Speechless

Speechless

"Honey, do you want me to drive you?" my mom asks. "It's right on my way to work, I can-"

"No, mom, it's fine. I'll walk. I have time. You go. I'll call you when I get there," I say.

"Alright," she sighs. "Have fun, Gwen." She grabs her purse of the marble countertop, and plants a kiss on the top of my head as she slips out the front door, calling goodbyes to my brothers.

I sink down in my chair, leaning down, closer to my bowl of cereal. I scarf down the frosted shredded wheat and dump my bowl in the sink before sprinting up the steps into my room.

Beams of early morning light dapple the light wood floor, and crystalline dewdrops cling to the five tall windows on the east side of my room. Hastily making my bed, I grab a towel and skip to the bathroom to take a shower.

***

Pulling on a white t-shirt, my favorite pair of worn, dark jeans and beat up Sperry's, I feel as ready as I'll ever be for the first day of art class. It's late summer, two weeks before school starts, and I'm hoping to draw it out as much as I can.

I start senior year in the fall. My mom and dad will be on me for filling out as many college apps as possible. Their slogan as parents might as well be: "Ivy League, or bust!"

Running back down the steps, I pull my wet hair back into a loose ponytail, and sling my beat-up patchwork bag over my shoulder.

"Bye, JJ! Bye, Collin!" I call to my brothers in the living room, as I close the door behind me.

***

I can't help letting out a breath of relief as I enter the studio. There are at least ten skylights in the high ceiling, casting shafts of light all around the room. The walls are painted a washed out cream-pink. There is a raised platform in the center of the room, a place to set a still-life, or where a model would pose. About eight easels are set evenly apart, each with a paint-splattered stool, a multitude of brushes, pencils, and charcoal. And the best? A brand new, clean, white canvas. I walk over to one on the far side of the room, and drop my bag next to it. No one else is here yet. I sit at the stool, pulling out my sketchbook. I continue a drawing I started the other day of a piano, sheet music scattered over the top, and a bouquet of flowers, tied with a ribbon, wilting on the bench.

My hand flies over the page, detailing, adding a thorn here, and eighth note there. The minutes slip away. Four people trickle one by one into the room. I don't look up.

Nearly everyone must be here when the light pouring over my shoulder disappears. I turn around.

He's leaning over my shoulder, and I find myself what must be no more than five inches from his face. Deep brown eyes flecked with gold study my drawing. I have the urge to slide my hand over it, but instead, it falls limply to my side. He doesn't move, doesn't even blink. Like I never turned around. Like I'm not even there.

His hands are clasped behind his back, a heather gray shirt slightly stretched over his chest. The man's face is angular, with high, defined cheekbones and a strong jawline. His nose is perfectly straight, sloping up into a forehead creased with concentration, pieces of his curly, deep brown hair falling here and there.

"Umm."

I slide my hand over the drawing, and he seems to notice me for the first time. Instantly he straightens, the seriousness in his face replaced by a kind of boyish mischievousness. The new expression makes him look years younger.

"A thousand pardons. That drawing is beautiful. I love the story it tells," he smiles at me slowly. "I'm Bennett."

"Oh, ah, thanks. I'm Gwen, nice to meet you," I say, sticking out my hand. He takes it, and smiles even wider.