BROOKE HADN'T MEANT TO READ THE DIARY, SHE REALLY HADN'T.
She had been hanging around the veranda by the art room, just minding her own business, when she caught sight of the notebook. Her first thought was to just let it sit, as she was never one to poke her nose in business that wasn't hers, but then she remembered how terrified she had been when she had misplaced one of her sketchbooks, relieved to find it turned into the office, but wishing it had just been given to her directly as some people had looked through it.
So she just wanted to check for a name, nothing more, but when she reached over to open to find the name, she found that, instead of opening to the front part, it opened to one of the pages, her eyes catching onto the last sentence on the page.
I DIDN'T MEAN TO CHEAT ON HIM
Slamming the notebook shut, she adjusted her jacket and looked around, hoping no one had seen her. After being sure that no one did, she grabbed her backpack and raced up the stairs, heart pounding and mind racing.
She wished she had seen who had written that.
º º º
She couldn't stop thinking about what she had read.
She had found it before school began, meaning she had to spend eight hours thinking about it. And when Brooke thought about something, it consumed nearly all of her life, and, as an extension, all of her sketchbook.
Now, she was never one to just throw paint on a canvas and call it art, though she had nothing against those who did—some people put paint on a canvas in a certain way, following the natural flow of her hands, the way they needed to in order to feel comfortable, and after being explained that over the summer when she was listening in on a seminar at the local college, she didn't have any qualms with what people wanted to do with their lives—but she didn't want to draw a person cheating on her boyfriend, that didn't sit right with her.
But she needed to make something.
So she drew a background.
She drew a bedroom. She used up all of her purples and reds and the entirety of one of her inking pens throughout the day as she made an elaborate backdrop of a mattress sitting pressed up slightly against the wall, by a window, clothes strewn about haphazardly, a shelf towards the background, cut off by the edge of the paper, part of a desk showing in the lower right, as if the camera were on the edge of it or right above it. There were magazines and books and trophies and feminine and masculine clothes. It looked like a regular scene until one looked towards the window and saw that the light peering through landed on only a necklace that was perched onto a button-up shirt.
It didn't make sense until someone were to hear the context.
Cutting out a slip of paper, she wrote the sentence in the neatest writing she could, placing it right on top of her picture before closing her sketchbook and raising her head to find her last period teacher leaning over her table, raising an eyebrow at her work, her seat partner having lost interest long ago.
"Brooke, while you are very talented, please do the class work," she said, though she seemed to be distracted, and Brooke hoped that she didn't think that what she wrote were her own words.
"Sorry," she mumbled, not realizing just how invested in her work she had gotten; in just a short amount of time, she had completed an elaborate background, which she had never done well before. The perspective might not have been perfect, but for no reference, it was impressive.
She let out a breath as she mused over her work, realizing just how much she had internalized the statement. It wasn't her own, but she could still feel the pain and the guilt ringing in her ears and her chest and her hands, the feeling not leaving until she finished the piece entirely. Once she finished, the ringing was gone and she was almost more at peace than she was before she found the journal.
By the end of class, she had an idea.
The minute the bell rang, she was out the door, very uncharacteristic of her, calling Liz and pushing her way through the crowd, trying to avoid River and make it down to the art room.
"Hi!" Liz chirped into the phone, "Are you okay, you never call."
"Liz, hi, are you staying after school to work on leadership stuff?" she asked breathlessly, pushing into the art room, sighing when she caught sight of a few people already talking to Mr. Wayland.
"I am, actually, why, do you need a ride home, I can ask Flash—"
"No, I'm good," she said quickly, moving to stand in line, "I actually have an idea for the school, can you tell me if it's allowed?"
"Sure, I'm actually with Principal Morita right now, here I'll put you on speaker," she said, and Brooke immediately rushed back outside onto the veranda, surprised when she saw that the diary was still there, but forcing herself not to look at it, "What's your idea?"
"If I put out a box for confessions—not in a religious sense, but that people just put their feelings or regrets or thoughts into, and I can turn them into art pieces. They're not explicit and they would be anonymous and I think it's just going to be very cathartic and it could make people feel much more safe with the idea of being more open emotionally, what do you think?"
There was a pause. Then Liz said, "That is such a good idea and you posed it so well, I'm so proud of you, have you already done something?"
Brooke took a deep breath, her heart racing from her spontaneous sales pitch. "Yeah, I did, and I don't know who had written the initial confession, but it was just so...cathartic for me."
