Stitches

Fifth Stitch

fifth || Perci

"Perci, love, how's that painting coming along?" Mrs. Garcia asks, smiling in a way that I suppose was meant to look endearing, but in reality just made me nervous.

"It's . . ." I fumble with the straps of my bag, ". . . in progress."

"Oh?" she says, and frowns slightly. "Well, I'm sure it will come out great, won't it, love?" She says it like a demand, like a warning, something like "Perci dear if you do not do this properly I will eat you alive and suck out your soul do you hear me young lady?"

I plaster a smile on my face and say, "Of course."

"And I do hope you won't forget that we do not have much time left. My dear, the exhibit must be ready by next month!"

I nod.

"Very well. Go on, class awaits. We are about to begin."

"Ma'am," I interrupt, "is it alright if I may be excused for today? I was wondering if I could, uh, work on my project?"

"Ah," she nods sagely. "Needing to get a kick in your creativity, don't you? Alright, off you go," and just like that, she shoos me away.

She doesn't need to tell me twice.

I walk away then, half hating myself for it. Art was honestly my favorite class. I dominated it, in fact. Mrs. Garcia proudly refers to me as her star pupil. She talks to her fellow teachers about me like I'm glitter and gold. "This one will go a long way," I heard her say once, and everyone who hears it takes it to heart, because Mrs. Garcia has been the adviser of Quentin High School's award-winning Arts and Design Club for 15 years. When she says she sees talent, she means it, and Mrs. Garcia was hard to impress.

I never really did understand what art was to me. I think I just liked the colors. I remember being a five-year-old mixing paint in our living room and freaking out when I accidentally dropped yellow in blue. It had made green, the kind of green that can be seen on the surface of sea during storms. I love how these drops of pigments blend together to form skies and rainbows and butterflies.

One of the things I hate most about this world (one of the things, because I hate lots of things) is that moments with the best colors never last. Sunsets. Christmas lights. Auroras. Staring into someone's baby blue eyes. Those are just fleeting moments. But the thing about art is that I can capture those moments forever. Put them on canvas with paint or pastel or ink, and immortalize them. Share them with the world so that everyone will know how beautiful they are.

That, to me, was the best thing about art. Making the colors of the moment last.

I haven't painted in a while. I miss my colors. I miss my canvas. I miss my seat in Mrs. Garcia's class (next to the window with perfect lighting. It had a great view of the school grounds. I loved it). I could probably go back right now, admit that I was lying, admit that I'm only going to walk around feeling sorry for myself rather than go look for inspiration for my new piece like she thinks I will.

But I can't.

Because painting reminded me too much of him.

We used to paint together, him and I. Mrs. Garcia noticed Michael's talent the first time he stepped foot in her class. "A little shaky," Mrs. Garcia said, "but he has it." He stopped taking Art when he joined the orchestra, because there, he wasn't "a little shaky." He rocked it. But he still hung around at the art studio sometimes, he'd help when I had a big project.

That's one of the things I'll miss the most. Painting with him. Michael was easy to work with. I'd make the lines and paint the base and he'll do the blending and shading. Painting with him was easy. It was calming. Sometimes he sings while he works, I loved it when he did that. Sometimes we talked, about random stuff like school or movies or unicorns. Sometimes we don't talk, and that was okay too. It was a comfortable silence. We were just enjoying each other's company.

But now, as I look back on it, maybe I was the only one enjoying his company. Maybe to him my company meant nothing.

God, that was a depressing thought. I need to chill.

Anyways, Quentin High School's Foundation Festival is in two months. With it comes Quentin's Annual Art Exhibit—Quentin's AE for short. It was some sort of grand competition, with the winner gaining cash money and instant popularity. My piece won last year. And the year before that. And even the other year before that.

So now every time in Art, when Mrs. Garcia reminds her class about said competition and wishes everyone good luck, everyone looks at me expectantly.

"Of course, she'll win," I hear them whisper. "Why wouldn't she?"

I could think of a pretty good reason.

Heartbroken-ness cuts your productivity.

I've been trying to come up with a good piece. I keep digging through my brain for a good idea, a spark maybe, an inspiration, a light. Anything to get me going.

But still, nothing. I couldn't even hold a paintbrush anymore. I couldn't even stand to sit through Mrs. Garcia's class.

And so, again, as I did for almost every single day since I lost him, I ditch Art and walk around campus, feeling like a zombie with skinny jeans and sneakers and an extremely heavy heart.