Counting Stars

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Counting Stars

                I locked my bike up and gave it a last tug before I walked away, like always. It didn’t matter if I knew it was locked up, it was just habit I guess. I tucked my key ring back in my pocket, one for the store that I lock up with, one for my locker, one for my bike, and one for the dark green footlocker I have shoved under my bed, hidden from prying eyes.

                I opened the door and held it open for some random girl before I walked in, I was nothing if not a perfect gentlewoman. I walked down the hall and came to a ramp leading down to the arts area. Pottery, Drawing and Painting, and, for some reason, German could be found down that ramp. I walked into my Drawing and Painting class, which was strange I guess. Usually it was just freshman and seniors, sort of a bullshit class, one of those Fine Arts classes that people take because they need one to graduate. I guess it was weird that a Junior was in it, but I actually wanted the class, not the credit, so maybe that was what was weird about it. I don’t know why I put off taking the class for so long, I just did. I didn’t want to take a class for something I loved, like it would diminish the importance.

                I walked in to see my least favorite teacher, Mrs. Damian, pacing around and being horribly noisy and touching everyone’s drawings because she knows exactly what they want to do with their art and she has to prove how much better she is. It’s not enough that she tells you exactly what and how to draw, taking out all free-will in an art class, which is what art should be about, but now she has to touch everything. I hate that she touches my art. She’ll walk over and erase things or add things. Makes me want to punch people.

                I sat down in my usual seat at the back of class, alone at the table that could hold five or six. I don’t mind being alone, means I don’t have to deal with many people. I pulled out my sketchpad and my nice set of pencils and looked up at the board. I had finished our last project, and people were going to be finishing it up for the next half our, which gave me a half hour to my own thoughts. On the board was the name of our next project, Eyes.

                I swallowed the lump in my throat. I knew how to draw eyes, I didn’t think they were easy, but they weren’t hard. They just were. That’s how drawing was for me. So I didn’t have a problem with the project, but I couldn’t think of any eyes I could draw except for those eyes.

                Would you draw a dream?

                Isn’t that what drawing is?

                You’ll make this harder on yourself.

                No. I’m just drawing.

                Then draw blue eyes, or brown eyes, or different green eyes. Draw men’s eyes.

                I like these eyes.

                Don’t do this to yourself.

                Do what?

                Hurt yourself even more.

                I’m not hurting now.

                Yes you are. I can feel it. You didn’t see her. She’s a dream. Don’t torture yourself.

                It’s just eyes.

                Fine.

                I didn’t waste any time getting started. I just started. I sketched out the shape, the eyelids, those gorgeous eyelashes, everything I could remember from the dreams. And then Mrs. Damian walks up, pencil in hand, itching to prove herself. She leans over my shoulder and says something about something and reaches over, getting ready to add or change something.

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