Until You Remember Me

If I have to hear Mr. Bailey talk about hatching one more time, I think I will literally explode.

I have been listening to Mr. Bailey speak about brushing techniques for the past fifteen minutes in class, and I already want to kill myself from this agony. I have been painting since I was five, and I am not talking about finger painting. My dad was a professional painter, and he would always teach me about art, so right now, I feel more advanced to teach this class than Mr. Bailey himself. However, I am forced to take this course because this school does not have any other art class in painting, and I like to use the free tools provided to us.

Ignoring Mr. Bailey, I decide to twirl my seat back around to my canvas and finish up on my latest painting. Picking up on my palette, I start mixing colors with my brush and look at all of the colors before me on my canvas. I have been working on my portfolio for my admission to NYU Tisch School of the Arts, a top art college that also happens to be my dream school. I have been dreaming of going there since my dad talked about getting accepted when he was my age. He attended for one year before quitting school and signing up for the army after his father’s death. I remembered him telling me about New York and his experience there. He adored the scenario and environment of the city, and he would always take his drawing notebook to Central Park just to sketch what was going on around him. All of his drawings and paintings are in my room now, stashed away after my father’s death. He wanted me to continue his dream, and now, all I have of him is this art school.

My painting expresses my anger about my father’s death. Staring at the aggression of red lines over black lines shows the frustration I faced when I found out. The blue lines over the red express the depression I went through, and the green lines are the envy I have for Cher’s family, even if her parents argue. At least, her dad is always there. Cher likes to say she is jealous of my life. She sees my mom as this free-spirited angel who is never in a room without blasting jazz music, my dad as this perfect father who hugs and kisses his kids everytime he comes home, and my brother as the sibling who never annoys you and sees you as his role model. I would admit that my family is like the fantastic four, amazing when we are together. When we are separated, though, it is a different story.

Blinking at my canvas, I realize that my brush hasn’t touched it yet. Mr. Bailey has stopped blabbering about stroking techniques and is walking around the classroom to see everyone’s progress. From the corner of my eyes, I can see him strolling my way, a sign of interest on his face. I brace myself for what is going to say to me like the last painting I did. I did a painting last year I called “Teen Angst” with acrylic paint, which happened to be my favorite painting I have ever done. What did he say?

“Willa, this is, um, interesting.” Interesting? I worked two weeks on that painting and went through stages of breakdowns and anger to complete it. All he had to say was interesting. After that, I begin to realize how much I hate the word interesting.

He is steps away from me, and my brush still has graced the canvas. Immediately, I brushed a few lines over my paintings, looking like I am working when I was really just repainting over lines. Mr. Bailey is inches away from me, and all I can hear is his heavy breathing over my head. Without turning, I can imagine his figure. He is a heavyset man with a mustache over his lips that looks like it belongs to a porn star. He always wears these colorful sweaters and has socks under his pants to match them. Most of the socks have cats on them. Let me not begin on his love for cats.
“Hm, Willa, I feel like you are beginning to blossom in this class.” He spits out. I turn around with a surprise face, looking at him as his fingers are placed on his double chin. Mr. Bailey has never looked this amused about anyone’s work in this class like he was at mines. The way he stared at my canvas is the same look my brother has when my mom makes his favorite taco casserole. Maybe he is hungry, and my painting reminds him of food?

“You think so, Mr. Bailey? I mean, I haven’t really named it yet, but then again, it is still under construction.”

“I do think so, Willa. This painting comes ten times better than the last painting you did. What was it called again?” His face has a slight look of disinterest on it when it mentions the other painting I did, and part of that anger I had when he called it interesting begins to crawl right back onto my face.

“Teen Angst, Mr. Bailey,” I say between my teeth, rolling my eyes and turning back around to face my canvas. I lift my brush back up and go back to redo my lines, hoping that he takes the cue and walk away. After a few seconds of going over a line, I hear a cough from behind me, and the sound of his shoes walking away. I take a deep breath and exhale, reminding myself that a year from now, I will be in New York and not having to hear a teacher with fast food addiction tell me that my art is “interesting.”

Even though this is the first day of school, I have had Mr. Bailey for most of my time at this high school because he is the only art teacher that teaches painting, all four boring courses. The other art teacher, Mrs. Hunner, is not my favorite teacher, but I like her more than Mr. Bailey. She always comes into the classroom like she hates life, but she is also the only teacher great at teaching sculpture and pottery. Mr. Bailey tried to teach pottery one year as a trial test, and in the first week, he managed to burn everyone’s vases in the oven. They immediately replaced him with Mrs. Hunter, and well, the rest is history.