"Is that your word of the day?" Liz teased, and Brooke was instantly transported back to a time when she and her sister used to goof around and be the best of friends; a long time ago now.
"I like the idea, but are you going to be displaying the pieces around the school, because I'm going to have to veto certain aspects, but I'm sure there would be no problem in putting up a board in the hallways for them, we tend to do that for service projects that students create, as you've probably seen," Principal Morita said, interrupting the girls' idle chit chat, "Also, talk to Mr. Wayland, you're going to need a teacher to be your sponsor of sorts, though he doesn't actually have to be affiliated with it, he knows this already. After you get his approval, come up to my office, we'll chat for a minute and sort it out."
Brooke couldn't help but ask. "Really? Like, I could actually do this?"
She could picture Liz and Principal Morita shrugging to each other. "I don't see why not," the man said, "It's nice to see both the Allan girls becoming active in the school community, it's refreshing to know we'll still have you to take up the mantle once Liz leaves, Brooke."
Brooke's smile faltered slightly, but she wasn't about to let this ruin her mood. "Well, thanks. I'm going to talk to Mr. Wayland now."
"No need, I could hear you from inside," the art teacher said, motioning to the open door, "And your phone is on speaker, do you often mimic what your sister does?"
Blushing angrily, Brooke scowled, forcing herself to calm down before she ruined her spontaneous plan. "Are you willing to sponsor me?"
"It depends," the man said, "Will you be able to juggle this and your schoolwork?"
"I like to think that this is less of an assignment and more of an ongoing project that's just going to be open for people that I will be consistently doing. We could even expand it into fundraisers, but that's later down the line if this even sparks interest..." Brooke said, trailing off as the insecurity began to set in, unable to stop herself from thinking about River's words which she had heard for so long she started to believe them herself.
"Well," Principal Morita said, because Liz had yet to hang up the phone, "I don't see how it wouldn't. Since you have his word, and he'll fill out a form later today, just come up to my office now and we'll discuss some technicalities and you can get started."
"This is so exciting, Brooke!" Liz squealed into the phone, "You're always so creative, I love it."
Brooke would be lying if she said that didn't make her entire week.
º º º
A few hours later, Brooke was carrying a bag of supplies back into the house. Liz had been picked up by one of her friends to hang out, so she had her mother pick her up on her way back from work, since she had to pass by a few places to find the supplies she needed to get started on some pieces and to make a box and a sign.
She had explained the idea to her mother on the way back from school, and the woman had found the idea very interesting and was proud of her younger daughter for taking an interest in being more active in the school community, like Liz, as it could look good on her college applications if it became a service project.
"But don't get your hopes up, honey," her mother gently reminded her as they walked into the house, "Some people might not want to open up like that."
Brooke couldn't explain why she let that get to her. It made sense, it was a valid reminder, but her mother's words got under her skin and not only crushed her excitement, but angered her. Angered her because if it was Liz who had the idea, her mother would never try to remind her of anything, because Liz can accomplish anything, but Brooke couldn't.
As much as she wanted to shout at her mother, she knew Liz would just be used against her, so she just marched to her room, ignored whatever else the woman was trying to say, and locked herself in.
It wasn't until her father got home that the raincloud above her head began to disappear.
"Hey, pumpkin, what've you got there?" her father asked through the wood, knocking on the door.
Sighing, Brooke stood up and opened the door, glancing towards the supplies that seemed to lose their new, exciting quality to them. "I came up with a service project idea I could do at school. I talked to Principal Morita and everything. But mom ruined it for me."
It wasn't fair for her to say, but that's how she felt, and she had every right to say it.
"Aw, c'mon, she didn't mean to ruin your fun," he said, stepping into her room, "She told me what happened. You want help making your box?"
She nodded, trying to smile. "Yes, please."
º º º
It was the end of the week when she checked the box.
After making the box with her father, which made her happier than she had been in such a long time, she decided to make a few more examples before she would put up the board in the two days following.
She had come up with happier examples, so people would also feel inclined to just put whatever they wanted to get out there, as they wouldn't feel as though they only had to put sad things.
MY FAVORITE DAYS ARE WHEN MY FAMILY NOTICES ME
Now, it wasn't entirely happy, as there was something about her phrasing that made it seem almost pathetic, but it was how she was feeling when she worked on it, so it was as good as she was going to get.
