Art

Jaimenacho was his name. He was almost eighteen years old. He was only a bit taller than average, and had his thick brown hair combed back from his face. He didn't resemble his mother much at all. His skin looked much more Caucasian than Mexican.

Jaimenacho's mother was from Wisconsin. He lived with her. His father was a charming Mexican man that had had a fling with his mom, and gotten her pregnant. He stayed with her and the baby for a while, but after a few months he left. Jaimenacho's father had named him.

Jaimenacho didn't have friends. He had no siblings, and kept to himself all the time.

To warm the teachers up to him, Jaimenacho decided to ask them and everyone else to call him James, since his given name was difficult to pronounce and intimidating on paper.

After a few months, though, he slowly realized that despite his attempts, everyone called him Art. In the earlier days he didn't know whom they were speaking of, but after a while he got used to it.

The reason why these people called him Art? He was almost always in the Art Room. He loved to draw and sketch and paint, and wasn't too bad at sculpting.

He began signing his papers "Art", and halfway through the year everyone knew him as that. It was how it was.

~

One day Art was sitting quietly in art class, in the front of the room (as his art teacher insisted). He was drawing the girl across the room from him, absentmindedly sketching her form and features, and soon getting to details. The girl wasn't very special in particular; the only reason Art picked her out was that she was very still and could hold a pose.

Art sighed, and removed his left palm from his face. He gazed down at the picture. He got her dark lips right, and her concentrated look was perfect. He chewed a bit on the tip of his pencil, and then looked back up to his poser.

She wasn't there in her seat.

Startled, Art looked around to where she could have gone. After turning a good 180 degrees, he jumped a little to realize that she had been standing behind him, looking over his shoulder.

She smiled at him and said, "Uh...hi."

Like a startled deer in headlights, Art didn't know exactly what to do. He flashed her a small, nervous smile, adjusted his messenger bag, and fumbled out of his seat. Art wasn't really the type of person to blush, but he might've then. He hid his face as he signed the picture of the girl, and pressed the paper into her hands.

"For you," he said softly, not looking at her as you strode out of the room and ducked out the door.

~

Art's art class was his last class of the day, so he walked straight out of the room and the school's front doors. He hesitated for a second, not knowing exactly what to do with himself. The school day didn't end for another fifteen minutes.

He settled under a tall tree's shade, the grass brushing his back as he lay down. He ran his hand through his hair (a thing he did a lot), and closed his eyes.

The wind rustled his hair as he lay in the grass. He started to hum lightly. He wasn't sure what it was, but it soon turned into a lullaby his mother had sung to him a long time ago.

"If only the grass grew as tall as the trees, so we could run and play as long as we please..." Art started to sing softly, breathing in the fresh air. His hands brushed through the grass like it was the softest hair, and his clothes moved slightly with the breeze like the leaves in the tree above him. In those moments Art felt one with the world, and didn't feel a trouble in the world.

The bell rang, and his moment of being one with the world was over. His light brown eyes opened slowly. He sat up. His dark hair flopped down above his eyes, and Art didn't bother to brush it back. He stood up and brushed himself off as kids started to exit the building.

At the same moment Art turned away from the school and begin to walk home, Clover Sheridan was just leaving the school, looking thoughtfully at the picture in her hands that mysterious boy had drawn.