Misplaced Words

I blow the eraser bits off of my paper and lift it up in front of me; I had really out done myself. Us artsy-fartsy students have been working extra hard, considering we don’t have a big show case like most of the other majors. We have to put a lot of effort into making our outdoor gallery pop out at the guests. We were also offered a movable wall for a class mural, which I was psyched about. We had started on it already – it’s supposed to be this intense emotion filled painting of three generations of women dealing with the grief of having breast cancer, yet having the support of the people around them.

Gina’s eyes get all watery whenever I tell her about the progress. She has a friend back in her home town that was diagnosed with it over a year ago. I could only imagine what the poor girl is going through; the lively descriptions Gina would give me from time to time is really something. That’s one of my driving factors, besides wanting a spot in the top five – I know how much this means to her and her friend.

“Another masterpiece, Ricky?”

I roll my eyes and set down my work.

“Uh, yeah. Thanks Rachel, you can go away now.” I can feel her hovering.

“Oh, come on! Don’t be rude to your number one fan,” she walks around the table to face me. I look at her and she pouts, “What’s wrong, am I distracting you?”

“Yes,” I sigh, “but not in the way you think you are,” I mumble to myself.

She pipes up, “What was that?”

“Nothing,” I say, getting up from the table. “Don’t you have work to do?”

“Well, yes,” she says as she follows me to the supply closets. “I was wondering if you could-”

“Nope,” I cut her off, “not helping you. I have my own work to do.”

“Seriously, I need someone to paint me for a project of mine.” She waits for me to respond; I ignore her and keep on with my search for charcoal pieces. “Pleasssee?”

“No,” I say, then return to my seat.

She doesn’t follow me, which makes me happy. Rachel has got some serious issues when it comes to keeping her hands to herself. I’m surprised she hasn’t tried anything slick already. Gina is well aware of her loose tendencies, and thank goodness she isn’t worried about anything happening between us, but she’s still weary of her. I might say no, but Rachel won’t take that for an answer.

I make a few shadings with the charcoal and smudge it around, completing my negative piece of a mother breastfeeding her child. It works as a motivation for people to donate toward the foundation. Mr. Jargendy thought it was a ‘fantastic’ idea, so once I finished the original; I was to give it to him so that he could blow it up and display it in larger frame. I was pretty flattered by this so of course I took the offer – who knows what a bigger audience could mean for my art career?

I sign the bottom, then slip it into a folder to make sure nothing happens to it while it’s sitting on his desk. I pause to stare out of the large windows that surround the classroom; it’s pouring outside, but that’s just the way I like it. The rain tends to be comforting to me, especially when I have a lot on my mind. Back home, I’d drag a couple of beach chairs up from the basement and set them up in my back porch. My mom and I used to sit and hang out for hours; we could talk about anything, really.

Then eventually we would fall asleep and stay there until my father got back home from work and pulled us in for a movie. I miss my folks most at times like these, and I couldn’t wait for them to meet Gina. She’s bound to appreciate them and see what real parenting looks like; compared to that deadbeat father of hers. I’m sure they’ll love her as well.

My parents weren’t perfect, but they made a lot of sacrifices for my brother and I. I love them for that. My older brother is off at law school, trying to make a name for himself. Our parents never put me down for pursuing what people might say is a career that ‘amounts to nothing,’ and at the same time, they never over-praised my brother for the road he took. They always said they were proud of us, and that they would support us as long as our choices weren’t stupid. They weren’t those kinds of parents. You know, the type that excluded the kid that they thought weren’t going anywhere in life if there weren’t studying to be a doctor or something. “It’s hard to make it as an artist,” my father once told me, “but when you do, I’ll be honored to say, ‘my boy made it.’”

I smile to myself, recalling the day he said those words. I had come home from school and I was pretty bummed about my art grade. We were assigned to draw still life, and that wasn’t my thing back then. I liked to draw cartoons and make my own comics, but “that won’t get you far,” my art teacher told me. My mother was outraged: ‘who tells a thirteen year old boy that?’ she was mumbling to herself, then she’d speak up and say, “there are plenty of cartoonists in the world; who’s to say my son won’t be one, a successful one at that?” My father allowed my mother’s rant to die down before telling me that he liked my work, nonetheless. No grade was going to define my art.

Ha, if my old art teacher could see me now.

I stretch before returning the charcoals to the closet and packing my bag. Next class is physics, and I will not be late again. It’s pretty much all the way across campus, but I learned my lesson last time – if I didn’t want to sit next to outcast-Carl, whom is surprisingly chatty and overwhelming, I had to get to class asap. I sling my bag over my shoulder and begrudgingly take out my umbrella; if it weren’t for having class ahead of me, I would have walked outside without anything to protect me from the downpour.

On my way there, Gina practically tackles me, knocking me into my friend Daryl. She quickly apologizes to him before I swoop her up and steal a kiss.

“Hey,” she giggles.

“How’s my girl doing?” I ask, putting her down.

We continue to walk and she lets out a groan.

“Blah,” she pouts, “I could be better.”

I frown, “what’s wrong?”

“Oh, nothing. Don’t worry about me, how are you doing?” she pokes me in the chest, quickening her speed.

“Okay, a little home sick actually. Seriously, what’s going on?”

“Well…” she shivers.

“Ginny?”

She cringes and comes to a halt. Past her I spot an older man, well-dressed and accompanied by two other men dressed as well as the first, holding umbrellas over him and his briefcase.

I look down at her, “why did that man just call you…”

She sighs and looks down at our feet, “meet my father, Rick.”