She had decided to paint, wanting to try out her new canvases, making a large bookcase of sorts with the shelves lined with various trophies and awards, but also with paperwork files and kitchen appliances and pens and paper, a TV remote and earbuds and a laptop. All things that took up people's time every day or caught their eye, and rightfully so.
In the very corner, however, was an item that she used her new gold leaf on. It was a small little picture frame. There was nothing in the frame, but it was rather to represent the person who was looking in, or speaking out, however the audience wanted to interpret it.
It was a little more heavy, but the meaning was there, and was exactly the kind of art that bordered on the work she did for others, and the work she did for herself. It was a safe happy medium that she had never been able to perfect when she made art for herself or for others, letting them know she made it.
She wanted no one to know that she made this. No one except maybe Liz, but she was so busy she wouldn't pay much attention anyways.
So she put up the portraits, as well as the sign and the short explanation that she placed underneath. Then she put the simple black box she and her father made right in the center underneath the board in the hallway and let it wait.
She had to admit, it was flattering how everyone talked about it.
There were some who made rude comments about how stupid the idea was, or how awful her work was, but most comments she heard her positive. People said that it was a great idea that explored how one person's feelings could mean so much to another person, how beautiful her work was, how it seemed like such a nice way to get out emotions.
She was walking on nerves and air by the time the end of the week rolled around.
After school, when the hallways were empty, she opened up the box and pulled out the papers inside and placed them in a ziplock, her hands shaking as she unlocked it. To her surprise, there were a small handful of little slips of paper inside and it made her heart burst with excitement.
Still needing to wait for Liz to get out of decathlon practice, she raced upstairs to the empty sophomore hallway and set them all out in front of her, eyes scanning for something she could latch onto.
Some were nice.
I LOVE LEARNING NEW THINGS FROM MY GODMOTHERS
I WISH I COULD BE JUST AS CAREFREE AS HER. MAYBE THEN I'D BE ABLE TO KISS HER
I LOVE COOKING WITH MY MOM, BECAUSE IT MAKES HER HAPPY AND THAT MAKES ME HAPPY
Some were sad.
I WISH I HAD ACTUAL FRIENDS TO TALK TO INSTEAD OF JUST BOOKS TO READ
I CAN'T EVEN SMELL CHOCOLATE WITHOUT WANTING TO THROW UP
I'M AFRAID THAT SOMETHING WILL HAPPEN TO ME AND MY AUNT WILL BE FULLY ALONE
Some were downright awful.
I WISH MY DAD COULD LOOK AT ME WITHOUT SEEING MY DEAD MOTHER
EVERY TIME I SEE A BEER BOTTLE, I CAN FEEL THE BRUISES
I WISH I WAS DEAD. MAYBE THEN WE COULD ALL STOP HURTING.
Brooke tried to pretend that she didn't know the handwriting of some of these people.
She tried to pretend that she didn't remember Flash Thompson's handwriting from once when he wrote down his phone number for her in case she needed a ride, and how it was identical to the eighth slip of paper she set aside with bated breath.
She tried to pretend that it wasn't her lab partner Diana Smith who wished she was dead.
Tried to pretend that it wasn't her sister's handwriting that drew her to the second slip of paper.
Swallowing thickly, she got to work, deciding that she would start with these and move on to the others, if she even wanted to use them at all. She decided to alternate between good and bad ones, as she would need a break from a few of them.
Taking a deep breath, she grabbed her sketchbook and began to plan, working all through the night, not once stopping to realize that there was some affect these words were having on her. When she stared at them, she could feel everything they were feeling. She could hear the tears and the fear and the joy behind the words and they filled her with the same experience, yet a longing to truly know these people, to feel what they felt, to know them and to help them.
She tried to push those thoughts away and just get lost in the work. That was what she was there to do.
While she wouldn't know it until later, this project would help her with her own feelings. But that's a detail for another time.
AUTHOR'S NOTE
( 02.15.18 )
So it took a hot second, but man do I love this subplot that I threw in. It's based off the book Confess by Colleen Hoover, but really all I took was the idea of the confessions into art, so I hope ya'll like this addition.
Also, try to guess which certain slips of paper were written by some of the characters, because they allude to some stories set in this world, upcoming, ongoing, and finished. All except three are written by canon characters, so if you've read the stories that I have up right now set in Hoco, you know all these characters.
I actually really like this subplot, because Brooke feels very disconnected from the others at Midtown and everyone else in her life, and this in itself is still some kind of a disconnect despite now being privy to people's secrets, so it's very interesting.
Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed!