Abby
My hair chose this day to rebel against the ponytail I’m trying to tie it in. Stupid curls are escaping from the elastic band I use to hold them in. I huff in annoyance, trying to decide what to do as the strands fall over my shoulder.
Why did I agree to this?
What was I thinking?
Just when I’m about to call it off, Brant knocks on my door. “Abby? Can I come in?”
“Yeah,” I breathe out, but he’s already entered my room.
My room feels strange when he’s in it, as if it becomes smaller and warmer. It doesn’t make sense, but it gives me both a claustrophobic and homey feeling. I don’t understand it.
“You look…” he trails off.
I turn to look back at the mirror and nervously try to put my hair back in a ponytail when he says, “No, leave it down.”
I look at him in the mirror, but our eyes don’t meet as his are busy with moving all over my body. “What?” I let out a puff of air.
He takes a few steps until he stops behind me. His body is almost pressed to mine and there’s that claustrophobic feeling again. “Leave your hair the way it is,” he murmurs. His breath tickles my skin. Taking the elastic band out of my hair easily, he lets my hair fall freely to my shoulders. “You look beautiful, Abby.”
I take in a sharp breath.
“I’m waiting for you outside and don’t take any of your books with you. You won’t study today,” he whispers and turns back to leave before I can give any other reaction than my open mouth.
Close your mouth, Abby. Get a grip. It’s just a compliment… simple, meaningless compliment. Deep breaths. Good. Now, get out and get this day over with.
Grabbing my purse, I look at the chemistry textbook with indecision. He said no studying for today and even though it feels strange I really don’t want to study either. I’m kind of excited about what he’s planned for today and one day off from studying wouldn’t really affect my GPA. With one last look in the mirror, I leave my textbook behind and force down all the uneasiness that tries to creep up in my spine with the unknown of a day with Brant.
“Ready?” he asks when he sees me.
I try to ignore the heat in my cheeks as his eyes roam over my body like a wolf looking at his prey. “Yes, I think I am… even though I don’t know where we’re going.”
“You’ll enjoy it,” he says, holding my hand to pull me out of our apartment.
His truck is old, but it looks good, well taken care of. There’s no cigarette stench, no alcohol bottles or unwanted trash under my feet. Instead, it’s clean and smells like… him.
“Excited?” he asks.
I am, but I wouldn’t admit that. “No.”
“Well, I was just pushing my luck anyway,” he says smiling, and takes off into the road.
I look at the big, old building we stop in front of. It looks like a… school, not that there’s any signage I can see to figure out what it really is. I frown, but don’t say anything as he leads me through the glass door.
“This way.” He points out a banner set up in the corner.
“Art class for kids,” I read out loud. I pull him back with our still joined hands. Why are we holding hands?
“What’s wrong?”
“Brant… I don’t think kids are a good idea. I’m not good with kids.” I’m suddenly uncomfortable. Kids don’t really like me and I don’t like them, either. They’re messy, loud, and they love running around.
“It’s a good idea. Give it a go. Trust me.”
Trust. That isn’t something I can give easily, but I still take the risk and nod.
When he opens a door to a class I hold my breath anxiously.
“Hi, kids. What’s up?” he says, entering the class.
A dozen kids reply with high pitched voices, “Hi, Brant.”
“Hey, kids. Today I brought a guest. Say hi to Abby,” he says, placing paints, brushes and blank canvases in the corner of the class.
“Hi, Abby,” they say in unison.
“Is she your girlfriend?” a kid from the back of the class asks. His little face is too mischievous for his age.
“No personal questions, kids,” Brant says instead of telling them the truth. His smirk is almost affirmative. But before I can tell the truth he adds, “Abby will join us for hand painting today.”
“What? Hand painting? No,” I hiss at him, but he keeps smiling like I’m not even there and hangs a big white cloth to one wall.
“I can use some help here,” he says to me.
“I didn’t agree to do this. I don’t like that you’re deciding things before asking me,” I whisper-shout at him, helping him hang the white cloth without dropping him.
“You’ll like it. Hand painting is fun.”
“No. It’s dirty.”
After pinning the last corner to the wall, he smirks at me. “You’ll like dirty.”
“No, I won’t. I don’t even like painting.”
He leans into me, his breath causes my skin to erupt in goosebumps all over. I shiver and don’t even breathe when his lips touch my ear as he whispers. “I’ll make you like dirty, Abby. Dirty can be fun, just let me prove it.”
