The New Girl's Guide to Fitting In

2

Nothing says 'fashionably late' like waltzing into class nearly thirty minutes after the instructor has begun teaching, almost crying while introducing yourself, and then tripping over your new oxfords as you find your new seat only to smack your hip against a very sharp corner of a very solid desk. Oh no, I was the definition of cool. Cue the sarcasm. Light me on fire, please.

This was overwhelming, much more than I thought it would be. Not only did I downright humiliate myself, I had forgotten to bring my Literature book and my Calculus book, causing a serious scolding from my ancient professors. You would think, it being my first day, they would be understanding. But no. I needed saving, only there was no one up for the task. So, with multiple sighs, I quite literally stumbled through most of my day, barely missing the doorframe as I shoved myself into my last class of the day: Art. The smell of canvas and fresh acrylic wafted past me as I examined the room. This class had been set on the far side of campus, in its own building, that was quaint when compared to its neighbors. If anything was true in those horrid teen dramas, it was that the Arts wing of most schools are sorely lacking. The room was about three-quarters the size of a regular classroom, seeming smaller as it was cluttered with art supplies. Regardless, I already loved this building. It carried an air that the others didn't, singing to me in just the right tune.

Painting was an escape from my isolated world, as was writing. Whenever my hand touched paper or canvas, it was as if my world truly took on color; vibrant and filled with adventure. Grasping at those threads, I pulled myself through life with the help from my art. At just the age of fourteen, I had written four books and painted numerous paintings, two of which were published through a small publishing company in Dublin, while twelve of my paintings had made their way to buyers. The money was never substantial, but it was never about that. I felt a burning passion when it came to creativity, I suppose I inherited that from my lens-loving mother. The woman who made me realize the many worlds that one could create with just a simple imagination and an eye for detail. I don't think she ever really expected her passion to spark something in me but, nevertheless, she was proud of me for my small achievements, just as I was. It was my books and paintings that filled my wallet with money as I prepared to go to this very school. Publishing one more book and selling multiple paintings online, I was decluttering my room for my father to have a home office and profiting off my passion.

Running my fingers along the rough canvas, I sighed in bliss. After a long day full of humiliation, it was ending on a good note and, for that, I was relieved. In all honesty, I was hoping that today would be the turning point for me. I wanted to look back and say 'Yeah, my first day at school was where it all changed.' But, sadly, that most likely wouldn't be the case.

Screw my clumsiness and social awkwardness.

The sound of the door opening caught my attention, my head turning slightly to the left to see that I was no longer alone in this small slice of heaven. And, if it hadn't been for my innate curiosity, I probably would have found myself already sitting at one of the blank canvases, not turning my body to the entrance. Standing at roughly six feet and one inches, with a jawline that could nearly slice you with a single touch. This guy was built athletically, his blazer's sleeves pulled above his forearm, displaying an impressively tanned and toned arm and his brown hair was styled to perfection, reaching to tickle his chin.

"Staring isn't polite, you know." His husky voice broke the stillness, startling me a bit. Our eyes meeting; his hazel orbs locked with mine as his lips pulled up into a sly smirk, making my heart skip in a foreign way.

Nervous, I pulled a piece of my fiery hair behind my ear. This guy looked like he was pulled straight out GQ, despite the fact that we wore nearly identical uniforms. His fit him like a glove.

"Sorry." My response was lame. Even he knew it, as he chuckled, eyeing me with interest. I wasn't used to this. The only male attention that I had ever had was held during my tutoring sessions or came from my father. Even when my family vacationed, no one of the opposite sex ever took notice in me. So, being under the heavy gaze of someone so attractive was intimidating, to say the least. I wasn't used to this sort of scrutiny.

"So..." I began, my voice shaking as I spoke. He grinned in amusement. "Where are all the other students? And the teacher?"

"Oh. Everyone else is probably in Art Appreciation or some other easy class. Not many people actually enjoy art, here. Too busy with 'more interesting' electives like Fashion Design and How to Be a Brainless Zombie 101." I was graced with, yet another, chuckle. "So," He continued, moving to sit at one of the few canvases, "Looks like it's just you and me."

That caught me off guard. There had to be a teacher. All classes had one.

"Ah, I see you are skeptical." The man mused as he prepared to paint. "I can practically hear your mind scream 'WHAT?! No teacher? How?' and I'll tell you how. The only way to get into this class is by submitting a portfolio during sign-ups. And no normal student wants to waste time on trying to prepare art just to get into a class." Brushing a few strands of hair out of his face, he turned, locking eyes with me again. "So, New Girl, this is a self-taught class. We get a printout of the curriculum and requirements and are entrusted to stay on track without supervision. Think you can handle it?"

There was a hint of challenge in his eyes. He was goading me, I was sure of it. I didn't know if it was because I was the new girl or because he simply wanted the room all to himself, but I wasn't planning on backing down.

"Yes, Painter Boy, I can handle an hour on my own and alone. It's basically a dream come true." Not true. I actually wanted to be around my peers, but he did not have to know that.

His grin widened. "Painter Boy? Original. But, while a good name, it isn't what people usually call me."

I scoffed. "Okay, I'll bite. What do they call you?"

"Luca."

"Well, Luca, lets have a nice semester. Shall we?" His eyes trailed after me as I found a seat, far away from him, before he called back to me.

"What? You don't have a name?"

Shrugging my shoulders in response, I found a playfulness in myself that I never thought I had. My fingers laced through my long hair, pulling it into a high bun, putting the back of my neck on full display as I glanced back towards the gorgeous man with a sly smile gracing my lips.

"That, you will have to earn, Painter Boy."