Looking at his thin neck and rounded chin, I whisper, “Not at all really. I haven't had art in a few years.”
“Ah, so no hope you'll be the next big E.J. Hill? Give Dante here something to work for?” I'm confused until I hear a snort next to me.
“Not a chance Mr. A,” my neighbor’s deep voice floats over me softly.
“Well I can always hope, can't I Dante?” the teacher responds lightly. After asking me a few more questions, the teacher leaves me with the paper and a sketching pencil, along with the overwhelming task of beginning my first portrait. I'm so lost.
Two
I walk home unhurriedly. Now that school is over for the day, I have a little free time to analyze the day.
My tablemate in art didn't utter a word as he worked on a beautiful picture of a woman. I had to stop myself from staring at his hands, moving across the paper so gracefully, at least three times. I finally understood what Mr. Adams was referring to when he was goading him. He must be beyond talented if what I’d seen today is any indication of his ability.
My meager drawing consisted of a few rough shapes, a large oval for the face of a pretty girl I found in a stack of magazines Mr. Adams said I could use for reference, and a trapezoid, the beginning form of her neck. I felt rather foolish with that guy Dante, beside me.
He seemed pretty popular, in art class at least four or five people greeted him by name when they moved around the room. He never did more than nod his head or a grunt in acknowledgment in return though. He seemed really taken with what he was doing.
When I get home, I know I'll find Mom either passed out on the couch, or bustling around our tiny home on wheels.
She only seems to have two speeds anymore. Lord knows she hasn't been sleeping at night for a while. I have to admit though, lately she's been off, even for her.
A large wooden sign that's lost most of its paint announces Turtle Park Resort as I pass from the black tar road to the gravel driveway of our new temporary home.
A “resort” it is not. Most of the sites are empty, and tall grass pokes through the gravel pads where most people park their RVs for a weekend camping trip. There are a few trailers permanently parked in the premium spots near the small man-made pond close to the front entrance.
It might even be quaint if it wasn't all so familiar, if we—like the others—only roughed it for the weekend, or even the summer. But we've been doing this for as long as I can remember. Trading one RV park for the next. Endless days of echoing shower stalls where you can never get any privacy, and dingy bathrooms covered in mildew and spiders.
I'm relieved the walk to school isn't too far this time; the busses never stop by these places for pickups no matter how far they are from the school.
Our site is secluded in the back of the park, where trees border one side while empty flat pads surround the others. Our motor home looks abandon as I approach.
The windows are all closed and covered with the heavy drapes Mom put up several years ago.
Easily finding the small key ring in my pocket, I tap quickly on the door before unlocking it, announcing myself.
Surprisingly, mom’s not asleep on the couch when I get in, and I don't see her anywhere in the tiny space. Maybe she laid down in the one bed we have, one I've tried to get her to sleep in for the past few months.
I peek back toward the curtained off area noting it is, in fact, closed.
I ease my backpack off, dropping it quietly on the tiny dining table not wanting to wake her up.
I have homework in two classes that should only take me a few minutes before I need to head back out and hand in the few applications I managed to collect Sunday afternoon.
The note I left on the tiny counter is still there when I return, and Mom is still nowhere in sight. Getting a little worried, I tread to the back where I usually sleep and brush the thin curtain barrier aside to peer at the small double bed.
Mom is half on her stomach, half on her side, sprawled over the flimsy mattress. Her messy hair, which should be a dark shade of blonde, looks taupe instead. Her face is buried so I can only make out one eyelid that is crisscrossed with dark purple veins, giving her a ghoulish look.
I remember when she used to shine; it makes my heart sad to see her like this.
When I was younger, she always seemed so full of life, so vibrant with all her bright flowing dresses and multicolored beads. I can't remember a specific time when things changed, when she became this shell of herself, but my memories of what she once was are fading, just like she is.
I leave her to sleep, and a small box of mac 'n' cheese later, I'm trying to get comfortable on our small couch and while fighting off sleep so I can finish this chapter. It's near eleven and I've been getting increasingly worried Mom isn't awake yet, but I leave her, figuring she must need the rest.
Sometime in the middle of the night Mom wakes me up. My book is open on my stomach and my mouth feels dry, so I know I've been asleep for a while.
“Oh honey, I’m sorry to take the bed. You go on back and get some sleep now.” I'm not sure if I give more than a grunt of acceptance before lumbering to the bed and slipping back to sleep.
My alarm is an old-fashioned thing, it runs on batteries and the sound comes from a tiny hammer twitching back and forth between two bells. It always does the job of waking me, even when the batteries are aging, making the toll and time run a little slow.
I roll over, looking toward the tiny window next to my bed. The sky is still dark but I need to shower so I don't let myself fall back into the dreamless sleep that is so welcoming.
The South Carolina sun warms my neck and back as I make my way to school. I'm actually grateful we left Michigan before it got too cold; believe it or not by mid October it's usually pretty chilly there.
I don't arrive at school as early today. I need to find that sweet spot where I don't have to rush to class, but I'm not too early either. It can take a few days to master. I want to be in class before the bell rings, but not overly early so the kids have reason and the time to talk to me.
