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15
Later that same week, I sit in the spacious art studio with my teacher Miss Moore, or Ros as she likes to be called, a thirty-something art enthusiast. The only other student is some nameless boy from the No Name crew who I’ve no intention of getting to know any time soon. Looks like art isn’t a favourite subject of most of the residents at Oceanside Academy. Not that I care, because frankly it’s bliss. I can actually relax a little without fear of some snide comments or food missiles coming my way.
For the first time since arriving here, I feel another emotion other than a constant low level pissed-off. I’m almost…happy. Well, as happy as I can be when I’m continuously worrying about my best friend and waiting on tenterhooks for the moment I get jumped by HH crew. I’ve been in a state offightsince I arrived here and for the first time in years, I’m getting the urge to run. Not because I’m weak or afraid, but because I’mtired. Tired of fighting all the damn time. A week in and I already feel worn down. How the hell am I supposed to last three years here?
Picking up my acrylic pen, I press the nib against the thickened paper and begin to colour within the pencil outline I’ve just laid out. It’s not the same feeling that I used to get back home in Hackney when I was painting murals with my cans, always on the lookout for a copper. The excitement and adrenaline rush were addictive. This kind of feeling is nothing compared to that, but at least I can express myself, even if it that expression is confined to just a sketchpad.
“Nicely done,” Miss Moore murmurs as she looks over my shoulder. I automatically hunch over, not used to anyone praising my artwork. “The shading’s beautiful, Asia.”
She hovers for a little bit but when she realises that I’m not about to start up a conversation with her, she leaves me be. I like that about her. She gives me space and doesn’t try to force a relationship between us. All the other teachers, except for Mr Burnside the therapist, are jerks who want to enforce their rules on me. Thing is I can’t be ruled, that’s why I’m here after all.
For the next five minutes I’m so consumed with my artwork that I don’t notice another student enter the room until said student has pulled up a chair and sits down next to me. I don’t bother to look up, because I know who it is from his signature scent of coconut and sea breeze. This guy even smells like a surfer on some faraway beach. He’s a walking, talking contradiction given he’s nothing more than a petty thief.
“There’s plenty of other tables in the class, Sonny. Take your shit and sit somewhere else,” I snap, feeling both irritable that he’s invaded my sanctuary, and unnerved at his closeness. This guy really can’t catch a hint.
“How’s this?” he asks, getting up and moving across the table from me.
“Not nearly far enough away,” I retort, refusing to meet his gaze and look into those baby-blues that have somehow managed to infiltrate my dreams this past week. Idon’t wantto dream about him, but somehow, I manage to.
“Is that a person?” he asks, half a beat later.
From beneath my lashes I can see him leaning over the table trying to get a look at my drawing. Instinctively, I wrap my arms around my sketchpad. Funny how I can spray a six-foot wall with my artwork and not care that the whole world will look at it, but I can’t let this one guy look at my quick sketch. Don’t get me wrong, it’s a good drawing. Actually, it’s pretty fucking great but I hadn’t offered to show it to him, so he shouldn’t assume it’s okay to catch a glimpse.
“Are you drawing me, is that it?” he says with a smile in his voice.
This time I lift my head and meet his gaze. “Notyou, no,” I respond.
He pulls a face. “Asifthere’s anyone better. I’ve got a pretty fucking fantastic face, Asia, no wonder you’re committing it to paper.”
The arrogance!Determined to swipe that smile off his face, I do something reckless and twist the sketchpad around so he can see who I’mactuallydrawing. It takes monumental effort not to laugh when his mouth pops open and his eyes widen when he sees just who it is that’s caught my attention.
“Ford?!” he shouts, gaining a cross look from Miss Moore. “Sorry, Miss,” he mutters, narrowing his eyes at me. I shrug, twisting the pad back around to face me and loving the fact he’s so pissed off. That’ll teach him.
“He’syour fucking muse?”
“What can I say, he’s got an interesting face,” I respond, biting my lip to prevent the laughter from escaping. This is just way too much fun. And whilst, yes, Ford does have an interesting face, so too does Sonny. Even though they’re similar in colouring and could even pass for brothers, they’re actually polar opposites and definitely not related. Ford is broody and cross most of the time, constantly tense and on the lookout for the next fight. Whereas Sonny is effervescent, happy, light-hearted even. He always has a joke on his lips and a glint of mischief in his eyes. And yet beneath Ford’s brooding countenance is a warmth waiting to escape, just like there’s anger bubbling under Sonny’s skin. Their outer appearance and inner secrets make for interesting subject matter, but I’m not about to tell Sonny that. Let him believe what he wants. Besides,confidenceis attractive, arrogance is most definitely not. Maybe he’ll learn something today.
“Interesting face?” he mutters, a muscle jumping in his jaw. He cocks his head and stares at me for a full minute before pulling out a dogeared sketchbook of his own.
For the rest of the lesson Sonny remains uncharacteristically quiet. He doesn’t crack a joke or even try to start a conversation. I’m pretty sure I’ve successfully knocked the wind out of his sails. When it’s time to pack up, he rips out the page he’s been working on from his sketchpad and hands it to me before striding from the room without a backward glance.
When I look down at the drawing it’s my turn to feel shocked. On it is a stunningly intricate drawing of a girl with bright blue hair and a lip ring… a girl that looksexactlylike me.
* * *
After lunch,my final two periods of the day are taken up by group therapy. It’s Friday afternoon and I’m expected to sit here with a bunch of strangers and talk about my feelings.
Not. Going. To. Happen.
I don’t care how nice Mr Burnside is. I’mnotopening up in front of everyone. My one-on-one session on Wednesday might have gone okay, but this is way out of my comfort zone. Way,wayout. Especially since my group consists of Sonny, Ford, and two dudes from the No Name crew. I’m the only girl and completely outnumbered. Mr Burnside coughs, drawing me out of my thoughts and bringing me firmly back into the present. He looks at each of us in turn, his warm hazel eyes kind and intelligent. I instantly feel threatened. Intelligence I can handle but kindness… that’s a whole other ball game.
“By now, each of you have had a one-on-one session with me this week so I don’t need to introduce myself again, and we don’t need to go over how I’m Mr Carmichael’s partner. Pretty sure we’ve dealt with that part of my private life already, yes?” he says, looking pointedly at the kid from the No Name crew who just shrugs in response. “Good, because the gay jokes get boring. My personal life is private, and I expect youallto respect that.”
“Yeah, but you expectusto chat aboutourpersonal shit in front of everyone. How’s that fair?” the boy he’s addressing asks. I hate to admit it, but he’s got a point.
“Part of the deal in gaining a placement at Oceanside was your agreement to attend therapy sessions, both one on one and in a small group setting like this. If you choose to walk out of here, then you know what the alternative is.”
“Yeah, but no one actually said anything about this group shit,” the same boy persists.
