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All through English, with Mouse now sitting across the room from me, I thought of ways to see Noa again. It took weeks for me to first bump into her. She made it sound as though she didn’t really run in the usual social circles. She was her own circle.
But when I said goodbye to her last night, I couldn’t help feeling like I hadn’t learned enough about her.
So, I sent her a text.
Me:Where’s your next class?
It was to the point. I made sure my phone was silent and waited for her response.
The teacher droned on about some book I’d barely skimmed through, just to keep up. When I looked down at my phone, I noticed a message from her.
Noa:It’s too soon to claim infatuation, Dexter. I’ll be in the art room next. 242
I had study hall next period. It looked like I’d be learning about art.
Me:See you there.
After I sent it, the bell eventually rang and I grabbed my books. I walked slowly, reading the room numbers before stopping at the appropriate one. No one was inside. I pulled out my phone to make sure I’d read it correctly.
“You’re at the right place.”
I turned and watched her as she walked up. She didn’t stop, just kept walking right into the classroom, leaving me standing there alone, grinning.
“No teacher?” I asked as I stepped inside, admiring the art that sat on each easel, the pottery on the windowsills, and the frames that hung on the walls, full of color. I sat at one of the tables, looking around.
There were paint marks all over each surface, and it wasn’t set up like a traditional classroom. Everything had a place but it was colorful and creative, as opposed to the rooms I spent my school hours sitting in.
“She comes in and out. I was given study hall, too, but I worked something out with her.” Noa was setting up an easel and gathering paints and brushes, moving with ease.
Like a chef in a kitchen, Noa was home.
“So, this is what you love,” I said, nodding in understanding.
She looked over at me with a smile. “So much that I feel sick without it. Do you feel that way about programming?” She’d placed a blank canvas on the easel and was eyeing it, preparing to create.
“Not really. I feel like it’s a comfort. A direction. But if I didn’t do it, I’d probably lose my mind in a different way. I crave direction. I can’t function without it,” I said.
“Amnesia must have been hard for you at first, then,” she said as she slipped into her own world.
I ran my hand across the back of my neck.
Amnesia.
I wanted to tell her what my affliction really was, but I knew I couldn’t. Not yet, if ever.
She didn’t say anything else, and I was content with the silence. She pulled her phone out of her pocket and played soothing music, low enough for only us to hear. I didn’t know what to expect. But as Noa brought brush to canvas over and over—sometimes different colors, sometimes the same—I was in awe of her.
She stepped back a few times, as though she were changing her focus from the one spot she’d just worked on to the entire image. I didn’t think she remembered I was still there.
She leaned more toward cool colors. When she brought a splash of brightness to the painting, I was more than surprised. In my mind, and despite the shade of her hair, I thought darker colors represented Noa. And that small splash of brightness, it was hopeful. It gave me hope that she knew light when she saw it. And that she’d follow it through the darkness to me.
“I kind of like that you’re here. It’s strange, but it gives me a charge,” she said, interrupting the silence as she set her brush down. She started cleaning up, picking up the brushes she’d used and putting the paint away. She turned to look at me, and I noticed she’d gotten paint on her face, above her eyebrow.
I slipped away from the table and walked up to her, wiping the paint off with my thumb. I brought my other hand up to rest my thumb on her cheek, my fingers curling under her chin.
There’s always that moment when you realize just how close you’re standing to someone, when you realize you’ve crossed the line into what could be impropriety. This was my moment. I was breathing her air.
I leaned in closer to her, feeling like I was being pulled toward her.