I had advanced sculpture before this class, and the thought of the course all of a sudden makes me blush. As Cher’s best friend, I feel like I have picked up on her attitude and personality a little. We are both sassy in the way we think of life, but the difference between her and me is that I love romance while she gags at the idea of being in love. I have always fancied being with someone and falling in love like in the movies. Yes, I do admit that I am a hopeless romantic, but that is because when you see your parents still gush about each other after 20 years of marriage, you have to believe that love still exists. I didn’t think I will find a person to make the butterflies in my stomach flutter, but then I met her.

Jacqueline Rivera. She is the opposite of her brother, Jake or Jason, as she calls him. She told me that her twin brother hates his real name, so when they were younger, he decided to nickname himself Jake because their parents always nicknamed her Jackie. In a sense, Jacqueline told me she has never called him Jason, and to respect that, he has never called her Jackie, but for everyone else, there are Jackie and Jake Rivera, the only twins at our high school. Her brother is the famous athlete with his cheerleader girlfriend and posse of jocks. She describes him as the perfect version of cliché. Jacqueline, though, is the flawless version of beauty and grace, like Grace Kelly herself. She adores old Hollywood actresses, only wears red lipstick and winged eyeliner, keeps her dark chocolate brown hair in a bun, and makes this hurt expression on her face if you ever tell her you don’t know an old Hollywood movie. I once told her I didn’t know All About Eve, the film, and Jacqueline looked so hurt that I thought she was going to cry. Jacqueline dreams of doing theater after high school, for she is already the president of the school’s Thespian Society and Drama Club. Jacqueline has starred in almost all of the plays and musicals at school and in Clifford Heights’s Community Club. She is our town’s Aubrey Hepburn.

But past all of that, she is the sweet girl that laughed at my joke of a vase in pottery class last year. She took the class out of curiosity but never imagined meeting anyone in the class until the fateful day when I almost cried because my vase came out like the ugly duckling it was. She was sitting next to me, and almost burst out laughing at how it sagged and dropped, but instead, silently laughed. I turned my head to look at her direction, wanting to punch the person finding my failure part of their humor, but then, I got a glimpse of her eyes. I felt like I could get lost in those turquoise eyes of hers, but instead, I coughed and asked if she found anything funny.
“Yes. I mean, no, I don’t find anything funny. It is just, your vase looks quite, um, dreadful.” She was hiding giggles, clearing her throat and glaring up from my vase to me to stop from laughing. At that moment, I could tell her she felt pity for me, for her eyes had a glistening of pityness in them, wanting to help me. I didn’t want the satisfaction, though, that I was going to be part of a pity party because of my failure of a vase. Instead, I decided to make this moment a happy memory, and I slowly started laughing with her. When she saw that the laughter escaping my mouth, her whole face transformed into a jewel, shining with glee.

They never say love is easy, though, especially for two girls. Jacqueline didn’t want to date me at first. She was comforted with the terms of us being friends, getting to know each other while we also fool around. Our first time hanging out was at her parent’s house. She told her parents that I was a good friend of hers from art class and that we were going to work on our project together, which was half of the truth. We didn’t work on a project together, but instead, made out the entire time while watching the movies from her collection. I think at one point we were popping random movies in, not caring to watch any of them. That was a year ago, though, spending time together in her room.

This year, we are slowly accepting each other has a couple. Her parents do not know about her personal life as much as my mom does. When my mom found out that Jacqueline was more than a buddy from art class this summer, she was more accepting than I expected from her. Just like Cher, I don’t like to cry and show my emotions, but that day, I think I cried more than when I was a baby with my mom. Losing my father put our family deeper into a depression, and there were days when all of us would agree to stay in our rooms to give each other space. Now, Jacqueline eats dinner with us and has been on outings with us like she was part of the family already. So, asking her to join us for dinner tonight did not surprise her like it did the first time. Dinner with the Abbey’s family is a ton more fun than dinner with the Riveras, she once told me. Now, thinking about, I can’t wait to see her face after spending a class seeing Mr. Bailey’s face.

Just when my thought finishes, the bell rings, and I can hear Mr. Bailey telling everyone to place our painting tools back in our destinated areas. I never grab my backpack as fast as I did when he said those words. I almost threw my stuff in my cubby storage and stride towards the door, practically sprinting towards my locker to place a few things inside. The minute I see my locker, I notice Cher is already standing by it with her arms folded and a face of desperation. I came to a stop feet away from her, knowing my face seemed surprised to see her there. Usually, when Cher and I has a fight, we give each other a day of space to release any necessary anger we have bundled up, but I can see in her brown eyes she is crying out to talk to me about something. So instead of going with my original plan to avoid my locker and go straight to my Jeep, I sigh and close my eyes.