From an old sparse oak tree I'm able to watch my peers without their notice. I see all the prerequisite cliques as they meet up for the day.
I've dubbed all the groups with my own names, whether they actually fit in those categories is another thing altogether. For example, the cheer or pep squad, as I like to call them, are the popular girls, the girls that run the school and know it. They are always the first group I scope out, and stay far away from.
I spy the pretty blonde from the stairwell yesterday and watch her. I'm not disappointed when she saunters up to a group of three girls waiting by a new model mustang. Seconds later she breaks from the group and sashays her way to a group of guys.
Now, that group has me scratching my head. I can't make out their faces from here, but their clothes and demeanor wouldn't suggest they aren't actually a group. There's a tall beefy guy with dark hair, his back is to me but he's wearing dark jeans, a leather jacket, and boots: bad boy.
The person next to him I almost mistook for a girl at first glance, but I was very wrong. Blond hair, long blond hair that reaches past his wide shoulders. He wears light fitted jeans, without being overly tight and cuffed at the bottom, and his red and black plaid shirt is rolled to the elbows: skater boy.
The third guy is a half head shorter than the others. His kind of short caramel brown hair is lifted in the front and somewhat styled. He's wearing gray sweatpants and a green t-shirt that looks either a few years old or a few sizes too small: jock.
All these things mean these boys are definitely popular the upper echelon of the school, and probably run in the same crowd, but the way they haven’t acknowledged anyone else and their close proximity to each other makes me believe they're truly friends. Not just saying hello in passing, which seems kind of strange considering I could place them with their perspective groups easily as I peer around the parking lot and front lawn.
As cheer girl gets closer to their gro
up her features blur along with the distance.
Most of the kids are now streaming into the doors so I don't have time to watch which of the boys in the group she belongs with.
At lunch I don't linger in the stairwell as long as I did yesterday. I have my paper sack and book gathered up before the warning bell. I don't want to be caught hanging out when some couple needs a secluded spot to make out again.
I still hear a few whispers and some of the bolder kids even start to say hello to me. I always respond back with just enough to show I’m not ignoring them, but never stick around long enough for them to actually talk to me. Soon enough they won't bother speaking to me, and after that I'll be able to walk the halls invisible.
I'm hopelessly staring at the glossy magazine photo I chose for my project muse, and wondering how the hell I'll ever get my shapes to look anything like the beautiful girl in the picture, when I hear a soft warm, “Hey.”
I have to walk a fine line to become nonessential. I can't just ignore him, then people would start to think I'm stuck up. My approach is like threading a needle, I have to be shy and awkward enough that they don't befriend me, and quiet enough that they forget me.
As I've gotten older, it's pretty easy with boys. As long as I don't get friendly with them they usually are the first to wipe me from the radar.
“Hello,” I all but whisper back without lifting my eyes from my project. I can feel him watching me, so I continue to stare at my almost blank paper.
When a few moments pass without him speaking again, I think I'm in the clear. That is until Mr. Adams comes over to check my progress, or rather lack thereof.
“Laura, I'm starting to think you were telling the truth about not being the artist I thought you were.” His tone is light and teasing.
I shrug somewhat limply. “Yeah, I'm pretty lost here,” I respond back, watching his blue paisley tie which is layered over a cream colored button-up shirt.
“Well it's a good thing I had the exceptional foresight to seat you with my star pupil. What do you say Dante, can you give Laura some guidance on her next step?”
Dante sits quietly beside me. Mortification hits me fast. I can feel the heat invading my cheeks and down my neck. “Mr. Adams, I still have to finish this.” He gestures down to his work of art. His hand, stained black from charcoal, fans over the gorgeous woman looking up from the paper.
“That's okay,” I rush out. I know he doesn't want to be burdened with helping me. “Honestly I'll manage,” I continue even softer.
My shoulders are slumped forward, trying to make myself smaller so I can forget how embarrassing it is I don't have to try hard for people to not want to be around me.
They're both quiet as I pull my drawing closer and hunch over my work.
“Laura,” his voice tight, my teacher begins, “I have some examples of proportion division. Those will give you a better idea how to split the face, and where to place the features.” I peer up at him and meet his eyes briefly if only to convey my gratitude.
“Come on, we'll make a transfer paper too. That way you can get some ideas on top of what you've already got started on here.”
He pulls my paper from the table and I follow him to the front of the room, where he drops my unfinished work on his desk before gathering a thin sheet of clear paper, then combs through a filing cabinet in the corner.
The noise level in the class stays at a low hum of scratching pencils and quiet voices as I wait beside Mr. Adams’s desk. He returns quickly and motions me forward.
“All right, so here are a few illustrations on facial proportions.” He spends the next ten minutes going over techniques on dividing the face down the middle then splitting it horizontally so I know where to place the hairline, eyes, nose, and mouth. When he's done, I also have a traced outline, perfectly proportioned, on the clear sheet that fits directly over what I started yesterday, which he said I could use as a reference guide.
