crayon. I discarded two false-starts before I got his
rodent-like features right. I made his too-wide lips an acidic blend of red and
purple. By the time I’d worked over his cheekbones and the narrow angles of his
face, there was too much black on the paper, but the effect was perfect: He’d
dirty anything that touched him. Just like in real life.
As
midnight passed into early morning, I relented and tried to draw Mark. But it
was impossible to get him right. No matter what approach I took, his eyes
always looked dead, his face just a flat copy of the real thing. No life.
The
only one that came close was a pencil sketch of Mark, sitting on his bed, head
in his hands, as I’d seen him when I first walked in. Because his eyes were
covered, I was able to focus on the shape of his shoulders, the way his fingers
clawed into his scalp.
But
when it was done, it was so hard to look at, I crumpled it up and threw it on
the floor.
The
rest of the papers were covered in splotchy, uninspired messes that would
barely pass for worksheets for my folder.
My
folder.
For
the art competition.
Mark…
The
clock said it was almost five in the morning. Pushing all the papers aside, I
let myself sink into the blankets. Let consciousness drift. Prayed I wouldn’t
dream about Karyn or Finn and their smug smiles…
…and
woke up three hours later feeling like I hadn’t slept at all.
I
groaned and dragged myself to the bathroom to clean up.
By
eight-thirty I was supposed to be standing outside the art room. Today was the
first day we were supposed to spend our Saturday at school. Alone. Working on
our portfolios.
Seven
hours alone with Mark.
Yesterday
it had sounded like heaven. Today it felt like walking to the gallows.
I
gathered up the pages I’d done overnight. They could go into my workbook –
essentially a record of all the art I’d tried or envisioned over the course of
the year. Workbooks made almost twenty percent of the final grade in the
competition. I had a bad habit of not planning my pieces enough, so my workbook
was a little thin. No point wasting my efforts. As long as I shoved them in the
back and didn’t show Mark…
My
stomach clenched.
Images
of the night before flashed through my head, of Mark’s happiness when he looked
at Karyn. When he touched her. Of her smug delight.
It
wasn’t just the fact that he had a girlfriend – I suffered through that
particular indignity every couple months. Don’t get me wrong, I loved Mark, but
he was a little bit of a man-whore.
This
was different, though. The fact that he hadn’t talked to me about it before…Was
he more serious this time? About her ?
Usually
I got warning when someone caught his eye. He’d ask about a girl. Find out if I
knew anything that might help him attract her.
He
never believed me when I told him he just needed to smile.
Usually
I knew when he was working up the courage to ask someone out. I’d help him
figure out his first date so he could impress her. I’d listen to him gush about
her for a few weeks. Then something would change. He’d stop talking about her
all the time. Hang out with me more. Start complaining about whatever she was
doing that irritated him…
It
was a cycle we’d been repeating since freshman year. But now he’d broken it.
So,
what was different this time?
I
was too scared to ask. Too frightened of the answer.
How
I was I going to spend every Saturday alone with him, knowing he’d be leaving
to go see her? Knowing he still only thought of me as his friend? That
nothing I’d done really mattered in the long run because one day he’d get
serious about someone. And if it wasn’t me, I’d lose him forever. And maybe
that day had already happened? Maybe Karyn was his One?
The
thought stopped my breath.
The
glass in my chest popped under pressure, cracked behind my ribs.
One
of the pages in my hand slipped out from between the others, drifting slowly to
the carpet. I stooped to gather it quickly.
rodent-like features right. I made his too-wide lips an acidic blend of red and
purple. By the time I’d worked over his cheekbones and the narrow angles of his
face, there was too much black on the paper, but the effect was perfect: He’d
dirty anything that touched him. Just like in real life.
As
midnight passed into early morning, I relented and tried to draw Mark. But it
was impossible to get him right. No matter what approach I took, his eyes
always looked dead, his face just a flat copy of the real thing. No life.
The
only one that came close was a pencil sketch of Mark, sitting on his bed, head
in his hands, as I’d seen him when I first walked in. Because his eyes were
covered, I was able to focus on the shape of his shoulders, the way his fingers
clawed into his scalp.
But
when it was done, it was so hard to look at, I crumpled it up and threw it on
the floor.
The
rest of the papers were covered in splotchy, uninspired messes that would
barely pass for worksheets for my folder.
My
folder.
For
the art competition.
Mark…
The
clock said it was almost five in the morning. Pushing all the papers aside, I
let myself sink into the blankets. Let consciousness drift. Prayed I wouldn’t
dream about Karyn or Finn and their smug smiles…
…and
woke up three hours later feeling like I hadn’t slept at all.
I
groaned and dragged myself to the bathroom to clean up.
By
eight-thirty I was supposed to be standing outside the art room. Today was the
first day we were supposed to spend our Saturday at school. Alone. Working on
our portfolios.
Seven
hours alone with Mark.
Yesterday
it had sounded like heaven. Today it felt like walking to the gallows.
I
gathered up the pages I’d done overnight. They could go into my workbook –
essentially a record of all the art I’d tried or envisioned over the course of
the year. Workbooks made almost twenty percent of the final grade in the
competition. I had a bad habit of not planning my pieces enough, so my workbook
was a little thin. No point wasting my efforts. As long as I shoved them in the
back and didn’t show Mark…
My
stomach clenched.
Images
of the night before flashed through my head, of Mark’s happiness when he looked
at Karyn. When he touched her. Of her smug delight.
It
wasn’t just the fact that he had a girlfriend – I suffered through that
particular indignity every couple months. Don’t get me wrong, I loved Mark, but
he was a little bit of a man-whore.
This
was different, though. The fact that he hadn’t talked to me about it before…Was
he more serious this time? About her ?
Usually
I got warning when someone caught his eye. He’d ask about a girl. Find out if I
knew anything that might help him attract her.
He
never believed me when I told him he just needed to smile.
Usually
I knew when he was working up the courage to ask someone out. I’d help him
figure out his first date so he could impress her. I’d listen to him gush about
her for a few weeks. Then something would change. He’d stop talking about her
all the time. Hang out with me more. Start complaining about whatever she was
doing that irritated him…
It
was a cycle we’d been repeating since freshman year. But now he’d broken it.
So,
what was different this time?
I
was too scared to ask. Too frightened of the answer.
How
I was I going to spend every Saturday alone with him, knowing he’d be leaving
to go see her? Knowing he still only thought of me as his friend? That
nothing I’d done really mattered in the long run because one day he’d get
serious about someone. And if it wasn’t me, I’d lose him forever. And maybe
that day had already happened? Maybe Karyn was his One?
The
thought stopped my breath.
The
glass in my chest popped under pressure, cracked behind my ribs.
One
of the pages in my hand slipped out from between the others, drifting slowly to
the carpet. I stooped to gather it quickly.
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