the Best of Us and the Rest of Us

10

x. brush

♙

  "You know, the whole point of this was to get you painting. And all morning, the only thing you've done is draw ..." Noah's voice rung through my thoughts, feeling him approach me from behind, "Eyes."

  I looked down at my sketchbook in front of me, the page littered with different eyes, all looking straight back at me. But it was all I could think of. The tattoo. Landon's last night. Amelia's when I got to my dorm. Izack's in the afternoon. Bryce's on the day he picked me up. My dad's when I had found him. It felt these days as though everyone's eyes were on me. Watching. Waiting to see what I'd do next. Waiting to see me mess something up.

  "Ugh, I don't know what's wrong with me," I shook my head, trying to clear it of any coherent thought, "I was so ready to paint this morning, and now nothing."

  I had taken up Noah on his offer from yesterday to find a studio and just paint, as I had always done, as I had always loved to do. But instead, I sat here drawing eyes that I couldn't get out of my head.

  "Maybe you should just put brush to paper, figure it out as you go." But as much as I appreciated Noah's help, I had never been a just go with it kind of girl. Since I started taking this seriously, all my projects have taken planning. Even when I did something for the fun of it, I needed direction; I needed an image in my mind of exactly what it was going to look like.

  That had been my whole life. It didn't matter how messy it was underneath. I had an image of precisely what I needed to do and how I needed to present myself to get by. But, unfortunately, I guess that had also all gone out the window.

  "It's useless." I rolled my eyes, dropping my forehead to the paper, "Maybe I've lost all my talent. I used up all my artistry, trying to get into art school. So now I am nothing."

  But Noah just laughed, "I am going to get us both coffee, and by the time I get back, I'm either going to need to see paint in on that paper, or I'm going to start asking what's really wrong with you. Got it?"

  "Yes, mom," I mumbled, barely coherently, lifting my head off the book as Noah left the studio. I hopped down off the stool, moving from the desk where I sat. The studios were beautiful. They were on the second story, lecture halls and offices made up most of the first floor, and the darkrooms were situated in the basement. The outside wall was covered in floor-to-ceiling windows, the inside walls were covered with art left behind by past students. It was one of the newer buildings, topped only by the engineering and science blocks on the far side of campus. 

  I walked over to the windows, feeling the warmth of the sunlight baking in. For once, it was actually nice weather. The weather in these parts was a harsh adjustment compared to what I was used to, taking the constant sun for granted, living by the beach back home.

  Not anymore. This is home now.

  The window looked over the park that stretched between the main campus and the dorm blocks. It was busier than I had imagined a Saturday would be; students loitering across the grass area in small clusters. 

  When staring out the window, I caught my own reflection in the glass, the sun hitting at just the right angle that I could see my own features. I wondered if the person I was at the beginning of my senior year saw me now, if she would recognize herself, or if I would just be another face in the crowd. Strange how she thought she knew everything, yet it was little more than a drop in the ocean. And funny to consider my future self would look back at me now, the exact same way.

  I grabbed a heap of acrylic bottles from the shelf before heading back to the table where I had sat earlier. I pulled the brushes from my bag. The university seemed to provide everything except brushes. Our studio tutor had said something about someone needing to know their own tools. In reality, it probably had something to do with no one looking after things unless they owned them. And good quality brushes can be expensive.