“One of the most important factors in getting the eyes realistic, is the iris and lid shape. When you actually look at someone,” his eyes peer at mine, “you rarely actually see the full iris.” Mr. Adams eyes round before they twitch back and forth between my eyes. He clears his throat, “Unlike your eyes, your model’s eyes are the practically covered with her lids, and it obscures some of the top of her iris.”
Mr. Adams spends a few minutes going over a few different eye shapes with me using the transfer over top of my portrait. I catch him glancing at me a few times while he speaks. People rarely notice I have two slightly different colored eyes, but he has. I can always tell by the way their eyes flick back and forth between mine.
Back at the table, I'm still trying to decide if the girl I'm using as my model actually has almond eyes or not. It's hard to get the line thin enough using the marker, but I practice it a few times, drawing and wiping it away repeatedly.
The pencil seems light in my hand as I sketch light lines on the real paper. Without the eyelid and eyeball the image staring back at me is slightly haunting. I get little else done before Mr. Adams tells the class to put our projects away before the bell rings. I load the practice sheet and the two pages he gave me in my bag to use at home, before moving toward the back of the room to put my drawing away. Once I've done that, most of the other kids are already back in their seats, having already put their work into the numbered totes in the back.
I notice Dante avidly watching me, but I keep my eyes on my bag, ignoring him.
“Laura,” he says my name like a question when I get back to the table. Great, I was hoping I could ignore him altogether.
I clear my throat. I haven't spoken in hours. “Yeah?” It comes out a little croaky
“About yesterday. Sorry about that...” he trails off for a second, his gruff voice almost making it sound like he's growling at me. “You seem to be catching on pretty well.”
I'm starting to put the pieces together as he tugs a leather jacket over his shoulders. Dark pants, black t-shirt. I think he's the bad boy from the mismatched group this morning. So, he's who cheer girl was heading for.
“It's fine. I didn't know Mr. Adams would ask you to help me. Sorry he bothered you with that.” I should have just accepted his apology and moved on, but I find the words falling from my lips without thought. With my backpack over a shoulder I face forward, twining my fingers together in my lap. It's the most I've spoken to anyone in school in a while.
Sometimes I wonder why I bother anymore. Every town is the same, we roll in, find some seedy RV park to set up in. I find a small-time job that barely manages to keep food on the table.
Then there's school. Where I spend my time walking the halls like a shadow, just so my mom won't panic and pick us up and leave even sooner than the three months we usually average.
I can't count how many times I thought about quitting, and getting my GED so I wouldn't have to put up with going to school every day. Then I might get a better job.
Something stops me every single time I close to giving up. I know it's the false hope of being normal someday. Of finding a place where mom can actually relax and settle down. A place where I could graduate and find a small local college, a place where I could make a friend.
I catch movement from the corner of my eye. Dante is rubbing the back of his neck with his head leaning over the table, trying to look at me. No, that's wrong. He's trying to see me.
I turn my face just enough, a little confused about why he's watching me so intently.
My heart starts beating faster. I want to turn away from him. I want the bell to ring so I can stop staring at him. His mouth opens, his lips barely parted, and he stays like that for a moment, like he wants to talk but doesn't.
“I should have helped,” he mutters almost like he's speaking to himself, voice soft and deep all at once. It's a strange combination. Usually someone with such a deep tone sounds booming, louder than needed, but not him. Everything he says comes out more like a soft growl. You know the sound, when a dog is thrilled but growls anyway. That's what he sounds like to me. Not that I think he is overly happy, that's just the only way I can describe his voice.
I start to shake my head in denial. Ready to insist he shouldn't. He speaks before I can.
“I'll help,” he offers while we're still stuck looking at each other.
It's the longest I've let myself actually focus on someone in a long time.
His dark hair is a little messy, not styled messy, more like he ran his hands through it this morning instead of a brush. His eyes are a strange hazel color, almost amber brown. He has sculpted cheekbones and a strong jaw, leading down to a thick neck and wide shoulders.
He's definitely handsome. No wonder cheer girl’s so territorial.
The bell rings and I actually jump from the shrill sound.
Unnerved, I snatch my bag from the floor and flee the room like it's a blaze. The whole thing probably only lasted under a minute, but I feel strangely exposed. Like that was enough time for him to know my every secret.
The diner is slow, I don't think they really needed to hire me. I'm rolling silverware into paper napkins when the door tingles a happy chime.
Two guys come in—one talking over his shoulder, barely looking around—they nab the first booth.
I pull my note pad from my apron and approach.
“Hi,” they both peer up when I speak.
“Where's Maggie?” the boy with short dark hair asks.
Looking down at the table I answer, “She's in the back.”
“She hired someone?” he questions his friend, whose long blond hair slides over his shoulder when he shrugs, then looks back up at me. He's almost pretty, his bone structure is crazy masculine, but his features are undoubtedly beautiful. Soft full lips, long dark eyelashes, and a perfect nose.
Distracting myself, I scribble on my pad. “Can I get you something to drink?”
“When did this happen, when did you start?” the other guy asks. I know better than to stare at them again.
