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I squat down and manage to sit cross-legged without dropping anything from my tray. Thanks to whoever is looking out for me so I don’t embarrass myself in front of this girl.
We sit in companionable silence—me munching on the cafeteria’s mystery casserole and her eating a banana while reading Wuthering Heights. The book tattered and well-loved—cover curling and faded, multiple pages dog-eared.
Part of me wonders if she is reading the book for school or pleasure. My bet is on the latter considering the appearance of the novel. Can’t say I have ever read the book. I’m sure it is good, but reading isn’t much of a priority for me. Haven’t heard of anything noteworthy.
After finishing the semi-decent casserole, I finish off my bottled water. Although our silence under the tree has been enjoyable, I itch to talk with this girl. Spark some form of conversation. Get to know the girl with the bright red lips. But she doesn’t seem like the type of person who fills space with meaningless conversation. Part of me is intimidated by this. Another part of me enchanted. What do I say to someone like her?
So, I aim for obvious.
“Good book?” I ask, smacking myself upside the head internally.
Of course it is a good book, dumbass! Otherwise, it wouldn’t look like she has read it a hundred times. Idiot.
She finishes the sentence or paragraph she is reading and faces me, a slight hint of annoyance on her face. It both frightens and intrigues me. “Yes.” It is all she says before turning back to the book and ignoring me again.
Okay…
I stay under the tree with her for a few more minutes before rising to take my tray back to the cafeteria. After I dump the trash and deposit the tray in the bin, I turn to catch one more glimpse of her before heading to my next class. But the moment I look, she is no longer there. A strange sadness takes hold, but I brush it off.
“I’ll try again tomorrow,” I mumble to myself.
The art quad is located at the back of campus, on the farthest outskirts. As if sketching and paints and clays need their own world away from the books and projectors and regimented studies. As odd as it is to be isolated at the back of the school, I enjoy the fact I won’t hear anything else on campus while in this class.
Walking into the large and open classroom, I scan all the various projects the teacher has kept throughout the years. Oils and watercolors, charcoals and pencil. Each unique on their own. The air rich with canvas and pencil shavings and earth. As my eyes follow around the room, they stop when they spot a head of black-as-night hair.
Cora sits at one of a dozen long, rectangular tables. Her head down as her fingers draw vigorously on a sketch pad. Almost like the artist version of a mad scientist. No one sits beside her, so I gather myself and head for the table. Of all the classes I could share with her, art feels beyond perfect. A way to express yourself without speaking.
When I sit down beside her, my wooden stool squeaking against the linoleum floor, she doesn’t move. Doesn’t lift her head or greet me. She is so focused on what is in front of her, it’s as if the rest of the world isn’t really here. And a part of me kind of digs her level of concentration.
Seconds pass and her head remains down, hovering six inches above the table. I peer around her hunched body and sneak a peek at what she sketches, my eyes widening and breath falling short as I see it come to life.
The trunk of a tree. Shade and foliage hovering above. A raven-haired girl, her face hidden by an open book. And a boy. Taller than her, lean in stature. He watches her from the corner of his eye, a timid smile on his face.
It’s her. And me.
A strange contentment washes over me. Although the image is nowhere near done—no shading or fine lines and details—the outlines are all in black and white. She abandoned the tree early to come draw the two of us beneath it. My stomach is sort of queasy, and I don’t think it is from the mystery casserole.
How has she put this on paper so quickly?
And it occurs to me. Maybe she had previously drawn herself alone under a tree. She did say she was a loner. Five minutes was definitely not enough time to have this much detail on paper. Not even by the best.
The bell rings and I inspect another twenty bodies in the room, all seated at the other tables. Footsteps tick on the tile and the teacher walks to the front of the room. But I don’t look at the five foot, four inch red-haired woman at the head of the room introducing herself as the art teacher.
Because just as the teacher begins speaking, Cora lifts her head and realizes I’m sitting beside her. And that I have seen her drawing. Her face is stoic and as unreadable as a professional poker player.
A smile breaches my lips and I face the teacher at the head of the room. Beside me, I hear the sketchbook close and a soft sigh. A sigh I will remember for the rest of my days.
Chapter Sixteen
Gavin
Present
The sun wakes me up just before seven, although sections of the house remain somewhat dark. Cora still sl
eeps and the house is quiet. Too quiet. As if no noise exists here. Seems odd to have no noise. No cars driving by. No people talking outside. Not even the chirp of birds in the early morning light.
I should leave. The last thing I need is for Cora to wake up, find me in her house and not remember why I am here in the first place. All it would do is freak her out and set us back. When it comes to Cora, I need all the forward momentum possible.