“She’s his girlfriend.” A girl giggles, bringing me back to the moment. I jump back, moving away from him.
“No, I’m not his girlfriend,” I protest, but no one pays attention to me when Brant claps his hands.
“Let’s start, kids. Get your hands dirty,” he says.
After that, a dozen kids walk toward me, their hands covered with paints. It’s almost like a horror movie. Little humans are quickly moving in on their target and I am the one in their way.
“No, no, no,” I chant over and over, taking a few steps back as the little humans keep coming at me, but arms wrap around me.
“You can’t escape this. You’ll get your hands dirty, beautiful,” Brant whispers to me.
He chuckles when I groan in annoyance. I step forward and put some distance between us to clear the fog he seems to put around my mind.
“What’s your favorite color?” he asks, studying whatever there is on the desk.
“I don’t have one.”
He turns to look at me, shocked. “Everyone has a favorite color, Abby.”
I hold my ground. “Well, I don’t. They’re all colors, not one them is better than the others.”
“Okay, look at these and choose one.”
I come to a stop in front of the desk where he laid down different colored paints. They are so bright, too much color. I think I would choose black or white instead, but neither is an option here.
“Which one will you choose?” I ask, his choice will decrease the options I’ll have to choose from anyway.
“Purple,” he says with a strange tone in his voice. I lift my head to look into his eyes, only to find him looking at me with an intensity that makes me uncomfortable. “That’s what your eye color is,” he adds distantly, almost like he doesn’t even notice he’s just said that.
I look back down to the colors and with a sigh I choose mine. “Okay, I’ll use blue. I like the ocean and sky and they are both blue.”
His eyes are blue, too, my mind whispers at me like it always does in the most inappropriate moments. With a grimace in my face I dip my hand into blue paint.
I’m laughing.
My white t-shirt and my favorite jeans are covered in paint, but I’m laughing as I press my hand to a bare spot I find on the white cloth. There is barely any white space left on the cloth after only a few minutes of madness, but I have to admit I don’t remember when I laughed this much.
Dipping my hand into blue paint once again I turn to find another place to press my hand onto, but Brant has just used the last bare spot.
“No, you took the last blank space,” I whine.
“You should have been faster, babe.” He winks at me. His dimples are on display and there is red paint on his cheek.
Looking at my hand I pout. “What will I do with this paint now?”
“Don’t worry,” he chuckles and walks to me. Holding my wrist he presses my hand on his white t-shirt, just over his heart. “You can always use me as your canvas.”
I swallow.
I hyperventilate.
And I smile.
“Definitely his girlfriend.” A kid standing next to us says, beaming at us. All the kids in class start laughing or giggling at us.
I clear my throat and take a step back, fighting the urge to run.
“Okay, kids. If everyone washed their hands let’s start drawing in our sketchbooks now,” Brant says, taking the attention away from me. I’m about to thank him when he adds, “Abby will give you the topic for your composition.”
“Will I?”
He nods. That ridiculous smirk of his on his face. I didn’t think I’ll be joining his class all day when I agreed to come with him.
You didn’t think anything when you agreed to go out with him, my mind sneers at me. Well, it’s the truth.
“What kind of painting do they do?” I ask him.
“You tell them. They’ll paint whatever you say.”
I look at the dozen little faces looking at me expectantly. “But how old are they? I don’t know what’s appropriate for their age,” I whisper-shout at him.
“Art is beyond age, Abby. Just find something.”
Just find something. Sure, because that’s so easy.
I raise my eyebrows when an idea hits me. “Do they know any anatomical drawings? Can they draw intestines?”
Brant looks at me like I’m being ridiculous. “Of course they can’t draw it, Abby. Even I can’t do that if you don’t show me a picture.”
“Oh… okay.”
Think, Abby… think.
I huff and bite my lip, trying to find something else.
“Okay… how about if they draw their dream place?” I ask.
“That’s amazing. Explain it to them, please,” he says, grinning at me.
Why am I feeling like I just won a Nobel prize?
“Okay, kids… can you draw your dream place? Somewhere you want to go, somewhere you’re happy?”
I smile at them when they nod at me and start working on their drawings. Kids aren’t too bad after all.
“Here you go,” Brant says, pushing some papers and crayons at me.
