Little Annotations | Tristan Dugray

Little Clairmont & Little Dugray

There was once a little boy who was scared shitless on his first day of fifth grade. The little boy naturally was Tristan Dugray, and he already was angry at his mom for dropping him off at the frog of the school instead of walking him like she'd done years before. He was silent the entire day. During science, he scribbled over Paris' graphs and poured grape juice over Louise's coloring book (luckily it was clear).

By the time art class rolled around later that week, the entire class all had friends and they all sat away from the little boy who continued to cause a ruckus— except in that particular class, he was quiet, obedient, and attentive.

"And you'll get to choose whatever color you want for your painting." The teacher said, and let them have their freedom.

"Can I borrow your light blue?" A small voice said from the canvas next to Tristan. He was at the point in his little crush on Genevieve where he didn't know how to speak to her.

"No." He grumbled since 'no' had fewer letters than 'yes' so that had to mean that the answer was shorter.

"Please?" She said again.

"No!" Tristan said and scooped the blob of blue paint into his water cup. He watched as Genevieve frowned and turned to the person on her left.

"Can I borrow your light blue?" She asked, and the boy shook his head, "Fine." She huffed.

Genevieve turned back to her painting and began painting. He didn't know why she didn't just go across the classroom and get it herself. He watched as she painted little flowers on the planter box of the house she painted, and how she looked at it so adoringly.

Tristan turned back to his canvas.

His blank canvas.

"Stop doing such sissy things and be a real man!" His dad's voice echoed in his head.

Tristan set his paintbrush down that day and stormed out of class early.

The next day, Genevieve was back at the canvas next to him, even though there was an open spot next to Delphine.

"Hey," She whispered, and Tristan immediately blushed. He avoided looking at her, but she somehow knew that she had his attention.

"Why is your canvas blank?"

"Shut up!" He said.

"No!" She said, "Are you okay?"

"You're so persistent."

"I asked a question!" She said, "Why is your canvas blank?"

Tristan sighed, "Because my dad doesn't like me painting."

He set his paintbrush down and stormed out of the room again.

It was their last day of art classes for the week, and Tristan still had a blank canvas. Several classmates made fun of him by saying he painted snow, or how he was plain out lazy. He wanted to scream. As he pushed past the bustling class to his seat in the back, he found Genevieve sitting crisscrossed on the bench with a book that was at least twice her size in her lap.

He waited for her to say something. He waited for five minutes, and then it turned into ten.

"Are you okay?" He said out of the blue.

"I'm finished with my painting," She said, pointing to the drying rack across the room.

"Oh..."

Genevieve said nothing in response.

'It won't kill anyone if I painted' Tristan thought.

Art class was luckily before lunch and as the entire room filled out to go about their day, Tristan remained in the back corner. He painted and painted until he was sure that his uniform was filled with all colors of the rainbow. Maybe he'd sneak into the nurse's office and grab a new one before leaving school.

"It's pretty." Genevieve said. Tristan whipped his head around to see the girl sitting on the floor with a smaller book.

"No it's not." He said.

"Yes it is, you're really good at painting." She said, "Do you want to do it when you're older?"

"My dad says it's a 'sissy' thing— painting." Tristan said.

She stood up and brushed her skirt off, "He's probably bad at painting. That's the only explanation."

"No-"

"Tristan." Genevieve deadpanned, "If it's worth it to you, I think you should do it."

"But my dad-"

"So what?" She motioned to his painting, "It's very pretty, and you obviously enjoy painting."

"I could do better." He threw his paintbrush to the side.

"Okay. Then do it better," She said, "Just don't give up."

. . .

Those four words had Tristan hooked for life. He never gave up when it came to painting, it became an escape, an outlet. His favorite things to paint were little objects that reminded him of Genevieve. The little painting of a house that Genevieve loved so much hung outside his bedroom wall. He sees the flashes of familiarity pass through her eyes every time she sees it, but the only difference is that there were the brightest blue flowers ever in the planter box of the house.