AllFreeNovel
Share Us
1
Rissa
Oh my God, I can’t believe someone came in here and destroyed my painting. I’ve been working so hard, every single day, on this piece for over a month. It’s my senior project and the last thing I needed to secure my A+ in my final art class at this school. Unfortunately, someone took it upon themselves to come in here and smear red paint all over it.
I want to cry, but the tears never come. Neither my mind nor my body works that way, and that’s not how I like to deal with issues. Apparently, when I get upset, I scream and throw things, something I didn’t know until this very moment. Getting upset, angry, or frustrated is not something I usually do. There’s nothing logical about those emotions, and I’ve never had a reason to feel them in the past. For every action, there’s a reaction, but emotion is not a variable anywhere in that equation.
I look around at the destruction I created and start calculating how long it will take to straighten everything back to normal. Just because I broke down and had a moment of weakness doesn’t mean it’s okay to let myself slide. With a quick organization plan worked out in my head, I’ll have everything rectified and in order in roughly an hour and a half.
While in my zone, I don’t realize I’ve caught someone in my crosshairs until a big strong hand grabs hold of me. Reflexively, I stop and turn mid-swing. I still have the paint in one hand, and he’s holding me back from throwing another glob of it either at him again or across the room.
“You’re going to hurt yourself, or someone else, if you don’t stop,” the big strong man tells me, with a worried look on his face. Out of habit, I immediately move my eyes back to the painting.
I don’t know how I can tell he’s worried because he doesn’t look like the type to have any mood other than angry. I rarely have contact with people other than my parents and best friend, but even that is very little. My parents have tried to shelter me all my life because of my autism. At times, I’m not sure if they are embarrassed, afraid, or disappointed that their only child was born with autism. I’m autistic and high functioning at that, but it still affects how I live.
Actually, I think those around me are more bothered by my autism than I am. There’s nothing wrong with me. My brain just works on a different frequency than everyone else. I have a higher IQ than the average person. Still, people tend to think I’m either a robot or a freak since I don't readily showcase my emotions.
I’m proud of who I am, no matter if anyone else is or not. I couldn’t care less what other people think. The only thing that seems to calm me or make me react in any way at all is my art. For someone to come in here and ruin what I love and what I’ve worked so hard on makes me so angry.
Yes, there’s that emotion again.
“I’m sorry about your shirt. I’ll buy you a new one,” I whisper softly, with my eyes still diverted from the guy still holding my hand. I try to tug my hand from his, but it’s useless since he’s not letting go. Usually, this would raise a panic inside me, but I’m instantly soothed by his touch.
“My name is Dean,” he says gruffly, finally releasing my hand. I say nothing, just look around at the mess I’ve created with my tantrum. Just as I start to feel a slight sense of guilt, I remember the organizational plan I came up with to fix it all. When I look back at my painting without his soothing touch, anger comes rearing its ugly head once again.
“What’s your name?” he asks me. That’s when I realize I haven’t said much to him, never mind my name. His name is Dean. It suits him, a strong name for a handsome, strong guy.
“Clarissa, but I go by Rissa,” I say absently, going over to the counter where the cleaning supplies are stored.
Dean says nothing. He just grabs some paper towels and tries to help me clean the mess. The silence that ensues isn’t uncomfortable. It’s actually rather soothing and pleasant, like when he was holding my hand. Usually, when people are in a room with me, things tend to get awkward. I like the silence, and I’m not a big talker. Still, I’ve come to realize that most people need to fill the quietness with unnecessary conversation. Dean doesn’t seem to mind the tranquility either. When I peek up at him from my spot on the floor, he’s already staring at me. I duck my head again, getting back to the task at hand.
“What in the absolute fuck happened in here?” Lexi slams through the art room door, demanding answers. My mind instantly makes the comparison between Lexi and a tornado. She came whipping in here, determined to cause havoc on my behalf.
She’s my best—and only—friend in the whole entire world. Lexi is the only person who truly understands me and the way my brain works. That could be because she is the only one that has ever tried to understand me. Most see me as difficult or ignorant, but Lexi has never made me feel like either of those things. Never, in all the time I’ve known her, has she treated me like I have some sort of disease or I’m less than like most ignorant people do these days. She also doesn’t let me use my autism as an excuse or a crutch. Lexi will push me to my limits and beyond, and I love her for it. She’s the only reason I’m able to function in a public setting at all.
