Picasso's Promise

Episode 5| Summer in November

a/n: Summer in November by SiR.

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The first week of November marked two significant things. I had managed to go more than a month at Booker High without being in a fight. The other thing was that my father's birthday happened to be this Wednesday, latching a stormy cloud above my head.

The rift that existed between Genesis and I didn't somehow vanish overnight. Her venomous gaze was still felt-like a cold, frigid breeze-swimming past me whenever we were in the same vicinity.

The shadow that seemed to never leave her presence, widely regarded as Yenifer, remaining as her guardian, made it hard for me to complete the task in ramming my knuckles in to her braces. I wasn't all that sure if I had noticed it about her before, but she had white rubber bands in her mouth, too. Unaware of my actions, I swiped the front of my teeth, wondering how much of a nuance they were for her.

I had relatively straight teeth, I guess. I say I guess because my two front teeth poke out a bit. Not enough to call me buck-tooth, but it used to be when I was a kid. I had a gap as well as a child, but I grew out of that when my adult teeth came in. Not too long ago, there was a time I dreaded opening my mouth to smile, partly because my step-mother would always gush how beautiful I was, "despite your mouth" she'd say. For a moment, I thought of Anton's bottom row of teeth.

For his eighteenth birthday this year, he got his father to pay for an extraction of six of his teeth. The minor surgery consisted of removing teeth from his lower canine tooth to the one on the opposite end. In their place, there was a custom-made grills made with silver and gold, encrusted with crystals, and studded in rubies that spelled out his initials. I divulge this to Jeremiah at lunch.

"Waste of wealth," he scoffed. "I hate hearing stories about how rich people are spending their cash. It makes my blood boil to think they could've given that to a good cause instead."

"That's the American Dream, though." I shrugged. "You work hard enough for your money, you should be able to do whatever you want with it."

He huffed. "How much of that money did his father earn on his own merit and how much of it was an inheritance from his family? The majority of wealth in America is held by the few through inherited wealth, not by pure hard work."

"He did come from money," I answered, feeding in to concept he detailed. "But that doesn't mean everyone from my former neighborhood is old money. My dad didn't start off rich."

"There are special cases, of course..." Jeremiah's glasses slid down his long nose, batting his lashes at the space behind me. "Oh, hi, Picasso."

"Hi," a deeper voice rumbled.

I wasn't aware of what Jeremiah meant when he complimented Picasso on what he was wearing, saying he liked 'the new colors.' I spun in my seat, having to back up a little to get a better look at him. Picasso was no longer in the gray sweatpants, white T-Shirt ensemble he was in this morning in homeroom. He was geared up in his mint green Booker High Bears basketball uniform, depicting a cartoon Grizzly above his number fifteen.

The block party Martin mentioned came and went, happening without me ever being invited. It wasn't until after the weekend, in to that following week, that Picasso and I spoke again. I was the one who came to him, and before I knew it, things were back to normal. Or as normal as two people can be who constantly has a jealous ex watching. Genesis eyed us in Home Eco but never bothered me outside of class, making me think Picasso had something to do to with that.

"'Sup Sydney." Picasso pointed to the left. "Is it cool if I talk to you for a bit?"

I nodded, picking up my tray and my backpack. I had eaten most of what I wanted, toying with the rubbery cheeseburger that I didn't desire, so I dumped it in to the trash can. After putting away my orange lunch tray, I walked with Picasso to the hallway attached to the cafeteria, roaming further down till the buzzing noise of the students weren't so prominent.