drawn - h.s.

i.

“Who can tell me what the difference is between fantasy and imagination?”

 

From having focused on doodling on the paper, my head flew up taking in the sight of the middle aged man with the brown beard and matching brown everything. Shoes, sweatshirt, pants. Even his damn eye color was brown. Following his gaze, as he searched the room for anyone with an answer, I glared around me. Everyone seemed busy with their phones hidden under the tables. Or pretending to take notes when actually they were just gaming on their laptops. No one reacted. No one even looked up. Silence.

 

You could only just hear the careful summer breeze, which made the God forsaken rusty swings in the courtyard move a little back and forth. But it wasn’t the kind of breeze you could feel - not in this unbearable heat.

 

Slowly I raised my petite hand in the dry air giving it a try. This was a question I had actually spent hours and hours and hours pondering over - and I had come to a very simple conclusion.

 

My teacher - whose name I couldn’t really remember, it was something with an R - firstly he stared at me for a short second. As if he had never really seen me before. Then a smile crossed his face and he moved a little from the excitement, “yes. Ellie?” He sounded as a kid on Christmas morning - finally he had gotten the quiet girl to talk.

 

A whisper went as a wildfire through the classroom. Suddenly everyones attention was on Mr. R - and me. The despairing atmosphere had vanished - now replaced by an eager curiosity.

“Fantasy is a construct. Imagination is a tool,” the room fell absolutely silent as I had opened my mouth and stated my thoughts out loud, while looking at Mr. R.

 

The smile on his face grew impossibly even wider and I had the feeling he could probably start crying tears of pure joy at this point. He nodded enthusiastically, “yes! Yes Ellie that is absolutely correct.” He shook his head a little when he said the word ‘absolutely’ - as if it had been the truest sentence he had ever heard in his 45 years. “Excellent. Very, very good.”

 

I couldn’t stand when people overreacted like that. It was like he had just heard a mute girl speak her first sentence.

 

As I noticed the whispers coming from behind me, I quickly moved my attention back to my paper. Moving the pen nervously between my slender fingers, as I tried zoning out of what they were saying. Saying about me.

 

“She’s such a freak show.”

“When was the last time you heard her speak?”

“Yeah I mean - how can you just isolate yourself like that? It’s so fucked up.”

 

I gave the little plant an especially tangled petal pattern, focusing on letting the black pen move in swirling movements over the lavender colored flower.

Over and over and over. The sunbeams were slowly crawling over my table nearing the edge of the paper with every second. I moved on to the stem giving it thorns so it could defend itself. The two delicate leaves became heartshaped and lastly the bell went off.

 

The sun were millimeters from reaching the left top corner of the flower I had spent the entire day creating. Forming. Drawing.

 

The sound of chairs being pulled back, bags being filled and lifted, laughter, small talk, complaints - endless complaints about the unbearable heat.

 

“Ellie. Can I talk with you?”

 

I forced my eyes away from the finished flower, moving them up along a body covered in brown clothing until I met a pair of matching eyes.

 

“It’ll only take a minute.”

 

I gave him a short nod and watched him, as he uncomfortably and perplexed after my cold soundless answer, returned to packing his bag waiting for the class to clear out. I looked over my shoulder at the two girls left in the room. One of them had once called me a lunatic. They were giggling, blushing over something. Someone I reckoned.

 

And as I was watching them behaving girly over whatever went on in their hormonal minds - I observed how something drifted to the floor. A piece of paper falling out of that book, they were so hysterical over. Though it wasn’t a very large piece of paper it still surprised me that none of them noticed. Not even Mr. R. Instead they kept on with their giggles and finally exited the room leaving behind the abandoned piece of paper.

 

“Well then - Ellie. I was glad to hear from you today!” Mr. R started in a pedagogical tone, that immediately forced me into an uninterested state of boredom.

 

It was the usual speech. It could be good if you talked some more - I know you have the answers. I can see that in your essays. All your teachers agree with me. You are such a clever girl. Just a little more engagement.

 

I watched him as he exited the door of the classroom, leaving me behind so I could pack my things in silence.

Hanking up in the brown leather bag in which I had stuffed down the pencils and drawing, I made my way towards the door. Unconsciously - only half aware of my actions my eyes drifted to the place where the abandoned piece of paper was still lying lonely. I stopped. What had they been so eager about? What had been in that book? More pieces of paper? Words? Drawings? Photos?

 

The sound of my bag hitting the floor didn’t startled me a bit, as I quickly moved across the room - in between the tables til I found it. Snatching it from the ground I turned it in my hands, as the curiosity was starting to get the better half of me. My eyes eagerly took in the sight, imprinting every detail.

That was the very first time I lay my eyes on him. That warm summer day in the otherwise empty classroom. No one aware of my discovery. That was the first time I saw the boy with the charming green eyes, enchanting smile that would show off a pair of dimples and that impossibly messy brown hair. That was the first time I saw him.