I quirk an eyebrow at him, not catching his meaning by giving me these art supplies. “What are these for?”
“You’ll draw your own dream place, Abby.”
“No, I won’t.”
He rolls his eyes. “Why not?”
“Because I can’t draw. I don’t do art.”
“Just try. I’m not asking you to create a masterpiece, I’m just saying why don’t you try something you have never tried.”
I look at the art supplies and back at his insisting eyes, trying to decide what to do. Finally, I sigh. He’s the one in charge today, it seems.
“Fine. I’ll try, but I warned you. I’m so bad at this.”
He smiles at me, happy that I gave in. “I’m sure you’re not that bad.”
I snort. He has no idea.
“Is that an island? A red island?”
I lift my head up to Brant when he stops above me to study my drawing. Looking back at my paper I try to understand which part he’s talking about. There’s no red island on my paper.
“What?” I ask.
He points out the bus I drew. “This one. What’s this?”
I feel myself become red with embarrassment. “It’s… it’s supposed to be a bus, a London bus, but it doesn’t look like that, it seems.”
He starts coughing. I know he’s only trying to mask his laughter. My shame gets bigger and I push the paper away. “I told you I was bad.”
“No, no. I’m sorry. Of course it’s a bus. I may need to see a doctor for my eyes.” He’s biting his lip to stop laughing. And I get smaller and smaller with the failure I feel.
He must realize how ashamed I feel because he schools his expression quickly. “So, is London your dream place?”
Taking a deep breath I nod. “I’ve never been abroad. But I like the classics.”
“And billionaires, I know,” he interrupts me with a smirk.
I blush and glare at him. He won’t let it go, it seems.
“Okay, go on. What do you like about London?”
“Jane Austen, Thomas Hardy, Brontë sisters were there. I want to see those people’s lives. And it’s an old country. I don’t know, it just excites me,” I say. I’m not even sure if my words make any sense. I dare a look at his face and he’s watching me with the same strange intensity and warmth that made me feel tingly inside earlier.
“I’ve been to London once. Great place, you’d love it yeah.” His voice sounds distant like he’s thinking of something else.
His proximity confuses me so I clear my throat and fake a smile. “Now, if you’ll excuse me I need to finish this masterpiece.”
He lets out a laugh, causing every little face turn to us.
“Alright little artist. Work on this fabulous piece,” he says and stalks away to study others’ works.
I’m suddenly curious about what those kids are drawing so I stand up to walk between the desks, too. They are good, so much better than me for sure. I smile as I look at their dream places. Some paint Disney, some space. I come to a stop when I see a little girl’s drawing. She is sitting in the corner of the class, separating herself from others and drawing with only the black crayon. In her dream place the girl is alone. I don’t know how a small kid can make me feel so much with one drawing, but she manages to make me feel everything all at once.
“Hey,” I murmur before I can stop myself.
She looks up. Even her eyes are sad.
“Can I sit next to you?”
She nods.
“What’s your name?” I ask, but instead of saying it out loud she points out the paper where she wrote her name over the girl’s head.
“Aria. Such a beautiful name.”
I sigh when I don’t get any reaction from her.
“You draw so well,” I say, not knowing how to start a conversation or why I’m even trying.
She gives me a small smile.
“Will you draw a friend next to her?”
She shakes her head.
“Why not?”
“I don’t have friends,” she finally answers me.
“I don’t have friends, either.”
“But you have Brant,” she protests.
I look at him. He’s helping one of the other kids, a big smile on his face. It’s weird, but yeah… he’s made a place for himself in my life in such a short time.
“Why don’t you have any friends, Aria?”
“Because they don’t like me. They… laugh at me,” she whispers. Her eyes well up with tears, I swallow down the lump forming in my throat.
“Why?” I whisper.
“Because I don’t play with them. Because… I like to draw,” she answers. With the mention of drawing her face lights up a little.
I know about people. I know how they bully the ones who are different from them. People are mean when they see someone who is good at something, especially if they aren’t. And Aria will be a great artist when she grows up, even I can see that. But I also feel a little regret when I remember myself at her age. I sometimes think I wish I played games with kids in my school, I sometimes wish I was a child once, too.
I bite my lip, trying to find a way help this little girl.
“Do you want to hear a story?”
She looks at me, smiles, and nods.
And I start the story of a girl named Abby.