Art Deco ▷ Ned Leeds | ✓

2 - LAST FIRST DAY

Their father was ecstatic when he heard it over the phone, then again when he returned home a few days later to hear the whole story. He wasn't home often and missed a lot of the things that happened, for both Liz and Brooke. Their mother missed most things that happened to Brooke, but that a different matter entirely.

When they finally reached the school, Flash had first choice at a parking spot and took the best one, whooping as he jumped out.

Brooke and Liz followed closely behind, Brooke hanging back, letting the two walk ahead of her. Neither turned back to make sure she was still there, both engrossed in their conversation.

She sighed as she followed them to the gym, looking at the pictures on the halls, all of science fairs or students winning awards or famous scientists and scholars. She didn't belong here. She didn't belong at a place tailor made for the great minds and the scientifically gifted; she wasn't Liz.

She hung back as the other members of Student Council greeted her sister, hugging and shouting, asking about summer and how she felt to be back. Brooke wondered if they had all coordinated their outfits beforehand as they were all matching without being too flashy. She wished she had someone she could do that with.

"Brooke, come here," Liz called, waving for her sister to approach the large white tables, searching in the sophomore section for her name. She plucked the planner from the pile and handed it to her.

"Thanks," she said softly, taking the planner from her sister and making her way back out, stopping just before she climbed the stairs to the sophomore hallway.

To her right were the stairs to the sophomore hallway which would soon be crowded with people all rushing to get situated before the first day truly began. On her left were the stairs leading down to the art room, a large spacious room connected to the locker rooms. Arts weren't well funded in any school and this school was no different, but it was funded and Brooke would take all she could get.

She wasn't too fond of the teacher, though, the man being very strict for someone who was supposed to be supporting creativity, so she decided not to see him too early in the morning and climbed the stairs to the sophomore hallway, glad to know she would have a good chunk of time to herself.

It wasn't that she didn't want to spend time with anyone, but rather that no one wanted to spend time with her. She would rather spend time with someone who genuinely cared than someone who just wanted to leave. She couldn't handle that.

She sat down crossed legged and pulled out her sketchbook. It had a nice, plain brown cover that reminded her of a paper bag and she took a moment to run her hand over it a few times. When she finished, she opened it to where she had previously been working and pulled out her second pencil case.

She usually didn't sketch in certain sketchbooks, preferring to go with the flow, finishing whatever she started. She didn't do anything the art teacher suggested, which angered the man to no end at her lack of imitative to formally learn.

She didn't make art to make it. She didn't try to make it pleasing or placing certain colors and shapes one way, using the canvas like a snapshot photograph, that wasn't why she made art.

She made it because it was all she had. It was one thing she was good at, but it wasn't a talent she showcased, not in the way a person expects to. She made art for show, of course, but it was different than the art she made for herself.