The Story Of Us ▸▸ Kellic

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   Kellin Quinn

Today's the day. Today is the day I can proudly pack up my belongings and get ready to start college in about a week. Anticipation is eating me alive.

The whole time I was going to high school, I never thought I'd make it anywhere in my life. I felt different. The only thing I really seemed to enjoy was drawing and sketching. So of course instead of doing my homework and projects like most kids were, I had my head buried into my sketchbook.

But then one day, I tore one of my sketches out by accident, and then it fell to the floor. Mr. Ives, my art instructor saw it and complimented me. I remember insisting it was just a silly sketch and that he was taking my art skills too seriously.

And oh boy was he. Look where I am now.

He helped me, really more than anyone else. He didn't care about my lack of skills or my dreadful grades. He taught me everything he knew about art.

Every word he said came from his heart, and I always like to say to people that he poured out his heart for me. No one, not even my mom did so much for me. He's the reason I'm getting ready for college.

"Honey?" I heard my mom call from downstairs.

"I'm in my room!" I called out, rubbing my sweaty hands on my jeans. She appeared from around the corner and took a seat on my bed. I continued to loosen the bolts on my desk.

"I'm going to miss you so much." I heard her say.

"Don't, I'm not going too far." I replied reassuringly, standing up and walking over to her. 

Her arms wrapped around me, pulling me close. Her lips kissed my cheek before she moved away again.

"A different state though." I smiled, remembering that I was actually leaving Oregon for a change.

"Can you believe it?" I began enthusiastically, reminiscing the moment I got the accepting paper in the mail. "The California Institute of Art really accepted me. It's like the sixth best known art academy!" I watched her smile, but her eyes still held as much sorrow as they did when I told her I wanted to attend.

"Your father would've been proud." I heard her say faintly. My muscles tightened at the sound of him. It took everything in me not to question her, but right now wasn't the time.

My father left us when I was little. I barely remember him, but I know my mom was and always will be heartbroken by his actions. What bothers me is she still talks about him as if he just died and was a good man. That isn't the case. I know my dad is alive doing something right now. He isn't a good man, so why does she still defend him?

I've spent countless hours of my days bickering with her over him. He's demolished certain parts of my mom and I's relationship. Though, through it all we're still close.

I continued to pack up my clothes until nothing was left except for my bookshelf. I love reading in my free time, so I decided to go through them all and pick out some to take with me now. The rest would be shipped out to me, and maybe I'll sell them or something. I'm undecided.

I started with the top row. These held books fitting into the category of information. Most of them I stacked into a pile on my side, but others made it into my bag. The second row was more novels, and it was difficult to decide which one's to pack and what ones to sell or ship. I then continued to the third row. Once everything was pulled out, I began to sort. This was the row which held all of my favorites, making my choices more difficult. A light grey book which seemed to be like a scrapbook caught my eye. What was this?