The Deadly Seven

Greyson Graham [5/7]

Walking down a long white corridor with huge acrylic paintings on both sides, Greyson Graham was on his way to the car from another art class.  A large, rectangular covered canvas was tucked under his arm and his art bag hung from his other shoulder.  He glanced at his watch and his feet picked up the pace.  On his way to the stairs, he bumped into his art teacher, who was returning from the vending machines. 

“Oh, hey, Greyson,” his teacher, Rebecca Song, said through an apologetic smile.  She glanced at the cup of coffee in her hands and closed her eyes briefly in gratefulness that she didn’t scald her student. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t see you,” Greyson said, politely smiling.  In a joking manner, he said, “Must be because you’re so short.”  Seeing that his teacher wasn’t amused, he explained.  “I was just on my way back home.  I didn’t want to miss the game.”

Furrowing her brows, she asked, “I thought you were going to work on the project.  It still needs work.”  She gestured to the canvas under his arm.  Rebecca Song was the youngest art teacher at the school, being only twenty-two.  But her age didn’t matter because she was very good at her job and was worth every penny Greyson was paying.

Greyson was her newest student, but he proved to be unmotivated with every project—bringing in half-finished work or work that was so slopped together it looked like a different piece.  It was getting to be such habit that Rebecca had to pull Greyson aside and question his dedication.  Greyson replied that he would do better and work harder, but, those were all words and he came to the next lesson with a skyscraper that was missing last week’s improvements.

Looking down at the art piece, Greyson’s voice lowered and the excitement to race home dwindled into a hostile silence.  Through a clenched jaw, Greyson replied, “Right, well, I’ll finish it when I get home.”

Rebecca wasn’t convinced.  But she didn’t think it’d look good of her to argue with a student three years older than her.  Smiling to ease the tension between them, Rebecca made her way past him.  “Have a good night.”

“You, too.”  Greyson hurried down the stairs and made it to the parking lot in less than two minutes.  When he found his red mini-cooper, he popped open the trunk and tossed the painting in back, not worrying if it got torn or scrubbed by the dismantled bike he hadn’t gotten to the shop yet.  Closing the trunk, he jumped into the passenger seat and peeled out.  He had ten minutes before the game started on the television.

Greyson was the only child of well-to-do parents in Brooklyn, New York.  He had dropped out of his senior year at Harvard, due to being too involved with coaching a high school football team as well as clubbing with his collage friends.  He wasn’t a bad student; in fact, there was no excuse for him to drop out except that he didn’t find education a priority anymore.  He knew his parents were humiliated in his choice, so, in hopes to redeem himself, he chose to take up art and go to a community college to get a degree in teaching science. 

He was doing well at the college—passing all his classes.  But again, the teachers who saw a good future in him had to explain the importance of the courses he was taking.  If it wasn’t for the fact that he appeared to be an eager student (convincing the teachers he would ‘do better’) and being so sweet and polite, then he would’ve been hated by a lot of people for his lack of discipline. 

When Greyson pulled into the garage, he popped out of the car and walked to the trunk.  Before opening it, he stopped and thought twice if he wanted to bring the project upstairs.  Running a hand thoughtfully through his jet black hair, he stared at the trunk handle.  “Ah, I’ll do it tomorrow.”  He locked his car and disappeared into his apartment.  Ther, he spent the rest of the evening watching the game.