“Only yesterday,” I answer softly.
“Why didn't she tell us she needed someone? She knows we would have helped.”
They're back to speaking to each other. I can hear how concerned they sound. It's almost like they've forgotten I'm standing here.
The whomp of the swinging door leading to the kitchen grabs my attention. I bite the corner of my lip, I haven't even managed to take their drink orders. If these guys offer to help Maggie out, I'm more than likely going to lose my job.
“Hey boys,” she greets them affectionately.
“Gran,” dark haired boy greets.
“Ollie, you and Milo better not be giving Laura a hard time.” Both of them react to her saying my name. Glancing up at me quickly.
“Can I get you something to drink?” I ask again, hoping they answer so I can walk away.
“Coke,” they both say at the same time.
I turn without writing it down and shove my notepad in my apron. By the time I return, Maggie is leaning her hip on the booth’s high-backed seat. She and the guys carried on a quiet conversation for a few seconds.
As I near they all look up. I flush from the attention.
Maggie backs away so I place the glasses in front of them. “Can I take your order, or…?” I look at Maggie, wondering if she wants to take it herself, feeling uncertain. She hasn't watched me this much since I started yesterday. She took me at my word that I knew what I was doing.
“You go ahead Laura, these boys won't give you any more trouble,” she answers, understanding my question all too easily.
I'm back to rolling napkins and frequently checking their drinks to make sure they don't get too low when Gus, the guy from the grill in the back, hits the bell unnecessarily. There are only a few people here, so I could tell right away when an order was up.
I grab a ketchup bottle from under the counter and stuff it in my apron before grabbing the tray.
&
nbsp; Their table quiets as I approach. “Anything else?” I ask while placing the ketchup on the table. They both utter a quick denial before I turn to check on my other two tables.
I wave a quick goodbye to Maggie while she locks the door behind me. The front lot is empty as I cross the gravel heading toward the street. The sun is gone for the day, leaving the road back to the Turtle Park Resort dark. Thankfully I won't have a far walk home.
Mom is asleep on the couch when I get in. Her stringy hair half covering her face and her arm hangs low to the floor.
I sigh, tired from my long day but relieved she's sleeping again, that's easier than if she was awake and waiting for me.
I quietly gather my bath kit and make the short walk to the camp showers. Thankfully it's not too grungy and I feel cleaner after getting out, that doesn't always happen at these places.
With nothing else to do I grab my transfer sheet and practice a few different eye shapes. I'm definitely not an artist but with all the steps set out for each piece of face, I feel a sense of accomplishment with what I've got done and capable of turning in something that isn't horrible.
I roll over and hit the light switch next to the built in lamp.
The room falls dark quickly. I can hear Mom’s soft snores from the couch. I'm a little concerned with how much she seems to be sleeping lately, but figure she's still catching up after her last manic episode when she barely slept at all. With these thoughts on my mind, I drift off to sleep.
I jolt awake, my heart pounding out a heavy rhythm. Gasping for breath I realize that I was dreaming, but can't for the life of me remember what it was that had me so frightened.
A quick glance at the alarm clock shows me it's almost time to get up anyway. I throw myself back onto the mattress and let my heart rate slow down while letting myself wake up properly.
Four
I can't wait for this day to be over.
Instead of everyone forgetting about me, and the new girl curiously wearing off, I've become that girl.
You know, the one all the other girls make a target of. The one they say nasty things about, just loud enough for you to hear. Well, it's not all the girls, obviously. It's only the girls I would consider in the popular groups.
I'm also pretty sure I have cheer girl to thank for my newfound notoriety.
Just as I'm rounding the corner I feel a slight shove on my back. With my head down and my book bag clutched to my chest, it's just enough to send me sprawling onto the floor. My knees and palms take the brunt of the fall but they don't hurt nearly as bad my pride does.
Giggles fill the surrounding space while I gather my backpack and the few things that came out of it. My trace paper for art being one of them.
“Oh, look!” I hear conspiratorially. “She must be Special Ed or maybe she's just an idiot.”
Louder giggles. “Yeah and a mute too,” another voice chimes in.
I'm just about to stand when I feel a hand slide under my arm. With an electric jolt, I jerk my shoulder forward, pulling away and wondering what that was, and what they're planning next.
But the hand stays with me and someone comes up from behind.
“Stand up,” he all but snarls while lifting me from the floor. I look up at his face, but he's staring at the three girls that were surrounding me. Then his eyes scan the hall, which is filled with onlookers.
His jaw tightens and so does his grip on my upper arm. I wince, lifting my shoulder, hoping he'll release the pressure so the strange static feeling will abate.
His tawny eyes immediately find mine, and then he lets go with a jerking motion. He takes one menacing step toward the girls right as the bell rings. Everyone scatters.
Dante bends down, grabbing my bag from the floor before shoving it at me. I can't tell who exactly he's pissed off at, but I'm guessing everyone, me included.
I pull my bag to my chest and drop my face, ready to head to my next class.
