Piano

2.

MAYA HART

I STARE INTENTLY at his number. Farkle? What kind of name is that? I smirk to myself as I stand on the train back to my house.

I clutch onto the metal pole tightly as the train moves roughly. My hand starts to feel clammy against the metal and it tightens. I rub my sweaty palm onto my jeans and grab stuff my hands in my pockets.

I skip the dinner routine and take it straight to my room. I don't need my mother yelling at me for the tenth time about my piano lessons; nine of them being through text message.

I take longer to eat than usual, staring at Farkle's number bleakly. I chew slowly and my thoughts take up the rest of the empty space in my head like storm clouds.

I get up off my bed slowly, the bed dipping in with the ground as I rise. I dump my plate in the sink, suddenly not hungry anymore. I speed walk back to the safety of my room and lock the door before my mom hears me walking up and about through her bedroom door.

I lay on the bed and look over my homework. I finish it and continue to stare at the way he wrote his number down. How he insisted on me keeping it. Why did he want to bother with me?

♫

I walk up to my locker, the top of my hair burning from the blazing morning sun. I shove my textbooks in my locker, keeping the math one out. I clutch it close to my chest as I lock the locker back up.

My feet walk swiftly, and I hum a tune in my head. I look down at the floor as I walk. I tap my fingers on my textbook to the correct piano keys.

I feel eyes on me. I look up and my eyes wander around till they fall on him. Farkle. I quickly avert my eyes away and keep walking.

A hand falls on my shoulder, stopping me. I look to see him again. I scoff. "I thought you weren't gonna hang out with me?" I ask him.

"I changed my mind," he said simply.

"No, there's no way," I say, not buying it. I point my finger at him. "Why would you want anything to do with me?"

He smirks. "It's rude to point," he says, and grabs my finger, pulling it down.

I slap his hand away and the bell rings a little bit too loudly this morning. I turn around on my heel, clutching onto the bottom of my backpack straps; head down, walking away into art class.

I walk into the class, head down looking at the rough, dirty orange rug. I love art class, but absolutely hate the decor. I fix my tiny, dangle music note earring as I sit down in my seat, canvas, water, paint, and brushes all ready for me.

"Today, you will be painting from the hear. Find something or someone you desire or admire with a deep passion and paint them for me," the art teacher says, fixing her sweater and sitting down at her desk, clicking her tongue against the roof of her mouth.

I think. Something from the heart. That's gonna be a bit tough. I scoff.

I inhale the oxygen that smells of faint chemicals and dirty water, and close my eyes. I think of me opening my heart as if a deep, bright, light trailing down my body into my heart, coming inside it like a key to a locket, and everything pours out of me, like an overflowing water bucket. I dip the brush into the black paint and stroke and brush away. I paint away all the pain and misery and happiness, until I'm left with the blankness of myself; the desolate soul of me.