I can't believe that Anthony has made an entire book a drawing of me. He can't like me can he? No.... No. I'm too horrible and weird and no one likes me. Not even as a friend. All these thoughts are running through my mind as I stare at he pictures. I flip to another page and continue thinking. We have spent a lot of time together, but that's what friends do. Right? How would I know...? I've never had one, but now I have two so we're just friends.
We finish the rest of the books and get to talking when this question comes up,
"So what are you good at?" he asks.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, I can draw and stuff. What can you do?"
"Well, I don't have one talent like you. I'm not really good at anything."
"Show me something," so I stand up and drag him upstairs. I lead him in to my room and through a long type of closet, that, when pushed, reveals my art room, but here's the thing. I can't paint or draw like Anthony can. I find artwork that I like and copy it in a crappy way.
He stares around. This room has three large walls and a little nook in the corner that has two smaller rectangular wall, and another rectangular that's interrupted by a window. The first wall is black and on it I painted large swirls that all connect, appearing almost like a peacock tail. I remember not being satisfied when done with this wall and then returning and finding that some of the white paint had dripped and I loved the look of it. He turns, looking at the smaller, rectangular walls which I painted in a vertical, black and white, chevron pattern. He turns to the next wall and it reveals the art that I'm most proud of.
First imagine the large, golden, cosmic owl from adventure time. Next, imagine it's wings feathered out more beautifully. Then add swirls of dark blue and purple and touches of black. The owl's color then changes to a darker golden color that blends with the blue and purple in certain sections. The owl is spreading it's wings wide, and it's chest is feathered in a very detailed way. Then from behind it seeps black, only a few inches, and out of the black forms rays of the rainbow colors and they slowly blend back in to black and in to the night sky, which is where the cosmic owl usually exists. I stare at my own work, the sky peppered with stars, and Anthony turns, staring at me.
"I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU MADE THAT AND HAVEN'T SHOWED ME BEFORE!!!! THAT'S AMAZING!" he shouts. I laugh and he stands by me.
"What's your other talent? If it's as good as this one, I'm excited," he says.
I bring him back through the closet because that's the only way to get to the art room, other than the window, and back in to my room. I make him sit on the bed and I dig through the bottom drawer of my dresser, pulling out various notebooks. I pick up as many as I can carry and dump them in Anthony's lap, retrieving more from the drawer. I slowly manage to empty the drawer and he just stares at me.
"Your talent is being able to slowly empty drawers? That is kind of a disappointment from the cosmic owl," he says. I laugh and pick up the top notebook from his lap. I open in and wave it near his face, revealing my handwriting that lies within. He realizes that within the 50 some notebooks on his lap rests 3 three years of my work in writing. He opens another notebook and then another and another.
"Are all of these full?" he gasps and I nod at he look on his face.
"And you just started them recently?" he says, mimicking me.
"If by recently you mean about three years ago, then yeah." and he stares at me.
"Read on to me." he says and I shake my head, opening a notebook to a story I think he'll enjoy. I read aloud in my stutter voice. I finish the notebook and he sits up, having lied down on my bed.
"You are fantastic. You should write for a living, and narrate!" he says. I shake my head,
"No one would publish this," I say, throwing the notebook aside with the others,
"yet another useless talent of mine." I say, causing Anthony to look surprised.
"Coming from the cool artist guy, your painting are amazing and coming from someone who loves to read, you write beautifully. How many kids in our school do you think could make a story that good?"
"All of them," I mutter, but Anthony hears me.
"All of them!!! Well, if you are so confident that you suck, then you should enter the story in the school's writing contest just to see how much it sucks. I'll help you pick one." he says, and he starts pawing through the books. Eventually we find one and I edit it and type it and print it and by the time that's all over, it's almost 2 a.m.. I'm practically asleep at the computer and Anthony is asleep on the hardwood floor. I give his shoulder a little shake and he jumps,
"I BEFORE E ECCEPT AFTER C!" he shouts. We both change and fall asleep in my bed, and for a moment, I create a fantasy in my mind's eye of me winning the contest.
YOU ARE READING
Sinking Through the Cracks
RomanceAlly has never had friends. Ally has never had parents who really cared for her. Ally has never had a peaceful day at school. She is anorexic, though she has never had it treated. She has horrible times of depression though she always just puts...