“It’s fine, Lexi,” I say, trying to calm her down when I see the fury churning in her eyes.
She stomps in with her signature leather knee-high boots, long black and purple hair, a short dark plaid shirt with chains hanging off the pockets, and a white tank top ripped to hell. She’s the picture of punk goth with her black eyeliner and red lips. She says her role model has been and always will be Avril Lavigne. Honestly, Lexi could definitely be her doppelgänger. I wish almost every day I could be as bold and unapologetic as she is, but there is only one Lexi, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. I also wish I looked more like her. Where she is average height, I’m pushing to make it to five feet tall. I’m curvier than Lexi, but it’s more frumpy than curvy. Her hair is naturally blonde and so easily dyeable. Mine is dark brown with a wave to it and impossible to do anything with.
“The hell you say, Rissa, it’s not fine. I rush in here to find you with paint everywhere, some hot hunk helping you clean it up, the masterpiece you’ve been working on for months ruined, and you were late for first bell. You're never late for anything,” she stresses, and she’s not wrong in the least.
“Are you the one who fucked with her painting? Because I swear, I may be small, but I’m mighty and will kick your ass,” Lexi says, glaring at Dean and taking a step forward with rage radiating off her.
“Lexi, he didn’t do it. I actually don’t know who did, but he just came to check on me when I had my breakdown after finding it like this. I ruined his clothes,” I point out while still looking at the floor.
“Oh, honey, don’t you worry. We will find out who did this and replace his clothes,” Lexi vows vehemently. I can tell she wants to comfort me, but she knows how I am about people getting too close, so she holds off.
“I should probably go, anyway. Wouldn’t want to be late for ditching class,” Dean says, standing then holding out his hand to help me up.
Surprisingly, I don’t hesitate to put my hand in his. I don’t even cringe as his grip tightens in mine, and I’m actually reluctant to let go once he has me up on my feet. For the first time in my life, I make and hold eye contact with one of the hottest guys I’ve ever seen.
He’s tall, like twice my size tall, muscular with baby blue eyes and shaved hair on the sides but long on the top. Anyone else would say he’s wearing a scowl on his face, but he looks like he is trying to figure something out to me. I don’t know how long our eyes are locked on one another, but it’s almost as if I hear a physical click. It’s as if I’m gazing straight into his soul, and we’re laying claim to each other. I read somewhere that when a soul finds their match, it’s instantaneous. The feeling of warmth, safety, and love is overwhelming, but in a good way. My mind cannot even compute the overflow of what I’m seeing and feeling. I will have to analyze everything later when I’m alone and calm.
I hear Lexi gasp and whisper, “bloody hell,” which causes me to reluctantly pull my hand out of his and look back at my destroyed piece of artwork.
“Thanks for the help, Dean. I’ll clean the rest up,” I say, turning and walking back over to the counter.
I hear Dean walk over to Lexi and wince. He’s probably going to ask her out, and why shouldn’t he? He’s hot, and she’s hot. Every guy in this school wants to date her, but she won’t give any of them a chance. Dean really seems like a nice guy, so what would it hurt? Although, for some reason, it does hurt. My chest gets tight, and I want to run from the room or throw more paint.
This is why logic should overrule feelings. Everything that I was feeling and reading from him when our hands were clasped had to have been a mistake. An error on my part about souls finding their match. You should never believe everything you read without proof behind it. Breaking my train of thought, I hear what Dean says to Lexi, and it makes me almost want to smile.
“When you find out who did this to her beautiful artwork, you find me. I want a name,” he growls, then walks out of the classroom.
“Oh, my fucking hotness, I swear. The growling had me wanting to instantly combust. You have to ask him out, Rissa,” she tells me as I see the fury in her eyes change to excitement.
“What?” I shout, turning to look in her direction. I only keep eye contact with her long enough for her to see my confusion.
“Oh honey, that man is totally gone for you,” she says, like it’s common knowledge.
“I don’t have the time or the capability for all that,” I whisper to her, even as I stand there looking out the door that Dean left through, wishing he might come back.
