Seven

6

The art room is much quieter compared to the rest of the school. The walls are adorned with a mix of student artwork from a bunch of different generations. There are some from when my father was a student here. Even some from my grandmother's generation. It's vibrant, a mixture of all colors and styles. There are landscapes, abstract expressions, and intricate portraits. Each created by a student, none are from famous artists. Mrs. Russo didn't hang the Mona Lisa in her room to inspire us. She hung work by our peers.

A few of my pieces have even made it up there, adding my personal touch to the collection. One was a watercolor painting I made of my brother and me back in my freshman year. Mrs. Russo really liked it.

The strong scent of art supplies—Sharpies being the most potent—fills the room. If I were anywhere else, I would get a headache from the smell. It's just different in here. Here is where I feel most at peace—except when people do wood burnings. The sharp, smoky scent of burning wood always brings back memories of the time Alex melted two of my Barbies together.

Dad was so pissed at him and had to lecture him about fire safety and respect for others' belongings. I remember crying my eyes out as I watched the melted mess of my favorite toys. Mom had to hold me and stroke my hair to try to calm me down. I was probably like seven at the time of the incident, making Alex either five or six.

I arrive to class earlier than anyone else, wanting to get a head start on my project. The gym teacher allowed me to skip his class that day, as we were only observing. I would've loved to watch Aiden play, but I'd rather be here, surrounded by the comforting familiarity of the art room. The room is empty except for Mrs. Russo, who is busy setting up for the day's classes, and a few students scattered around, focused on their work. I settle into my usual spot near the window, where the afternoon light streams in and casts a warm, natural glow over my workspace. The sunlight filters through the window, casting soft, dappled patterns on the floor and my sketchbook, adding to the peaceful ambiance.

Today is Monday, and this week's assignment is to paint a fruit. The assignment is due on Friday morning. I decided to paint a pomegranate. They are messy but worth it, with their rich, ruby-red color and the tantalizing promise of juicy seeds hidden beneath the tough exterior.

At times, I feel very much like a pomegranate. Pomegranates are beautiful. They are worth the mess. Maybe I am too.

Forty minutes later, I hear footsteps approaching. It's a swarm of students, as the bell had just rung, but I looked up at the perfect time. My eyes meet Aiden's as he enters the room, and his friendly smile immediately brightens my mood. He waves at me and makes his way over to my table, his footsteps light and purposeful on the tiled floor.

"Hey, Eve," he greets, setting his backpack down with a soft thud. "Mind if I sit with you?"

"Not one bit," I reply, feeling a flutter of nerves as a slight blush warms my cheeks. "How's it going?"

"It's actually going pretty good," he says, glancing around the room before his eyes fall on the canvas in front of me. "What are you working on?"

I hesitate for a moment before showing him my drawing, feeling a mix of excitement and apprehension. What if he asks me why I picked it? "A pomegranate. For the weekly assignment."

"This is amazing," Aiden says, his eyes widening in genuine admiration. "You're really talented, you know that? This is so detailed."

"Thank you," I say, blushing even more. I immediately turn my face to the floor so he doesn't see. "It comes naturally after a while. I've been practicing for years."

"You could definitely make money from this," he suggests, his tone sincere and encouraging. "There are lots of ways to sell art online. You could start small, maybe with prints or digital art."