Lust.

Yesterday passed easily after lunch. The man who was to be my new art teacher had left after a brief conversation with Lilah, and a small acknowledgement of my existence. Lilah’s friends soon joined us after they had trekked halfway across the campus. She only ate lunch with two boys named Hawley and Royce, who were both seniors and fraternal twins. They were almost equally attractive- they were gingers- and dressed well. Hawley took great interest, by which I mean feigned interest, in a book while Royce spoke to me. Royce was extremely nice.

English was first period that day, and I stared at the pages of Persuasion by Jane Austen while Lilah sat beside me twirling her pencil in her hair in a frivolous manner. Mr. Booth, a forty-something year old man who was balding, read from the first page over his wire-rimmed glasses. His voice droned as he spoke of Sir Walter Elliot of Kellynch-hall. I loved Jane Austen, but he was making her sound incredibly boring, which made me turn my attention to anything that would drown out his monotone voice.

“Hey Lilah,” I whispered, pushing a stray strand of hair behind my ear. She turned her wide green eyes in my direction.

“Mhmmm?”

“Does Hawley not talk much?”

She quirked her eyebrow.

“Hawley. He didn’t speak to me during lunch yesterday,” I persisted.

“Oh. Hawley’s kind of the shy twin. It takes a lot of getting to know him to make him open up to you. But I don’t think you’ll have much of a problem with that. Royce seems to like you just fine,” She whispered back, pulling out a green wrapper from the interior of her purse and depositing a chewed piece of gum into it. “You can come do your homework at my house this afternoon if you’d like. You can get to know them better.”

“Okay,” I smiled, and turned back to Persuasion. I had lost Mr. Booth in the text by more than four pages. However, he didn’t seem to notice my frantic page turning as he continued to read at the front of the classroom. I finally settled on the correct page just before the bell rang and students began filing out onto the campus and into the hallways.

I checked my watch. I had enough time to get to my next class, and I didn’t need to sit and ponder a map or look at my new schedule because I knew exactly what I had next. Art. The fact that I was excited to be taking an art course that I’d desired to take or that Lilah would have it with me didn’t cross my mind. I just remembered yesterday; soft-looking chestnut hair, a pair of emeralds, that golden band.

“Has it occurred to you yet that you might get sick of me?” Lilah laughed, leading me through the hallway. “I mean, you only get an hour a day away from me at school.”

“Oh no, I’m sure I won’t get sick of you. Unless you plan on becoming annoying any time soon,” I grinned and hoisted my books up further into my arms. They were becoming increasingly heavy every second that passed. I didn’t see how people lived through the first days of school here each year.

We filtered into the large art room, which was not far from the English room, to find rows of empty stools around the room with easels in front of them with little carts beside them that looked like they held almost every art supply known to man. Lilah proceeded to tell me that this was art room that was reserved for only advanced art students, and that I was going to love the teacher. She also informed me that we had the class with Royce along with a few other people that she was acquainted with. I zoned out for a moment as we took a seat next to each other at two easels located near the back of the room.

As soon as we sat down, Royce rushed through the door, his frostbite eyes gleaming with excitement as he plopped down next to me.

“Well hello there,” He grinned.

I smiled back as Lilah leaned backwards in her chair and engaged in conversation with him. I was left to stare straight ahead at my easel, which proved to be a boring subject, before my eyes caught sight of that man- Mr. Whiting- for the second time as he entered the almost empty room. He was wearing a neat-looking pair of slacks with a t-shirt that had a few paint stains on it and carrying a Starbucks coffee cup. He looked slightly tousled, but in a model-esque way. I wondered exactly how young he was.

“Ella!”

I couldn’t help but to casually let my eyes wash over the stacks of paper on his desk. They were in neat stacks, but some of them were thrown haphazardly across the desk like he’d thrown them down in frustration.

“Hey Ella!” My name was repeated. It was Royce.

“Oh, sorry. What?” I asked, ripping my eyes away from his desk.

“I was just going to ask you if you wanted to catch a ride with me to Lilah’s this afternoon. She always rides with me, and since you’re invited and don’t know the way to her house, I’m sure you’re going to need someone to drive you,” He smiled. His front teeth were slightly lopsided.

“I’ll have to call home before we leave,” I mumbled. Mr. Whiting had begun to speak. I didn’t even take notice that the room had filled with students- there were about ten of us in all.

His voice was melodic and smooth, “Hello and welcome to advanced art. I’m Mr. Whiting. I hope you’re all ready for a rigorous year of art, because this class is going to be tough. We’re going to be doing several pieces throughout the year that you will have to complete on time. If you don’t think you can do so, then we’ll need to have a talk.”

He then proceeded to uncap a black felt-tip expo marker and scribble something on the board:

I have been one acquainted with the night.
I have walked out in rain --and back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light.

I have looked down the saddest city lane.

I have passed by the watchman on his beat

And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.

I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet

When far away an interrupted cry

Came over houses from another street,

But not to call me back or say good-bye;

And further still at an unearthly height

One luminary clock against the sky

Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.

I have been one acquainted with the night.

“This is going to be what you base your first project off of. It’s a poem by Robert Frost. I want you to talk about it for the rest of class, and tomorrow we’re hitting the ground running.”

I turned to Lilah and raised my eyebrows. She shrugged her shoulders. There was still a little over an hour left, and odd formations of where to start were barely twisting through my thoughts.