Paint Me Love

Two

"Do you always eat in here alone?"

I look up at the sound of her voice. It's the girl from a few days ago, back in the art room where she seems so out of place. I take one earbud out, more to be polite than anything. "Yeah. Why?"

She shrugs a little, and her bangs fall in front of one of her eyes. She looks as though she's surprised I answered. "Oh. Then ... you're not lonely?"

I'm a little surprised, actually. She's the first person to ever assume that. Usually, everyone else assumes I'm lonely and attempts to talk to me. "Yeah. I'm fine."

"Okay," she says, her gaze awkwardly flickering around the room. Looking anywhere but at me.

Mrs. Marx hands her a few papers, and then they start talking about class requirements and I zone out. I put my earbud back in and continue my shapes drawing from a few days ago, shading in a massive section black. A few songs play, and then my hand starts cramping up again, so I put my pencil down and take a bite of my jam sandwich. Maybe I'll show Mom this drawing. It's not colorful, but it looks better than the painting.

I take another bite and a blob of jam drops onto my sketchbook. My breath catches in my throat, and then I swear under my breath and jump up, booking it to the back room and the paper towels. I run right past Marx and the other girl, and subconsciously notice the girl watching me, but I ignore it. I grab at least twelve paper towels and run back to my table, and then gently try to rub the jam off of the page. It doesn't come off very nicely, but at least it doesn't smear. Even so, I'm frustrated now. It was going so perfect, and then I ruined it. I ruin everything.

"Everything okay over there?" Marx calls.

"Spilled," I answer, my voice cracking. I clear my throat and answer again. "I spilled on my book."

"Oh, no. Is it okay?"

"I think it'll be fine." I look at it a little longer and then get an idea. That's what Mom always told me to do. If I feel like I messed myself up, I should try to fix it. I finish my jam sandwich and then go to the back of the room where Mrs. Marx keeps the paints. I find some purple and blue watercolor and bring it back to my book. The piece could use a little color. I'm not entirely sure if this will work, but it's worth a shot. It's better than leaving the jam stain all alone. At least this'll make it look intentional.

"Why don't you two introduce yourselves instead of sit here in silence?" Mrs. Marx jokes from the back room.

I look up again and realize that the girl has been sitting on a table a few paces from me, and that they'd stopped talking while Marx got one of the student portfolios. I glance at the stranger on the table and shrug, rubbing my face and smearing pencil lead across my right cheek.

"I'm Brooke," she says softly.

"Gabe."

And that's it.

Marx returns with the portfolio, and I glance at it once out of curiosity, but then I have to look at it again to make sure. It's mine from first semester. She starts talking to Brooke about the things she'll need to bring if she wants to skip Art 1, and as she does, Brooke watches me out of the corner of her eye. I try to keep my eyes glued to my sketchbook, but I can feel the heat rising to my cheeks, turning my face a shade of vermilion. I'm not sure how I feel about her seeing all of my pieces.

The bell rings and I pack up my stuff, rushing to get out of here before anyone says anything else and before the next class comes in. Brooke calls after me as I go.

"Your portfolio is really nice," she says. I glance back at her and she smiles at me.

"Thanks," I mumble before I'm swept up in the mess of the high school hallway.