Teacup and Bullets

 

The canvas had never looked so blank. White stretched in front of me like snow and I bit my lip in frustration. Next to me everyone was busily sketching faces onto their canvas’s whilst I sat here, imaginarily bankrupt. I closed my eyes, falling into the blackness, letting my mind wander. A face. I thought. You have to draw a face. Something sparked in a flash of Neurons. A guy, with a strong jaw and stormy blue swirls for eyes. His hair was dark and fell gently to his shoulders. I could see up to his waist and I nearly drooled at the defined six pack I could see carved into his naked chest. What does that say about me? I focused more on the defined lines of the face and by the speeding up of my heart I knew it wasn’t my imagination that had conjured up this image. It was Daman Winters. “But I can’t draw him.” I mumbled to myself, opening my eyes. “His real.” The image flashed in front of my open eye’s again. “Oh wait.” I said, pulling the pencil from behind my ear. “I can.”

 

***

 

Looking at the bubbling pot of chemicals turning the absolute wrong colour, I realised how much I hated science. My partner, Millie, wasn’t helping at all but chatting too me, talking crap that I didn’t really care about. Before you judge I just have to say that Millie is a bitch. You know the type, bleached blond, heavy lipstick, and a sour attitude. So don’t blame me for trying to tune her out. “Daman? Daman did you hear what I said?” If she was anyone else I probably would have lied and said something like “of course, I find this conversation very interesting.” But the situation as it was I said “No, you’re boring me.” Millie, her cheap mascaraed eyes widening like she couldn’t believe someone would dare say that to her, she tightened her mouth and tucked a piece of flyaway hair behind her ear. “No need to be rude, spaz.” I looked at her, drumming my fingers on the plastic table. That was very original. “That was very original.” I told her. Her eyes narrowed this time, turning themselves into little green crescent moons. “Don’t play dirty with me, tough boy. You know I’m top dog.” I wasn’t an amateur when it came to dealing with school bitches; in fact I was becoming kind of an expert at it since they kept GETTING IN MY FACE. “Firstly,” I said raising one eyebrow and lowering the other. “Wouldn’t dream of it. And secondly, if you can count that far, so you’re saying you’re a female dog? Got that one in one, sweetie.” Her mouth gaped open for a fraction of a second until she realised how stupid it looked and closed it again, not rectifying anything.  She turned her back to me, crossing her arms over her chest, sulking. Have I told you how much I love science?

 

***

 

“Move Hudson! That’s it! GOAL!” There was a cheer from the few people who bothered to watch the football team practice as I kicked the football between the posts and SCORED, BABY, SCORED. There were the tired claps of my teammates as coach finally blew the whistle that signalled the end of practice. I walked over to the bleachers, grabbing my bottle and pouring the cool water over my head. It was a nice morning; the sun was out but not beating down against the pavement and giving me a headache. However the footie workout had left me sweating like a hog and I drenched myself with the cool liquid. That feel’s so nice. I blinked the water out of my eyes and left the bottle on the bleaches. The rest of my team were slowly making their way to the training room, in desperate need for a shower. I contemplated skipping my shower and heading straight to spare. I caught a sniff of my odour and decided I better go have a shower.

 

***

 

“Okay every one, times up.” Immeadiantly everyone dropped their brushed and pencils and left their rough sketches to stew in canvas soup.  Miss Keith looked at everyone, checking we all had our pencils down. Once she was satisfied she clapped her long fingered hands together. “Ok, who wants to show us what they drew?” She was greeted by silence and I was surprised I didn’t hear any crickets chirping. “If no one puts their hands up I’m going to have to pick on someone.”  Her voice turned deceptively sing song at the end. Do not be fooled. Still the air remained silent and unbroken by any eager hands. Miss Keith raised her sharp blond eyebrows. “Fine, but remember, you brought this among yourselves.” Wow, positivity works well in classrooms. As soon as Miss Keith’s sharp blue eyes started scanning the art room we all became very interested in the paint splattered floor. Please not be me. I chanted in my head. I think I would die of embarrassment. “Rosalie.” She said, her voices like the gates to hell. “Why don’t you show us what you drew?” Why don’t you go die in a hole? “Sure, uh, ok. It’s not very good though.” Miss Keith just waved her hand, gesturing for me to hurry up. Bitch. I turned the canvas around to face the circle of art students, the people next to me craining their necks to get a better view. There was silence, such unbearable silence. I was seriously regretting drawing a naked chested guy in a school environment. Man, I hate Miss Keith. I heard the girl whisper to her friend. “Is that Daman Winters?” I felt my cheeks flame into massive splotches of red. So this is what dying feels like. “That is very good, Miss Paris.” Miss Keith told me/the class, her pointed chin resting in the dip between her thumb and pointer finger. “It has… life. The shadowing is very good.”  I smiled and as soon as she started picking on someone else I whipped my canvas around to face me. The rough sketch was, big surprise, rough. His arms weren’t nearly as defined as I would have liked them and his eyes were missing the spark of life that made a portrait live. I tuned out of my self-obsessed funk, curling my hands on my thighs. For the first time I had been doing art I couldn’t wait till it was time for lunch.

 

***

 

“Okay everyone, times up” Professor Johnson wheezed from the front of the classroom. Immeadiantly, like the sheep we pretend not to be, everyone put down their flasks and turned to front, chatter dying down harmlessly. “From this experiment, I want you to write a quick essay. What you don’t get done in class you do for homework.” Everyone stampeded to their seats after cleaning up and got straight to work.  The recycled air of the air-con blew swirls of air into my face, the chill not nessaccary when the morning was as nice as this. I didn’t bother to start my essay, whatever I would write would be given a big fat fail anyway. You’ve got to try harder, sweetie. My mother’s voice told me, completely inside my head. You’ve got to stop dating men, who are 20 years older than you, ass whole. I told her back, giving her the respect she completely deserved, still inside my head. My page was empty; the only writing was the title and the date. I rubbed my shoes together under the table. Come on lunch bell.

