100 Years to Live (Completed)

Chapter 2 : Clarence

A prodigy is a person, particularly a kid or young person, who possesses great brilliance or ability. I would know; I just looked it up.

So Bach was a musical prodigy. And... Okay, I can't think of any more prodigies, but you get the picture. I'm supposed to be an artistic genius.

Garret claims that I used to draw images with spaghetti sauce and create "abstract sculptures" with my construction blocks. I used to assume it was simply his fatherly pride, but now I'm beginning to believe the prodigy story.

I've received several awards, including a few medals. In fifth grade, I received an honorable mention for a drawing I submitted to a nationwide competition! And now my high school has assigned me a special art class every day. During third period, while other kids have math, chemistry, or French, I have an hour of one-on-one time with Ms. Atria, the art instructor, who will train me to be the next Monet.

Ethan says it's okay. Garret believes it's well-deserved. I think it's really ludicrous.

Don't get me wrong: Ms. Atria is a great person, and I have nothing against spending one-on-one time with her. She's just out of college and quite cool. She's also really attractive, with platinum blonde hair, a tanned complexion, and a model-like physique, which makes you question why she doesn't have a partner. And then you look at her face, and the truth hits you like a ton of bricks.

Ms. Atria wears eyeglasses. Now, there is nothing wrong with the spectacles. My sister Lindsey wears glasses, and they look great on her. But that's because Lindsey's spectacles are fashionable. Ms. Atria doesn't wear fashionable, rectangular, thick-rimmed spectacles. She is wearing large, round, old-fashioned, wire-rimmed, but ugly spectacles. I can't even look her in the eye when I speak to her. Her specs make me want to vomit.

I promise, someday, I'll persuade Ms. Atria to get contacts.

"Concentrate, Noelle. Look at how the light reflects off of it. Don't overthink it; just draw. Let the strokes flow. Loosen your grasp on the charcoal. Hold it securely so you can create exact strokes."

I dropped the charcoal in my palms and moaned in disgust. "Ms. Atria, I don't intend to be a snarky back talker, but it's incredibly hard to concentrate and not think at the same time; almost as difficult as holding the charcoal piece securely with a loose grip."

Ms. Atria sighed, too. She pulled her awful spectacles higher up her nose and replied, "Okay, just do your thing, and I'll try not to talk."

I picked up the piece of charcoal from the ground and returned my focus to the thing on the table in front of me. Today I was drawing a vase of flowers.

I positioned my canvas on my easel and began drawing the flower petals. I suddenly felt Ms. Atria's breath behind me. She was looking over my shoulder. Again.

"Shade the petals carefully; it's darker at the borders and lighter in the centre," and she goes again. I should have known Ms. Atria couldn't keep her mouth shut for long.

"Now apply straight lines to the stem and shade a little bit." Will she stop talking? I know what I am doing!

"You have to catch the light that reflects off the glass vase, as well as the water in the vase." My hands began to tremble with impatience.

"Leave some of it white to make it more realistic." I pressed so hard on the canvas that the tip of my charcoal snapped off into pieces. Ms. Atria's voice became irritating.

"Now, work on the shadow, softly shading it." Oh my God. Can this woman simply leave me to work in silence?

"...and then gently work on the interior of the flower, with the dots, cautious Noelle...Noelle....Noelle...careful...Noelle...Noelle..." And that's when I went blank.

I accidentally smashed the charcoal into bits with my hands. The fragments landed half on my artwork and half on me. I coughed up some charcoal dust that had gotten stuck in my throat, and I realized I had damaged my new white shirt. Great.

Ms. Atria just sighed. We remained there silently for a few minutes. The bell sounded, and I could hear students heading to lunch outside the classroom. I guess I will be late for lunch again.