nights; h.s.

2

two

The day went on as usual and before I knew it was lunch time, and there was no empty tables in the lunchroom so I found myself just meandering around in the halls, until the period ended. It was quite sad, but what could you do.

But, all of a sudden I heard someone calling my name. I looked over to see Mrs. Michaels. Probably my favourite teacher out of the entire school, not to mention, she was black. Well like 1/4 black- but that's still black!

She gestured me into the art room with a big smile, and I gladly entered. "Shouldn't you be eating, my dear?" she asked, kindly placing a hand on my shoulder. "I don't have anyplace to sit." I shrugged to her and she pouted. "Baby, my class is always open. Come in any time, paint a picture. Anything for a sista" she chuckled and pinched my cheeks. I just smiled.

"Oh, this is Harry. He's an artist too, you got someone coming for your status" she joked nudging my arm.

"Let me go check on my food, y'all talk." She said, wiggling the tip of her pen at us before she exited the room and closed the door. I sighed, taking off my back pack and placing it on a random stool. I sat down next to Harry, and took out my sketchbook.

"So.." he started. It was only then I realized he didn't have an accent. "You're an artist?" He asked and i just nodded, searching my mind for something to say.

"Yeah. Are you?" I asked and he nodded. "Yeah. I've been painting for a couple years now" he said, his low voice cracking at times. Was he nervous?

The room went silent for a little until I spoke up again. "I-It's Harry.. right?"

"What's hairy?"

"No, your name. It's-"

"Oh yeah," he chuckled, running a hand through his brown locks clutching them tight in his palms. "I'm Harry. And you are.."

"Brooklyn." I answered, he smiled. "I like your hair" he pointed to my box braids. I smiled, flipping them over my shoulder. "Thank you."

"Do you get made fun of? For being.. black?" He asked, my breath hitched a little mostly because, who the fuck asks that? Well, I mean it's a normal question but like. "Oh, sorry." He placed a hand on my knee quickly, as if he had burnt me, "Was that too much- I didn't mean to make you.. uncomfortable- sorry.."

I giggled a little, and he looked up at me confused. "It's okay, and, yeah, I do. It's not easy."

"Where are you from again?" He asked, the pad of his thumb rubbing my knee. He was sitting on his stool with his legs spread, and mine were tightly closed. "Detroit." I mumbled under my breath, and he just nodded.

"Detroit's my favourite state. The art is insane." He said and I just nodded, deciding to ignore his mild geographical error in exchange for a small smile. He removed his hand quick. As if he forgot it was there.

"Can.. I, um..we should..." he struggled. "Can I get your number?"