SCHNEIDER

october,

i.

Frau Fidge had told me to spend more time making art outside of class. Here I am, in the art room on a Thursday evening, trying to appease her. I've started a multi-media project; it's abstract, oil paints and thick pastel strokes and pieces of fabric stuck to the canvas. There are going to be multiple of these canvases, and they're supposed to be inspired by my interpretation of Terence Malick films.

I could have made a film instead, I realize as I'm ripping apart a piece of scarlet fabric and painting it onto the canvas. What am I doing wasting all these resources for?

Charline comes into the room. She bends down and kisses me - I guess we are on the kiss-for-a-greeting base. She stands at my shoulder and looks at my art. There's a good thing about Charline, and that's that she likes to pay attention to you. And she won't stop paying attention until she feels like she's figured you out. "Why the fabric?" she asks.

"I don't know. I just found it in the cupboard."

"There's probably a reason why you gravitated towards the fabric." she's digging into it; it makes me feel like my decisions are more purposeful than they are. "Maybe it represents exposure. The way all these bits of cloth are around the painting like this. Like someone had ripped off their clothes."

"Yeah. That's pretty sweet, I'll use that in my write-up."

She laughs. Other people are coming into the art room. I'm mixing paint, so I don't look up, at first. The perfect tint of blushy-red is more elusive than I'd thought.

Charline walks away into the woodworking section. I think she's been working on a bowl.

"Goddamn, this is depressing."

How disappointing. The people who'd just walked into the art room are Neal, Marc and Roman. They are looking at the unfinished art that I think belongs to Feder. I know it's an acrylic exploration of suicide in Scandinavian countries. A lot of dark colours and naked crying women popping pills. I asked him once why the women are naked. All he did then was wink at me.

"She could be saving a lot of pills if she just used them to get fucking high like a normal person."

"Tell a suicidal person to use the pills to get high instead, I fucking dare you, Neal."

He looks at me. I laugh a bit to show him I'm just messing around, the way we do. Always sniping at each other, trying to outdo the other with snide remarks. It's supposed to be a fun game. Boys being boys.

"I'll never understand people who die like this."

"Good thing nobody asked you to."

"Damn, you're salty today, Schneider. Makes me wonder if you're a suicidal pussy, too."

"I hope your dad hangs himself as karma."

"I hope you fucking kill yourself. Actually, your suicide would be a lucky one, because nobody would have to grieve."

There is nothing joking or playful about that last line. It cuts straight to my bone, and I look up from my canvas to see him turned away from me and walking towards the exit. The art room becomes a lot chillier.

ii.

Calvin asked me if I wanted to go for a smoke with him.

This was at the party, celebrating the end of grade 10. The transfer from the middle school to the high school. My routine was just starting to set in, back then: drink, fade in, fade out. Regret it later. Drink to stop regretting it. It was a cycle I didn't really care enough about to try to stop. I never let myself slow down to evaluate it. Putting a stopper in something with this much momentum can only result in disaster. It's better to just let things tumble.