4. Creative Arts
CREATIVE ARTS
After English finishes, Samantha heads to the culinary block, while I head to Block A art classes. Andy isn’t here yet.
Our cubicles, labelled with our names and years, are at the back of the class.
I drag out my tub and go to grab my art book when a looming shadow hovers over me.
Glancing in that direction, the school captain’s badge comes into focus, his fingers poking at it while his other arm rests against the top of the shelves.
“Morning, Noya,” Conner says in a low voice.
“Morning…” I murmur.
I lift my pencil case when another sharp pang shudders down my arm, and my hold on the pencil case slackens. My art book and pencil hit the ground, creating a thudding sound in the already quiet classroom.
Mr Rogers turns in our direction before looking back at the blackboard.
I crouch to grab my art book and pencil case when Conner already has them.
“Thanks,” I say when he hands them to me.
Once I have them, I make my way to my desk, only to learn Conner is following me. As I sit, he collapses in the seat beside me and where Andy usually sits.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Sitting down. Is something wrong?”
“You usually sit on the other side of the room,” I try to justify. Then, to make it more straightforward, I say, “My friend sits there.”
“Andy, right?”
I nod once, firmly.
“Do you smoke?”
I flutter my eyelashes, surprised by the sudden question. “No…Why?”
“No reason.” He leans back comfortably, his elbows resting on the back of the chair. Hazel eyes observe the blackboard as Mr Roger writes what creative piece we will design today. “I’m trying to figure you out,” Conner admits.
“Why?” There’s more hostility in the tone of my voice than I expected.
“Because there’s more to you than what meets the eye.”
Narrowing my vision, I glare at Conner.
The issue is that I have done nothing to make him notice me. Yet, here he is, the suspicious look on his face making my stomach sink. I know the reason he is here, and it’s because I’m a lousy liar.
It’s hard to hide my feelings, as well as what I’m thinking. It’s one of the many reasons Dad raises his hand at me.
The disgust. Fright—all of it shows when I look at him. And like throwing gasoline on fire, I seem to make it worse.
Conner’s interest prompts me to search my memories for anything that might have piqued his curiosity.
This isn’t good. I need to shut this down!
“Conner, you will be gravely disappointed with the results,” I declare. “There’s no mystery or some deep, dark secret I’m hiding.”
He cocks his head to the side and raises his brow. “I’ll be the judge of that.”
Scoffing at his words, I unzip my pencil case and grab the HB pencil, only for the sharp pain to return when I raise my arm. I jolt, and a hiss escapes through clenched teeth.
“Is there something wrong with your arm?” Conner asks.
“Uh…yeah…” I blush when I say, “I walked into the display cabinet at the service station last night. Remember?”
I pray it’s a good enough lie. It’s valid, and Conner noticed my blunder before he grabbed the packet of chips.
“Yeah, I remember.” His brow knits together. “Did the pain come suddenly this morning?”
“Sorry?”
“You were fine holding the plastic bag with a six-pack of beer last night.”
I open my mouth to talk, but it’s as if we are playing a game of chess.
We sit across from each other, my pawns all defeated. Conner vanquished my knight. Conner left the Queen bleeding and bruised. She falters, weakened and unable to push forward.
And behind her, I cower. Conner stands before the Queen, his sword sharp and his armour glistening, pristine.
He raises his arms, ready to slay my protector and open the wounds I’ve held from the world.
“What are you doing in my seat?” Andy demands.
I flinch at the sudden break in my daydream. Andy stands over us, leering eyes narrowing when his gaze meets Conner’s.
“I’m merely having a conversation with Noya. Is that a problem?” Conner rises, standing a few inches taller than Andy. He smiles, and I know that smile well, for most of the girls in my ear swoon over it.
Andy doesn’t reply.
Conner breathes a laugh, looks to me, and says, “I’ll talk to you later, Noya.”
As he leaves, Andy sits in the seat beside mine. While he watches Conner, he asks, “What was that all about?”
“He saw me at the service station last night,” I say with a shake of my head. “It was nothing.”
Andy grunts, making it apparent that I am a terrible liar. However, I’m grateful when he doesn’t persist. Going into the “He saved my arse when the cops showed up and then took me home” won’t make this situation any better.
But I’m not sure why I want to hide that from Andy. He knows why I was at the service station last night. Even though he hasn’t outright told me, he is smart enough to put two and two together.
“So, will you tell me what happened with your arm?”
I draw in my art book after reading what Mr Rogers has written on the blackboard. We need to find something in the room and draw it.
My focus lands on Mr Rogers’ desk. It’s always messy and unkempt, with an A4 book, pencils, and paintbrushes scattered across his paint-stained and chipped desk.
While I sketch and outline the legs and base of the table, I think about what to say to Andy. “Dad came home drunk again,” I answer, shrugging. “That’s it.”
I want to keep this conversation light. Sometimes, telling Andy about what happened inside my home feels like a burden. No one should know what happens inside my home. It’s something I need to deal with, and I don’t want to drag him into a situation I dream of leaving someday.
“What happened to your arm, then?” Andy persists.
“I went to the service station to get his beer when I hit the corner of a stand.” I shrug, but there’s a twinge of pain when I do.
“He didn’t…” he pauses when Conner passes by our table with his chair. Conner’s eyes cast down on us before he heads to the table with many cups of paintbrushes. When he is out of earshot, Andy leans in and whispers, “He didn’t hurt you?”
“No,” I lie.
I hope my concentration masks my lies enough for Andy to believe them. If he doesn’t, I also have an eyewitness account of me bumping into a stand at the service station. But do I want Conner to be more involved? He is too curious now, and we only had one encounter.
“All right,” Andy submits. “What are you drawing?”
“Uh, the desk,” I answer, then point my pencil to where Mr Rogers sits. He reads “Get Me Out of Here”, which I find to be an interesting title. “You?”
“My pencil case,” he says. I arch my brow at his response. “I know, but I’m feeling lazy because I’ve been up all night.”
I grip my pencil tighter, and the pressure of the lead draws a dark line over the rough sketch. “Why were you up all night?”
“I had an Ancient History assignment I forgot I had at the end of this week,” he says with a roll of his eyes.
“Ah,” I say, half-smiling. “Good luck.”
Andy snorts a laugh.
We work without disturbing one another. But I seem to focus more on Conner than I should from the corner of my eye. His words grate inside my mind, causing a spike of fear to draw across my chest.
For the first time, I eagerly wait to escape art class.