Seven

3

The next morning, I notice that number seven is in my art class. He sits at the table next to mine. I hadn't noticed him before, but now I can't take my eyes off him. He's sitting with his friends, other jocks, and two blonde girls. They both have braces—yet they still chew gum. They chew it obnoxiously, smacking it around so it can be heard all throughout the classroom. My mom couldn't afford braces for me, so I've learned to like my crooked teeth, but if I had braces, I wouldn't chew gum.

I didn't realize I was staring again until he noticed. He scoots his chair over about twelve feet and now he's sitting at my table, looking directly at me.

"Hi," he says, smiling at me.

"Hi," I manage to reply, my face turning red with embarrassment. He had caught me staring twice within twenty-four hours.

"I've always wanted to talk to you, but you seem so dark and mysterious."

"Is that an insult?" I say, remembering that my father once said that to me.

"No, no, of course not," he replies awkwardly. He seems worried that he could've offended me. "I mean it in the way that you seem different from everyone here."

"Oh," I raise an eyebrow. I still can't tell if he's insulting me.

"It's a good thing. Everyone here sucks. You seem like you don't suck," he facepalms. I can tell he's nervous, but I don't know why.

"Oh!" I say with a tone of relief. "Well, thank you. You also seem like you don't suck."

"Thank you," he says. "I like your paintings."

"Thank you, I didn't know anyone saw them."

"Well, I do. I also love the number seven. So if you ever—" a voice calls out from behind him, and he stops speaking.

"Aiden! Get back over here!" one of the blonde girls calls out. He scoots his chair back without saying anything.

Aiden. That's his name.

I glance at the painting in front of me. It's my tree, the one with a seven carved into it. I'm working on painting the picnic below it—the basket of strawberries my mother had picked from the garden she once grew. I tried to keep up with it for a while after the accident, but I had so much to do and not enough time that I forgot about them, and they died.

I took it really hard, but my mother held me and told me I was doing my best. That I was the strongest little girl ever and that she didn't know what she would ever do without me. Funny how times change, huh?

I stare at the back of Aiden's head as he talks to his friends. Why did he choose to talk to me? Out of all the people in this class, why me? And  now he's already back to laughing with his friends as if our conversation never happened? What was he going to say? 'So if I ever' what?

I try to focus on my painting again, but my mind keeps drifting back to Aiden and the freckles that line his face. His face is so much better up close. His eyes are so gorgeous. They are a deep brown, the same color as the tree that I love. His sudden interest in me feels strange. Maybe he's different, maybe he understands hardship and isn't cruel, or maybe he's just like everyone else, close-minded and arrogant. I just can't tell yet.

Class drags on, and I find myself lost in thought, my hands subconsciously making strokes with the paint brush. The painting feels like the warmth of the sun— and I can almost feel that same feeling brushing over me right now. Like how you feel when you are absolutely absorbed by the sun and you can feel its heat. When you close your eyes at the beach, yet you can still see the color of the sky above you.

When the bell rings, I pack up my things slowly, hoping to catch another glimpse of Aiden. He's still surrounded by his friends, but he catches my eye. He gives me a small reassuring smile that makes his eyes squint a little bit. It's a small gesture, but It's enough to make me smile at the floor as I walk out of the classroom.