. At the end of my laughing spree, I look up and see the whole room's eyes right on me. The exact place that I frankly don't want them.
They're all looking at you because of your ugly laugh. Way to be disruptive sang.
My negative thoughts soon have me casting my eyes downward again. Way to make a scene Sang, you can't do anything right.
"Alright class," Mr. Toma thankfully draws the attention to back to himself; "The project is due in... forty-five minutes. Get working, or else you will receive a triumphant score of a zero in the project category."
The class hurriedly begins working on the project using pens, pencils, watercolor, and paints of all kinds. I take out my pencil and begin drawing an outline. I know exactly what my drawing will look like when it's done.
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Thirty minutes later, I'm almost done with my drawing when I hear scratches and scribbles next to me. My curiosity gets the best of me and I take a sneaky glance at Gabriel's artwork. His drawing is absolutely jaw-dropping. Wooden doors are stationed in the middle of the paper with flowers all around it making and wreath effect. Chains are weaved through the flower wreath which all meet up at the double doors, holding them shut. The chains seem to be all part of one single lock. The lock itself is rusted and old looking, but still beautiful.
The colorful drawing is breathtaking.
Before Gabriel sees me peering over at him like a nosey mouse that I am, I quickly bring my attention back to my own paper. Adding a few last touches on my drawing, the bell rings. Mr. Henshaw never showed up.
Gabriel jumps a little, cutting him out of whatever world he was in. He looks at his art and gives it a distasteful frown.
Knowing exactly where his inner thoughts are taking him, I tap the table gaining his attention. When his eyes fall on me, I give him a thumbs up and a heart sign indicating the appreciation I have for his piece. He glances back down at his paper, then at me. The shy smile he gifts me almost makes my heart melt. It's almost hard to believe that someone so confidence feels so insecure about his art.
Mr. Toma calls for our finished pieces to the front. Gabriel's eyes wander to my paper and I quickly snatch it away before he can analyze it. Turning my paper in my hands, I grab my book bag and silently walk over to where Mr. Toma is collecting them. Handing my project over, I stand there a minute until he gives me the 'okay' to leave.
I see wonder, anger, sadness, and scariest of all, understanding flash across his features. No one has ever understood my art before and this new development causes me to have an internal freak-out. If he is able to understand my artwork, how am I going to be able to draw freely and release my pent-up emotions? How am I supposed to share my past without actually sharing it?
Mr. Toma looks up at me. His face is void of all the emotions he had just a few seconds ago.
"Mrs. Sorenson, I'd like a word with you after school."
I mutely nod. I see Gabriel walk over and hand him his paper over with questioning eyes. Mr. Toma gives a 'talk later' look to Gabriel. This, of course, doesn't go unnoticed by me. I begin walking out of the art studio when I hear Mr. Toma call out; "And please contact your parents. I'd like them to be present as well."
