11. Dead Tree
DEAD TREE
Ready to Fight [Roby Fayer and Tom Gefen]
&
You’re Somebody Else [Flora Cash]
After the bell rings, Andy and I make our way to Creative Arts. On Fridays, Creative Arts goes for an hour and a half. It’s our longest session, usually involving an art project.
We don’t talk on the way to class. I notice his awkward form, and I’m not really in the mood to talk to him.
When we enter, Mr Rogers has nothing on the table, nor is there anything out for us to work with. And once we are all inside, I track Conner’s movements until he sits at the back.
Mr Rogest tells us we will work outside, saying, “I want you all to explore the school and find anything that piques your interest. When you do, you’re to draw it.”
With those parting words, he ushers us out of the room.
Andy asks, “Where will you go?”
“I’m not sure. You?”
“I’m going to go where we hang and draw the houses outside of our school while I smoke. If you can’t find anything to draw, come chill with me, okay?”
“Sure…”
I wave until Andy is no longer in view. Then, I scan my surroundings in wonder at what I’m going to draw. Most of the junior students chill at the silver benches near the cafeteria, but as I look around, nothing is interesting for me to draw.
So, I head towards the school entrance in need of finding anything interesting when I notice the oak tree at the far back of the oval.
When I was in Year Seven, Andy and some of his friends claimed that lightning struck the old oak tree, leaving a black streak resembling a lightning bolt down the side.
It’s likely a lie, but I imagine that story and envision it. On a stormy night, the power lines above the tree became static, attracting the lightning surge. When it struck, the lightning hit the tree blindly and burned half of the tree.
I place my bag on the ground and sit on it so ants won’t crawl across my skin. As I flip through my art book, I turn to an empty page, grab my HP pencil, and do a light sketch outlining the tree. Nothing too fancy yet, as I outline the skeletal structure before I move on to the branches and leaves.
My mind wanders, and I imagine a tree flourishing. Flowers bloom bright pink, blue, and yellow, blossoming in summer and bringing life to a dead tree. My imagination runs wild, as half the tree is in its proper form. Twig branches, dead leaves, and a burnt streak where lightning struck.
Then, on the other side, I revitalise the tree. After years of death, life blooms. The branches reach further out, and the flowers spring to life, aching for the taste of summer warmth. Bees taste the pollen straight out of their sacs.
What would Mr Rogers think? He instructed us to draw something around school, and I did…to an extent. But if I hide the other part of the tree, I definitely hit the mark that Mr Rogers wants us to achieve.
“Hey.” My body jerks at the voice closer behind me. Conner leans forward and looks over my shoulder. “Beautiful.”
“You don’t think Mr Rogers will mark me down?”
“He knows you’re a fantasy artist,” Conner replies as he sits beside me and places his art book on his lap.
“What did you draw?” I ask.
“It’s not finished. I’ll do the rest tonight.” He leans toward me with a smirk. “I’ll send a pic. Promise.”
I smile as I look at my drawing. Touching the lifeless branches, my smile falters. “You told me you liked me last night.”
“Yeah…”
“Was it true?”
“Yeah,” he answers, his voice softer.
“But we’ve only spoken for a day.”
“Who says I need to know you longer than a day to like you?”
“It’s a little creepy,” I admit, laughing a hint at revealing something like that.
“To some, but I don’t think there’s anything wrong with it. Some people fall quicker than others, and that’s okay. Unless you find it to be a red flag,” he says, his hands pressing deeper into the grass.
“No,” I admit lamely. My focus then drifts to the earphones around his neck, the subtle sound of music playing. “What are you listening to?”
“Here.” He holds up one earpiece and shuffles closer to me as I lean into him. Our heads press together, and I place the earpiece in my drum. “Ready to Fight” by Roby Fayer and Tom Gefen plays.
“It’s slower than the other songs on your playlist.”
“I haven’t stopped listening to it since we got out of the car.”
“Why?”