Hours later, in art class, Dante is still aggravated. He tosses his stuff on the table, and his frequent sighs leave no room for doubt. Or maybe this is his everyday attitude and I'm paying more attention. His pencil seems to scratch across his paper instead of the graceful sketching I've noticed before.
“They would probably leave you alone if you didn't make yourself such an easy mark,” Dante mutters in that deep voice of his. I tilt my head, gaining a new perspective. He thinks I asked for those girls to pick on me? I don't bother responding to that.
He drops his pencil and turns to face me. “Are you going to sit there and ignore me?”
“I'm listening to you,” I assure him, looking down at my hands in my lap.
“Why won't you look at me when I talk to you, hell you don't look at anyone. You act like no one else exists.” He sounds incredulous.
He thinks I'm being stuck up, that I'm being a bitch. I do look over at him now. I give him my entire attention.
I'm tired, tired of being the invisible girl, tired of working on getting mediocre grades, tired of going to school all day and working half the night. But mostly, I'm tired of worrying about my mom all by myself. Worrying when her next episode will come, worrying about coming home and finding her ready to move again, running from God knows what. I let him see all of it.
“I'm just trying to survive,” I answer him too honestly.
His eyes soften, and his mouth opens, letting out a soft breath. “Survive what?” He tries for a whisper but still feel his deep tenor I bet he'd have a lovely singing voice.
“Everything,” I mutter, looking away from him. It's too much. I can't give this total stranger a piece of me; it's probably his fault to begin with. He's the one that told cheer girl I asked him for help, and I know she's the ringleader of my new visibility. If it weren’t for him, I wouldn't even be a blip on her radar.
He doesn't try to speak to me for the rest of class, and I'm grateful.
Mr. Adams gives me a few more pages, which will help me with the nose and mouth, before class is over. I take those and my trance paper home even though the girls basically called me retarded because I needed it.
Work is a little busier tonight. Most of the booths are full and I sigh, knowing I can actually be useful.
Maggie stays behind the long counter helping all the customers sitting there, while I take the tables and booths.
“On Thursdays things pick up,” Maggie explains while I'm wiping down an empty booth. “We usually stay busy through Sunday brunch.” She shrugs her heavy shoulders like she doesn't have any further explanation. “Now that I know you know what you're doing, I think we should talk about a more permanent schedule.”
I bounce on my toes, happy she's going to keep me on.
“All right, how does this look?” Maggie asks while pointing up to a large whiteboard over the desk in her office. She has me on Wednesday through Saturday from 3:30 till 9:00, and 8:00 until 1:00 on Sunday.
“Looks perfect!” I beam at her, relieved she's giving me all the hours.
“You're sure it's not too much? That you'll be able to keep up your school work?” She tips her head forward.
I dismiss her worries with a wave. “Positive.”
That night when I get home, Mom is awake. She's scrubbing the tiny kitchen counter with a green brillo pad. Her gray eyes are unfocused, darting around and looking at everything but me.
“Working?” she questions me needlessly.
“Yeah, just got off,” I mumble tiredly, hanging my bag over the back of the dinette seat. “How are you?” It's a loaded question with her. She could give me a vague fine, or she could give me a full rendition of every event that took place today, no matter how small or insignificant.
“Okay, I guess.” She shrugs her frail shoulders. “I think...” She trails off, staring down at her hands. “I think this is where we belong.”
I try to keep the shock from my voice when I ask, “Really?” I'm not sure if I was successful, but she starts scrubbing again.
This isn't the first t
ime she's muttered those words about a new place but it's been years since she has.
I don't know if I can believe her or not, but that's not the only problem. Is Canton the place I want her to pick?
After all these years of running and never settling down, is this the place I want that to happen?
The question flits away immediately, because the answer is yes. If this podunk town is where she can finally relax and breathe, it's where we'll stay.
Even if the kids at school are jerks, I only have less than left anyway. Maybe we could even get a small apartment.
My mind spins with all the possibilities as I let the idea take hold.
I hear mom cleaning late into the night, when I finally drift off to sleep, lulled by the sounds of her scrubbing.
I wake up once thinking a dream must have pulled me from sleep, but as I turn over I swear I hear my mom’s hushed voice speaking urgently. I can't make out what she's saying. I can tell she's trying to be quiet and her words are clipped.
Desperately hoping this isn't a new symptom to her ever-spiraling moods, I strain to make out what she is saying but it’s impossible.
Still curious, I let my legs swing over the side of the flimsy mattress and settle my weight on the floor. After only two steps the floor makes a low groan and her words die immediately.
I stand frozen for a few moments. Hoping she'll continue so I can at least get an idea of what is sending her into such a state, but she never utters another word. In fact, the place is so quiet I'm half wondering if I imagined it all to begin with.
The walk to school feels ten times longer today. I'm still tired from last night. It took hours to fall back asleep, and when I did it seemed like only minutes before my alarm clock was waking me up again.
I round the same sparse oak tree I've been taking shelter under over the last few mornings and let my eyes roam over my classmates once again. Things are pretty much the same as the last couple days, only now I'm starting to put faces with names I've picked up in classes.
Infinity Chronicles Book One: A Paranormal Reverse Harem Series Page 3