Sour Sweet Love

Chapter Three

            BEFORE he left us, my father would say that art feeds the senses of the soul. He was an artist not only in his profession, but in heart; he was a visionary. He enjoyed telling me that I had the potential to create magic with a simple brushstroke. To his satisfaction, I enjoyed painting; I enjoyed it so much that I spent hours building the perfect shade, and even longer creating concise portraits. His constant reminders that creation would expose me to a beauty beyond human capability did wonders to my artistic capability.

Needless to say, I was a little too ecstatic to be in art class that morning.  

"Partnerships," Mr. Camia, our art teacher, began. "Everyone will be working with a partner for this one month project."

The boredom that had been pervading the air of that messy classroom dissipated into excitement. It was a mutual understanding between students and teachers that a partners-project was a ticket to wasting away the entire unit. I, however, was ready to create.

"But," Mr. Camia continued, garnering the attention of every student in the classroom. "I'll be the one doing the assigning." The entire class groaned in unison. "Think of it as an opportunity to get to know a person you normally wouldn't." Then ignoring our silent pleas, he began reciting partnerships. I contemplated asking him if I could work alone. I was never much of an extrovert, especially when it came to a subject as vulnerable as this one.

I exposed myself through my pieces, and I was not ready to be intimate with another.

"Alex Martinez and Andrea Lopez," he started.

I crossed my fingers, hoping that I would at the very least be partnered with someone I got along with. There weren't a lot of people—with the exception of perhaps Joey and a one-time acquaintance, Allie—that I knew here. Given that I had the social enthusiasm of a hermit, to say that I was no longer looking forward to being here would be an understatement.

"Joey Taylor and Carson Dawson, you two will be partners. Lee Anderson and Andrew Kim, you two should come and see me tomorrow in tutoring. Alison Bradley and Finn Cooper."

When the seconds turned into minutes and Mr. Camia had at last finished assigning our partners, I wearily stared at him, wondering why he had not called my name. With a disappointed resolve, I walked to his desk. "Mr. Camia," I said sheepishly, fixating my gaze on his. "You didn't call my name."

He looked up from the stacks of heavy of papers lined on his desk, his gaze deflecting from my cowering figure to the hustling classroom. "Was anyone else not called?" he called out, staring at the class expectantly.

A familiar voice rose from the back of the room. As my eyes wandered to the origin of the sound, my jaw dropped. My suspicions had been proven correct. Of course it was him: the infamous Declan Andrews in all of his glory. Was this fate? If it was, why did it feel so terse? More importantly, how the hell did I still remember his first and last name? Was that fate?

"Mr. Camia," Declan said, a small smirk etched onto his face. "I don't have a partner."

My face fell.

It was hard to tell why I was adamant on spending as little time with Declan as possible. Whether I admitted it or not, the idea of his presence put me on edge. I could not endure it for a minute, let alone an entire month. I had absolutely no reason to despise him in the way that I did, no reason to be so irked by his every action, but I did. I couldn't bring myself to trust him.

The more I rummaged my mind for an explanation as to why this was, the more clear it became that he was a triggering symbol for a person in my life I had long wanted to forget. Liam, I concluded; thoughts of my relationship with Liam, my first love, clouded my mind. Every time I stared at Declan, I saw the familiarity in their eyes, their lips, and hell—they even shared a similar jaw. Their resemblance was starkly uncanny.

"Alright," Mr. Camia said, scribbling something onto one of the papers in his pile. He looked up at the two of us—at me, who stood in front of him, and at Declan, who was feverishly sauntering toward me—and smiled. "Declan and Avery, you two are set for the next few weeks. And since Declan is new, Avery, why don't you give him a tour around the school after class?"

"Mr. Camia, I'm sure that won't be necessary," I blurted out.

"I'm sure that's not true," Mr. Camia replied obliviously. "What do you think, Declan?"

My gaze traveled to Declan, who still had a provocative smirk plastered on his face. "I'd love for her to give me a tour," he said calmly, allowing his smirk to morph into a smile. It would be the first time I saw him smile; I saw Liam's smile from years ago.

"It's settled then!" Mr. Camia finalized, shooing us away. "Good luck, you two."

 "I can't wait," Declan added, only for me to hear.

Groaning inwardly, I ambled towards one of the empty tables in the studio room, marking it as my territory before anyone else had the opportunity to do so. Declan caught up with me not much later, occupying the empty space beside me before I had the chance to object.  

Not much after we got seated, he began digging his backpack for supplies. I sat on my desk, examining him out of curiosity. A conspicuous scar stood beside his left eye. Despite my unfair and inexpiable resentment for this boy, I had to resist my urge to lean across the table and run my fingers across it. I would if it was Liam.

I looked away.

When I heard shuffling, the signal that he had begun working, I sighed. "Hey, Declan, what do you want me to do?" I asked politely. His concentration was unyielding. He ignored me, and I pressed: "Declan?"

He leaned back against his chair. "Oh, so you're talking to me now?"

I looked at him, taken aback. "What are you going on about?"

"Ever since I got here, you've been nothing but cold. Avery Wilson, is it?"

I looked away from him, my heart sinking. "Of course. Listen, about that, I'm sorry."

"Whatever," he answered flippantly.

Just like that, I was back to despising Declan all over again. This time, it had very little to do with Liam and entirely to do with the fact that perhaps this boy was not all others pegged him to be.

In frustration, I placed my hands on the table. My clumsy movement led to my accidentally bumping onto the cold water glass placed next to Declan's canvas. Before I could atone it, it dawned on me that I had dropped below freezing water all over Declan and his art piece, causing not only his pants, but also his painting to change color in dampness.

The dropping of the glass on wooden tiles caught Mr. Camia's attention. He stared at us with arched eyebrows. "Is everything okay?" he questioned insipidly, staring at us with a gaze void of enthusiasm. He was a dull man who did not want to address us if he did not have to.

"Everything's fine!" I assured, furiously nodding my head.

Though unconvinced, he tore his gaze away from the two of us. As he resumed working on his desk, I haphazardly sauntered towards the napkin cabinet in order to grab a few for the wet floor and Declan. When I returned, I saw that his cheeks were tinted with a natural scarlet.

I stifled my laughter as I leaned toward the floor to clean the mess.

Declan Andrews took my bending down as an opportunity to grab my waist.

"You're such an annoying little piece of shit," I blurted out, slapping his hand away. I threw the wet napkin, knowing that they had been infected with the germs on the floor, at Declan. His reflexes patted it away effortlessly. "Leave me alone, Declan," I demanded, pouting my lips.

"Come on, Avery Wilson," he began with a low chuckle. "I hope you know by now that love and war both begin with a simple word."

I furrowed my eyebrows in confusion. "What the hell does that have to do with anything?"

My uncertainty seemed to amuse him.

"You know what," I continued. "I'm just going to ignore you. Bah. Pretend you don't exist." And that was precisely what I did: I worked on our assignment from afar, brainstorming possible topics, and eventually drove myself to ignorance of the knowledge of Declan's existence. When the bell rang at last, it was he who approached me with no signs of caution.

"The tour," he began. "Remember?"

I bit my lip harshly in dismay.