 

***

 

“Okay everyone, times up.” My mate Johnny told the people typing away at the computers, sitting along the corner of the room. “Next shift! Get over here, ya lazy cows!” A couple of people went over to the humming and very out of date machinery. I kept my eyes on my work, trying vainly to cut through my brain fog and write something creative for my English assignment. I heard a chair scrape the floor next to me, and a body clomping down into it. The paper next to me was ruffled, the noise muffled by the low buzz of chatter hanging around the spare classroom. “I hate this assignment.” Jonny’s bass tones said near my ear. I didn’t look up from my paper, tapping the pencil on the plastic table. The hallow sound was similar to the sound my head was making at the moment. “I am officially a muscled brained sporto.” My voice almost, nearly, not quite rising to whining pitch. Jonny looked up from his paper, which had about a paragraph of writing and a drawing of a naked lady on it. “I thought this assignment would be synch.” He said, scrawling more pornographic pictures. “But, it’s like, not.” Inwardly I groaned and his great epiphany. And people thought I was the muscle head. I looked around the room, trying to distract myself from the distinct rumbling in my stomach. “When is it lunch time?”

 

***

 

After Miss Keith had successfully interrogated 50per cent of the class, she told us to start adding depth and feeling to our sketches. Eagerly I accepted the challenge and pulled the pencil out from behind my ear and got straight to work.  Other people started to talk, but I kept quiet, not knowing anyone to start a, no doubt boring conversation. Instead I focused all my attention to my canvas, letting the picture I had in my mind flow down my arms and out through my pencil. I was focused intently on sketching; it was the only thing that mattered right now. It was weird to be so involved in something as fictional as painting and be sitting on the hard plastic stool in an environment as  realistic as school. I couldn’t hear the chatter of my classmates, all I could feel was the warm morning air against my skin and the hollow wood of the pencil pinched between my fingers. I could see the sweeps and crosses of the lead against the canvas, but everything else was lost to me. “Woah, intense.” I snapped out of it, the world looking brighter than it did before.  The guy next to me, cute with spikey brown hair, was looking at me, and had been for the last 5 minutes. He just got fractionally less cute. “You must really like art.” It wasn’t a question but I answered with a mumbled “yes” anyway. Blushing with no idea why, I quickly returned to the safety of my canvas. Now I could feel his eyes watching me draw, I couldn’t concentrate. My head filled with white noise and I randomly shadowed the hair in my sketch, although I already had it perfect.  If I just kept drawing, maybe he would go away. Right.  I knew his name. He hung around with the jocks, completely different species. Joe, I think. Well I just said that so I didn’t sound like a stalker. I knew his name was Joe. “Are you going to turn around?” That was Joe. I didn’t know the answer to that question. I could feel my heart beating in my chest. It was sad, yes, but he was a jock, he was made to make girls hearts pound. I am such a loser. “Uh, were supposed to be doing work.” Oh right, Rosalie, way to impress people, you kiss ass. Joe looked at me, like he was trying to figure me out. Pfft, good luck with that.

 

***

 

I never knew it could take this long for a bell to ring. It seemed like we were in some Doctor who episode, where time doesn’t apply to us. Oh god, this is SO boring. Everyone else was scribbling furiously at their notebooks, determined to finish it now so they were homework free, for science at least.  Millie was sitting next to me and I could smell her cheap perfume from here. I was scribbling idly in my notebook. The Professor had disappeared into the lab room so people talked freely. And loudly.  As the time progressed I heard the smooth finish of a pen that had stopped writing. Before I had time to say my last prayers a voice said “So what are you doing this weekend?” I turned, my head resting on the palm of my hand. Millie’s face was eager, her grin resembling a sharks. I raised my eyebrows. “Well,” I said, pretending to think about it. I took my head out of the cradle of my hand.  “On Saturday I’m reading the book I just got, Skulduggery Pleasant, good book. And then I’m flicking dejectedly threw the channels trying to find something that I like. Then on Sunday I’m writing poetry about tragic love and slitting my wrists so I can do paintings with my own blood.” Millie expression darkened, like the storm on the horizon but far less attractive. “Be serious, Daman! I’m trying to ask you a proper question.” Her fingers were curled on the desk. I grinned, turning my mouth sweet as honey. “And I’m giving you a serious answer. I just wish you would trust me.” I pitched my voice in a slightly camp way, flapping my hands like I’d seen Millie and her cronies so often do. She widened her emerald eyes, turning them wet and teary. I looked at her, unimpressed by her show. “Yeah, not gonna work, sunshine.”

 

***

 

“So who are you taking to this year’s dance?” Jonny asked me, his eyebrows wriggling like caterpillars. “Millie?” I made face, feeling a sinking sensation in my stomach, like I had eaten rocks for breakfast.  “Do not mention her again, Jonno. You know how awkward it is between us.” He gave me a grin, his brown curls flopping over his face. “Yep, I sure do. That’s why I keep asking.” He laughed and I threw my eraser at him.  “It’s not funny! If it wasn’t for her weird crush on that Daman dude, she would have told everyone I raped her or something.” Jonny laughed again and I hit him and he stopped, scowling. “Violence,” He started in a solemn voice. “Is not the answer to everything, young Hudson.” I raised my eyebrows at him and he struggled to remain with his ‘wise old man’ composure. “No sir.” I replied using my best little boy voice (which, let’s face it, is pretty good) “Just most things.” It was Johnny’s turn to throw something at me, which turned out to be a pencil. What happened to ‘violence isn’t the answer?’