Caught

Matty

I need inspiration.

Right now.

Usually, standing in front of my building and staring off into space will give me some idea, but it doesn’t seem to be working. Of all days that this tactic doesn’t work, it has to be today? Wonderful. Absolutely wonder-damn-ful.

It’s only after the spring vacation of my first year in college, and I already got the dreaded Mr. Smith for one of my landscape architecture classes. We have to make models of a modern-but-culture-inspired park. It’s seriously making my brain hurt. Sure, we have the whole semester to build a model, but it’s not the only class I have, and I just feel the need to get started as soon as possible. Which is, right now.

Plus, Mr. Smith sent the assignment via email, last night, the eve of the first day of the semester. It’s an evil email, in my eyes.

My phone ringing is a welcomed distraction. Sort of.

“Hello?” I don’t bother checking who is calling.

“How’s my baby boy?”

Despite my predicament, I smile. “I’m not a baby anymore, mom.”

“To me, you are,” my mom said. I shake my head, and if my mom is here, she’d probably smack me on the head—lovingly, of course.

She proceeds to ask about classes, and I fight the urge to point out that it is just the start of the spring semester. I can’t exactly tell her that much. I tell her about Mr. Smith, though. She says she believes in me, and I will definitely “kick some Smith butt.”

I tell my mom that I will, but I am not really sure as I hang up. My brain feels like it is left on my bed back home, snoozing heavily on my pillow.

A figure suddenly appears at my line of sight, and I pause, taking it in. It must be a girl—tiny, with long flowing hair secured under a beanie. Her bottoms (I can’t tell if they are pants or a skirt) are paint-splattered. My eyes suddenly lit up and opening the notebook in my hand, I sketch a part of the park in my mind. Tree and flower sculptures. Colors. Scattered in an organized chaos. Like her paint-splattered bottoms.

I look up and she’s still there, and I smile. I would’ve run to her just to thank her, but I have to get to class. Turning around, I walk towards my building’s front doors, hoping that I will sometime meet the girl who gave me some sort of inspiration.

*****

“I’m telling you, man, this girl Tina? She’s totally into you,” Juwan Mills, my best friend, drawls. I roll my eyes and stuff my hands in my pockets, my backpack flapping against my back as I bounce down the stairs. The air is a little chilly, and I put my hood up around my head.

“She flirts with everyone,” I point out. “Even with you.”

Juwan shrugs, a smirk lighting up his features. “I don’t blame her, I mean, who can resist tall, dark and handsome?”

Before I can retort, he pushes on. “She digs you, though.”

I make a face, and snort. “She digs me? Seriously, Wan, who says that?”

“Tina!” Juwan exclaims. “I overheard her saying, ‘Oh my lawd, I totally dig Matthew Johnson!’”

I can’t help but laugh at Juwan’s poor imitation of Tina West. I have to admit—she’s hot. Caramel skin, pretty brown eyes, dark hair, tall with all the right curves. Too bad her personality doesn’t exactly will you to stay awake while talking to her. Don’t get me wrong—she’s pretty intelligent, academic-wise, but I just don’t like like her. I may be too harsh, but it’s the truth.