Just Me by L.A. Fiore

neglected, I recognized it easily in others. “Meaning?” Anger laced through that word.
    His head lifted and his eyes met mine. “Well, for one my appearance is apparently like that of a homeless person. My tattoos are an embarrassment and my hair is ridiculous. I dress disgracefully and my general attitude is piss-poor. My dad wants me to be a clone of him—perfectly tailored. Blend into the mainstream, but achieve great things. His idea of great things is to make lots of money ideally while working for him: this way it will line his pockets, too.” He looked down and added, “I don't think I would mind their disappointment in me so much if it was fueled by genuine concern for me, but it's not. They ignored me as a child and now they are only worried about how my behavior reflects on them. My dad wouldn't give a shit if I was a male whore, but being so looks badly on him.”
    “ Yet even knowing this, you still do as you please,” I said.
    His gaze returned to mine. “Yeah, I'm eighteen. It's my life, right?”
    “ Good for you. Not many in your shoes would stand up for themselves.”
    “ I get the sense you're one who would.”
    “ Yes, but I don't have the pressure of a family trying to force their will on me. I'd like to believe if someone ever tried that I would stand firm. Life would be miserable if I lived someone else's idea of it. For the record, I think your hair is beautiful and your tattoos are sexy as hell. And for a homeless person, you smell really good.”
    Belatedly, I realized I had actually said that last part out loud, when the sexiest grin curved up his lips into a beautiful smile. Shifting my eyes from him, I wished for the power of invisibility. He leaned over the table and lifted my chin with his finger. “Thank you.”
    His thumb brushed my lower lip. “We still on for seventh period?”
    “ Yeah.”
    The heat in his eyes settled very comfortably in my chest, “I can't wait.”
    ***
    I was ready to call it a day by seventh period. Clearly the rumor mill was working overtime about Bastian and me. I didn't mind my name being paired with his, but after spending the past three years nearly invisible, it was a bit overwhelming to be in the spotlight. Breathing became easier when I stepped into the safe and familiar space that was the art room.
    Ms. Whitney was just leaving when I entered. She lived like a throwback to the seventies: brightly-colored flowing skirts, auburn hair parted in the middle that hung lose and curly around her shoulders and a lithe and graceful way of moving that made it seem like she floated when she walked. “Hey, Lark. I need to run this down to the office. I won't be long.”
    She was gone before I could reply. Only a minute or two later, Bastian entered.
    “ Hi, Lark.”
    “ Hey. Give me a minute to collect the paintings. Why don't you sit over there by those easels?”
    “ Okay.” His long, strong legs carried him across the floor. Suddenly I was feeling rather warm in my sweater.
    I pulled my gaze from the masterpiece currently straddling a stool and retrieved some of my work. My pulse pounded in my veins as I sorted through my paintings because I was nervous. Outside of my friends, the Wrights and Ms. Whitney, no one I knew had ever really shown an interest in my art. Even my uncle, who claimed interest, felt more like he was fulfilling an obligation when he viewed my pieces. This boy, whom I'd known for barely a week, was interested, had even requested a viewing.
    One of the pieces I selected was an oil painting of a covered bridge with turbulent water churned up from a thunderstorm. Another was a sketch of an old man and a little girl playing chess in the park. I chose another painting—a particular favorite—because based on our discussion at lunch, it seemed appropriate. It depicted a field of wildflowers, but not when they were vibrant and vital, but when they had lost their luster and were just hanging on.
    Placing my art on the easels for Bastian