Books & Novels

Chapter Ten - Black Oil Paint and a Ladies' Man

Jamie really, really wished he hadn't worn his cleanest white t-shirt.

It was pristine.

It was spotless.

It was a snowy perfect white.

It was a simple, white t-shirt. In other words. It had no yellow sweat marks underneath the pits, no red little splotches from last week's chili supper. It was cleaner than most of Autumn's clothes. In fact, it sorta smelled like Tide detergent.

But it just so happened that Eileen Terminite - (Ellie Termite, most people called her, because she was short and had brown hair and was very skinny and fast and usually ate a lot because she was athletic...Jamie had heard her crying in grade nine in the halls about it one) had worn a loose shirt that the end of had caught on the edge of counter top with the sink, and Mrs. Elderlenn had painted over it with black oil paint.

And guess, just GUESS who leaned against the counter to wash his hands in the sink.

Jamie's shirt now had a strip of black, right across the front. The worse thing was he didn't notice until Andrea started giggling her head off.

"What is it?"

"Paint...on your.." She erupted into peels of laughter.

Jamie was about to point out the smear of violet paint on her nose when he looked down. Oh crap.

Autumn started laughing, too. Mrs. Elderlenn was hiding a smile. "I'm sorry, Jamie. That was oil paint. Irremovable- but I'm sure there are methods online that could help it fade..."

"I look like a wuss." Jamie said when Mrs. E left.

"No, no. It looks all...avant garde." Andrea swallowed.

"You look like a cat that belongs in a cat asylum." Jamie huffed back. She did, well, resemble a cat with a purple nose. Maybe a Lady Gaga Feline?

Painting the forest scene just wasn't fun knowing that a huge stripe of black paint was on you.

He'd messed up at least five strokes of cedar-green looking at his shirt. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. He looked like some jerk with a black hole for a brain.  Who couldn't even mind to keep his shirt clean! He hadn't been patient to eat his chili slowly, he hadn't been careful to make sure he had antipresperent on, just to be thwarted by a

huge

glop

of

black

oil

paint.

Hateful thoughts swam around his head, whirling around and around in a endless whirlpool. His thoughts immediatly ceased at the lunch bell.

Jamie propelled out the door, books in hand.

"Jamie!" Oh, great. Probably another jerk to come and make fun of him.

"JAMIE DENESIER. STOP WALKING." The male voice cried, before two hands slapped down on Jamie's shoulders.

A boy, around Jamie's age, with ear-length dreadlocks and a look of African- no, Kenyan, Jamie reminded himself, was smiling at him.

The feautures were still there. But that face had been pushed down at least a year ago. Out of rage, out of loss. "Logan?"

"Don't pull that  "Logan? Izzat you?" thing on me. Despite what you think, I am no cheesey character in a corny Disney film."

Yep, definitely Logan.

Logan Neel had moved all the way to San Fransisco in grade eight. He was Jamie's only friend. Jamie had practically forgotten about Logan.