To Be

Chapter Thirty

I try to ignore Levi as I paint his portrait. Getting the right shade for his eyes is extremely complicated. I add some more white paint to my mixture of gray. I guess this will be the closest I can get to that metallic color. 

Dipping the paintbrush into the paint, I start painting his irises. Once I'm done, I wipe off the gray paint from the brush and dip it into the blushy-pink on my paint pallet. His lips are colored in next. Then his hair, which is the darkest of browns, close to black, with a lighter shade of brown highlighting the front.

I work as fast as I can. Dip into color-paint-wipe off-dip into next color-paint-wipe off- and so on.

As I'm finishing up, Ian Clancy knocks into me, causing me to splatter brown paint everywhere.

"I'm so sorry," he's saying, pale as a ghost as he watches my face carefully, waiting for me to react. Perhaps blow up at him. "I'll go get some paper towels." And then he's running off, leaving me staring at the mess all over the white-tiled floor, never having the chance to react.

"Is the painting ruined?" Levi asks, coming up beside me. 

I finally muster the strength to peel my eyes away from the floor to look at the canvas before me, the breath which I am holding being released. It's a miracle. No paint splatters made it onto the canvas. "Luckily, no."

Now Levi is eying his portrait. "Wow, do I really look like that?" 

"Sort of yeah." A portrait of a model. 

Just then Ian shows up, a bundle of paper towels in hand. Levi and I step aside, so he can clean the mess. I offer to help, but he shrugs me off. "I made the mess, I'll clean it." I'm guessing he's still scared that I'll scream at him. And usually, I would, but today I'm too tired to fight.

Levi touches my arm and I look at him, aware of how warm his fingers are. "Ready to see yours?" His metallic gray eyes are twinkling. He looks cute when he's excited.

I nod. "Show me."

He leads me the few steps to his own canvas and my eyes widen. Levi captured all of me, making me look shy but also fierce and beautiful. He managed to get the exact shade of my cat-like eyes, with the yellow glint in them. A portrait of a model. 

"It's beautiful," I breathe.

"All I did was capture the real you." 

I look at him to find him already watching me, his gaze searing through me. I hope he doesn't notice me gulping.

 "I guess it's time for us to exchange our paintings," I say, not looking at him anymore.

"Should we first wait for them to dry completely?" From my peripheral vision, I spot his lips curling up on the sides into his well-known smirk. 

Heat rises to my cheeks. "Yeah, that sounds like a good plan." 

Just then the bell rings, announcing the end of this class. 

"You can all leave your paintings here to finish drying," Mr. Pike tells us, his blonde mustache twitching as he talks. "Today I won't be locking up until four, so you can come and collect your paintings. I hope you all enjoy your summer break." 

I quickly collect all my painting supplies and head off to my next class. 

***

'The evil that men do lives after them; The good is oft interred with their bones.' 

This line from Shakespeare's Julias Ceaser is as stubborn as a mule and refuses to leave my mind. All I've been thinking about since I read it earlier today in our last literature class of the year, is how a man's evil deed lasts long after his death. For instance, we all know that Jack the Ripper was a serial killer who murdered 5 or so women during his lifetime. And that the Nazis murdered millions. Their stories are being passed down from generation to generation. Documented in history. No one will ever forget them. But what about all the terrible murders no one ever speaks of?