The bell rings before I have a chance to make it back to my seat. It sends a shot of relief through me that I won't have to sit next to Dante after that super embarrassing moment.
I don't blame him for not wanting to help, I get that he has his own work to do. I wish the teacher hadn’t even asked.
I'm slow going back to collect my things from the table, but Dante is still there, almost like he's waiting for me to return. “Hey, sorry about—”
“Dante!” I hear a shrill voice shout into the door. He turns away and I use the distraction to grab my things, hustle behind him, and around the room. I'm sliding past the blonde girl in the doorway when I hear him almost growl in what sounds like an exasperated, “What?”
I'm out the door, dashing down the hall too fast to hear her response.
I stop at a small diner on the way home. I turned in an application here yesterday and I'm hoping the manger will have had time to look it over, without having a phone for them to call for an interview, I have to be careful enough not to make a pest of myself when checking the status of an application, making sure they know I'm interested in getting the job even though I don't have any contact information. Some places dismiss me immediately, thinking that without a phone or a permanent address I won't be worth the effort. I really hope the diner isn't one of those, because it's in a great location halfway between home and school.
A bell tinkles as I push through the door. Only a few people are sitting at the long counter lined with swiveling stools. Even fewer people are dotted throughout the booths along the windows.
Maggie, the older woman I gave my application to yesterday, smiles when she sees me. I take it as a good sign, it's not the ‘I'm sorry it's not going to work out smile,’ but rather a genuine smile which lights up her face.
“How soon can you start?” She asks when she’s done refilling a cup of coffee for a man sitting up at the bar.
The relief is swift an immediate. “As soon as you need me.”
Three
Wednesday I have a small setback in my plan to fall into obscurity. Somehow, I've gained the attention of cheer girl. I have a sinking suspicion that not only was she the girl from the stairwell, but also the girl from the end of art class yesterday. When you’re constantly looking at the floor, it's hard to recall faces. She's definitely not someone whose radar I want to be on though.
“Hey, new girl. Laura, right?” Her voice is light, but she sounds a little winded. She probably rushed to catch up with me. I turn my head in her direction just enough so she's knows I'm not ignoring her, but not enough to fully focus on her either.
“So what's your story?” I wish she would leave me alone so I could go to the stairwell for my lunch.
“What do you mean?” I sound timid, even to my own ears.
“Well, why'd you move here? Where are you living? Got a boyfriend? Maybe looking for a new one?”
I lift my shoulders in a shrug and answer the only question she really cares about. “No boyfriend, new or otherwise.”
We're getting close to the stairs that lead up to my locker. I'm hoping she'll leave soon so I can go eat my lunch in peace. She stops and turns to face me fully. Most of the other kids are headed in the opposite direction to the cafeteria, so we're mostly alone. “Well I do. Have a boyfriend that is, Dante.”
“That's nice,” I offer in a small voice. I know what she's doing. She really shouldn't bother; I'm no threat to her.
“He told me you were trying to get him to help with your art project.” Her arms get folded over her chest as she stares at me. I don't meet her eyes but give her my full attention. I can't believe he told her that. First off, I didn't ask him for help at all, the teacher did. Heat invades my cheeks, I bet they're already pink.
“The teacher asked him, not me,” I defend, even though I should just let her speak her piece so we can move on.
“Yeah okay,” she says in a mocking tone like she thinks I'm lying. After a few tense moments of us both just standing there, she shakes her head and turns away back to the direction we ca
me. “Just stay away from him,” she sneers, delivering her final words with her back to me while walking away.
All through lunch, instead of happily being pulled into the pages of the book I am reading about a girl whose touch kills, I'm fighting off an indignant embarrassment. What would make him tell her I was asking him for help? Why even bring it up? I spend my thirty-five minutes dreading my final hour even more than I already did.
When he pulls out his stool, I'm already busying myself with facial proportions. Having the transfer sheet helps a bunch. I can line it up with my drawing and use a write and wipe marker to practice the techniques Mr. Adams showed me yesterday.
I'm really expecting Dante to ignore me. “Seems like you're doing okay,” he says quietly in a deep low voice. I nod with no other acknowledgment. He sits, waiting for a few more moments before standing, going to grab his project from the back of the room.
Everything seems to be going okay until I reach a spot where I'm not sure how to proceed. I have all the proportions lightly mapped out, and now I need to actually start on the details of the eyes, nose, and mouth.
Mr. Adams is at the front of the room, having already walked around to all the different tables a few times. He seems to be free enough where I could ask how to proceed. I set my pencil down and slide off the stool, grabbing my work as I go.
“Laura,” he greets me. When I put my page on the desk, he looks it over with a critical eye. “Not bad, not bad at all. You think you're ready to move on to the next step?”
I give a quick nod and Mr. Adams gathers two sheets from his filing cabinet. “Go ahead and grab the transfer, that way we can practice eye shape.”
Heading back to the desk with Mr. Adams, I know Dante is watching me, even when I'm not looking at him, I can tell his face is trained in my direction.
Infinity Chronicles Book One: A Paranormal Reverse Harem Series Page 2