“I love music. It’s my life, and sometimes I interject myself into the music I listen to. This time, I thought of you while having it on repeat.”
“I don’t like violence.”
“I remember,” he says, smiling the faintest. “But you never told me the reason.”
“Do I need one?”
Conner breathes a laugh. Those hazel eyes crinkle as he smiles, and those pearly white teeth dazzle in the sunlight. He leans away, his smile faltering and his brows pinching together. “Are you wearing makeup?”
“Yeah, why?” I touch my face. “Did I not smooth it down properly?”
“No, it looks perfect. Your complexion is so smooth that I can’t see your freckle above your right eye.”
“Oh…”
Conner goes on his phone and scrolls through his playlist. I point to the song I recognise, and he doesn’t hesitate to press play.
We lay there with our heads on our backpacks, baking in the sun. It’s uncomfortable, with the heat burrowing into the layers I wear, but I don’t want to leave. The music is perfect, and the silence away from everyone else draws me into another world.
A better world.
Another song comes on. “You’re Somebody Else” by Flora Cash. My heart stings, and I imagine myself inside the music.
As I stand there, looking in the mirror, I can’t see who I am, only what has happened to me.
Broken. Beaten. I’m withdrawn and torn.
The me I want to be is not the one I reveal to others. The dreams I hold, the burning memories, and the painful emotions buried deep inside leave me as nothing but a shell.
Internal and physical markings spread across my body from all the years, showing me how damaged I am.
I reach out to the mirror. Reaching for the girl without a bruise. Desperate to be the girl I’ve always wanted to be.
Conner sings, tearing me away from my maladaptive daydream. I open my eyes and face him. His eyes are closed, and his hands grip the phone as the chorus plays on his lips.
Soft—alluring. A part of me thinks he’s singing to me, like he can see that I’m not who I want to be.
The way I act and how reserved I am.
His eyes open, and the hazel glistens in the sunlight. Looking at me, he smiles while the song fades out of existence.
We sit up, and I hand him the cord. He spins them around before pocketing his phone. Afterwards, he leans on his elbows and looks at the dead tree. “Something happened to you, didn’t it?”
“What?” I say as if I didn’t hear what he said.
“Someone hurt you. That’s why you don’t like violence. Was it an ex-boyfriend?”
“I…” The words won’t leave my mouth. It’s as if all the powers within me are trying to force the words back in and keep the secret hidden so Conner won’t get involved.
“You don’t have to tell me the details, but can you answer yes or no?
” Conner reaches for me before his hands lower to the grass near my clenched hands.
“Did someone hurt you? Is that why you’re so withdrawn, flinching, and you don’t like violence?
Because you’ve seen it and…” Conner swallows before he can manage saying, “Felt it.”
I pluck the grass away from the dirt. My teeth clench, and my throat stings. There’s also a burning behind my eyes, but I don’t want to think too much about it.
Why? Why does he have to get involved? And I can’t lie. He already knows the answer and is just waiting for me to confirm it.
A shaky, trembling breath comes out with my answer. “Yes.”
Conner goes rigid before his shoulders slump. The hands near me move back to his side when all I want is for them to come closer.
I blink, forcefully pushing the tears back in because all I need is sympathy when I don’t want it.
Andy does it all the time, and it’s one of the many reasons it’s hard to share my thoughts with him. He sees me as a broken toy, and now Conner is pulling away, likely doing the same.
“The bell will ring soon. We should head to the room my friends are in.” My eyes widen, and I look at Conner through my glassy, blurry vision. He lowers his hand to me, offering me help to stand. A beaming grin reaches his face as he says, “Come on. You’ll love it.”
He didn’t change. That smile is still there, and he isn’t babying me like Andy. There’s no sympathy, nor does it look like he sees me as a broken toy.
I hold his hand, and he helps pull me to my feet. I then grab my bag, slinging it over my shoulder, and we walk towards the school.
As the bell rings, all the worry about how Conner sees me washes away with every ring.