“I’m sorry about what I said earlier today. It’s just after the fight with Stephanie, it just feels like you have this vengeance with her, and I am tired of having to be like the referee.” I open my eyes and see her arms fall to her side. She has surrendered.

“I know, and I apologize for that, Willa. I do. I am sorry for what I said to you earlier as well, about you trying to be like Stephanie’s clone.” Cher’s eyes wander around the hallway, avoiding mines. After being best friends for eleven years, I recognize what she is doing. See, Cher doesn’t like to look people in the eyes when she is letting down her guard. She sees it as a vulnerable and weakness, giving someone that intimacy of her feelings. Even with me, she avoids showing her sensitive side, and I have accepted it, just like she has accepted that I do not like hugs. I guess that is why we are best friends. We both hate showing our real emotions.

I step closer to her, closing the distance between us. Her eyes manage to focus on me the closer I walk with her. When I am a few inches away, she nods her head and understands that our fight is over. I have forgiven her, and she has forgiven me. Because we aren’t the hugging types, I raise my hand up for a fist bump, lifting my eyebrows in question. Laughter almost escapes Cher’s mouth, and she fist bumps my hand, a small grin on her face. She steps aside to let me get to my locker, and while opening it, I remember that I had a thought earlier at lunch that I have been bothering me.

“So, what is up with you and the new guy?”

I glance past the locker’s door to see a mixed of emotions playing on Cher’s face, which means this is what she came to talk about.

“I am, um, was his tour guide for today. He asked to eat lunch with me, and I said sure.” I almost see a little speck of red blossom on her cheeks, and I gradually close my backpack and locker, amused by this new emotion she was expressing. Does Cher like him?

“So it was a date?” I laugh, picking up my backpack and placing it on my shoulders. Cher shakes her head and scratches her hair in the back, fidgeting.

“No, it wasn’t a date. He doesn’t have a friend, so I figure, you know, it wouldn’t hurt if I eat with this guy.” I can tell by her body language that she is nervous and regrets having this conversation. She begins to walk towards the door of the school and goes down the step, waiting for me to response. I don’t know what to say because Cher has never liked a single guy in her life. I once even though she was a lesbian, and honestly, if she never blushed at the mention of the new guy, I would think she still was.

Cher hates the idea of love. Love, for her, is the equivalence of jelly beans. She has a deep hatred for both of them; I can’t explain her hate for jelly beans. Once, at a sleepover at my place when we were 13 years old, we took a quiz about how our future will be like. When Cher got her results, she almost gagged, shaking her head in denial.

“I will marry in ten years with a child?” She exclaimed, “Hell no! I will not be married in ten years. I will be finishing college and avoiding even the idea of having a boyfriend. Traveling the world for the Peace Corps does not include a husband.”

Looking at Cher right now, I feel like she is going back on what 13 years old her said.
“Well, at least now he has a friend, which I am pretty sure he won’t have a problem with gathering up more friends.” I finally said, stopping at my Jeep, not too far away from Cher’s old Corolla. She leans against the door of my Jeep, pondering what she is going to say next. Then, she says something that baffles me.

“I think I had a dream about him. Is that weird to say? I mean, I believe it is crazy myself, but personally, it is freaking me out because the guy you have dreams about just doesn’t show up to your English class all of a sudden. Will that be weird?” Her eyes look at me, pleading that I tell her that she isn’t going crazy. Shrugging my shoulders, I open the passenger’s door to throw my stuff inside.

“It sounds a little weird, but I am pretty sure that the guy in your dreams isn’t the new guy. I mean I don’t know, maybe it is a coincidence that they both look like.” I close my passenger’s door and stare at her, waiting for her response. Her face is in deep thoughts as she leans away from my car.

“Maybe, you are right. It can be a coincidence that they both look like. It doesn’t mean he is the guy in my dreams.” Cher bites her lips then nods, adjusting her backpack and starting towards our car. “Are you about to head to The Loser? I am going to grab some coffee.”

“No, I am going to head home and continue working on my portfolio. Plus, mom is cooking some of her favorite baked goods for our clients, and I told her I would help her out.” Already by her car, Cher nods and open her car’s door, about to jump into the seat. We both say our goodbyes, and as I put the key into the ignition, Cher already speeded out of the school’s parking lot. I smile, shaking my head, and begin driving towards my house, but I have our conversation in the back of my mind.

Dreaming about the new guy? I personally think it is weird, but it has been thinking of this is a sign. That maybe it is more than a coincidence, and this Liam guy is Cher’s soulmate. Oh, I hope so because Cher needs a little change in her life.