Every time I’m concentrating on a project in class, I feel him watching me. Even when I’m not facing him, I feel his presence near me, and I wonder if I’m crazy for having these mixed feelings. I know he feels them too and that confuses me even more.
I’ve never wanted a guy to have those types of feelings for me. I knew I couldn’t return them. I know the emotional baggage I carry around is too much for anyone to be burdened with, so I keep it inside. I push it deeper and deeper, never exposing it for what it really is—fear and guilt.
It started back in high school after Ariel’s funeral. I was allowed to take a week off before returning, but it might as well have been one day, because no matter how long it was, it never would’ve been enough. Students stared at me, teachers pitied me, my counselor, Ms. Newman, pulled me from classes that I wasn’t participating in.
Although my parents were called several times about it, they were just as mentally absent as I was. I’d isolated myself from everyone and everything. One day during study hall, Ms. Newman stood in front of me and told me to come with her. It wasn’t a request. It was an order.
I followed her into the art room where students were all quietly working on art projects. Mr. Bakersfield sat at his desk when Ms. Newman walked me in and introduced us. I was told to come to his room every day instead of study hall. Without questioning anything, I did as I was told. It didn’t really matter where I was anyway.
The first half of the semester, I just sat in his classroom. I didn’t talk. I hardly listened. I didn’t participate in any of the assignments. After awhile, I’d pick up a pencil and start doodling. That led to drawing, which later led to painting. I began participating in class every day, silently working alone. One day, after class had already been dismissed, Mr. Bakersfield handed me a large canvas. He didn’t say anything, just smiled at me and winked.
I stayed late and painted the darkest image I’ve ever seen. I let my guard down and let everything inside of me out on that canvas. I wasn’t exactly sure what it even was, but it released something inside of me.
I continued working on it for weeks, adding to it and trying to make sense of what it could be. It looked evil on one side, but on the other, it was bright and happy. By the time I finished, I knew.
The painting was me.
What I couldn’t express verbally, I had expressed through art. I was furious with the universe that she had died. I was angry and bitter, and I hated everyone for it.
But she represented happiness and laughter. Her memories would always be with me, and deep down, I knew that. I was battling with so much inside that I didn’t know how to express myself with words. Drawing and painting gave me that outlet. I started staying after school to use the art supplies as Mr. Bakersfield cleaned up the rest of the room. He never barraged me with questions or asked how I was doing. He was just there.
I hadn’t realized it at the time that my counselors put me in art classes due to my lack of interest in talking things out. It’s what finally clicked for me and gave me what I hadn’t realized I needed.
But then school wrapped up for the year and my outlet was gone. I was back to being bitter and angry, and I just wanted my paints back. One day, after grabbing the mail for my mother, I noticed an envelope addressed to me. I flipped it over, looking for a return address, but there wasn’t one.
I ripped it open to a folded piece of paper. When I unfolded it, I immediately knew who sent it.
Mr. Bakersfield.
It was a flyer for an art class at the local college. It was open to high school and college students. At the bottom in his handwriting were the words, Make a masterpiece. Do her proud.
I cried, relieved and happy that I’d be able to do just that.
I spent the next three years focusing on art. I signed up for every high school art class and any available at the college. I started at the beginners level, but by the time I graduated high school, I was mastering techniques college seniors were still trying to nail.
So when it was time to start thinking about college and majors, it was a no-brainer for me.
Go to art school as far away from Illinois as possible.
Graduate and find a job.
Never stop painting.
Create something worth making—and I plan to do just that.
As I head to my Monday restorative art class, my earbuds pumping with Adele, Professor Van Bergen steps right out in front of me, scaring the earbuds right out of me.
Grabbing my iPhone to mute the music, I flash an annoyed glare and wait for this unfortunately meet and greet to pass.
“Oh, hi, Aspen.” Her voice sweet with sugar, but laced with fake politeness. “I was just in Morgan’s class…” she pauses and corrects herself. “I mean Professor Hampton’s classroom. He was showing me one of your pieces, and I have to say I’m very impressed. He seems to think you’ll go far in your career.”
Returning her fake smile with one of my own, I mimic her sweet, fake tone. “Thank you. Your opinion means so much to me.” I place a hand over my heart, pretending to genuinely care about her opinion.
The undercurrent of my statement doesn’t go unnoticed and she stands taller, trying to assert her importance. It would be comical if she didn’t seem to have an infatuation with Morgan and my relationship—even if there is no relationship.
Clearing her throat and tilting her nose to the ceiling, she says, “As it should. Tell me, Aspen, are you still planning on going to graduation school after you graduate?” She doesn’t give me a chance to answer, railroading on. “Because, it’d sure be a shame if anything got in the way of such a promising future.” She mimics my gesture by pressing a hand over her heart and pretending as if she really gives a shit.
My eyes narrow in on the conniving bitch. My mouth opens to respond, but I quickly close it. I’ve got a dozen inappropriate things I’d love to say right now, but I know my boundaries. She smiles in victory and pats my shoulder as she takes a step to walk around me. “Ta-ta, Aspen.”
Ugh! I want to throw one of my high heels at her, but they’re way too valuable to waste it on someone like her. Plus, I’m not sure I could really get myself out of that jam. “Sorry, Dean Fletcher. The shoe just slipped off my foot and flew into Professor Van Bergen’s face.”
I curse under my breath and continue walking to my classroom. Hopefully, the universe will help me out and a crater will fall to Earth and land right on top of her, sparing me the time and energy of having to plot something myself.
But just in case the universe doesn’t come through for me, I better start thinking of something myself.
CHAPTER TEN
MORGAN
I remember waking up one morning in Ohio, the ground covered in fresh snow. Being born and raised in Southern California, it was a rarity to get snowstorms. On my way to work, I underestimated the conditions and slid my car right into a ditch. It flipped once and landed in the culvert, my head smacking against the window in the process and causing a slight concussion.
The cliché of how your life flashes before your eyes is exactly what I wasn’t expecting. Ignoring the pain and relying on the anger to get through day to day, I hadn’t expected to see my life with her flash through my mind the moment I thought I could possibly die.
As I lay in the hospital, I recalled those flashes, which brought up the very reason why I left in the first place. I hated that I thought of her at that moment. I hated that she even crossed my mind. I hated I gave her so many years of my life that ended up being wasted.
So when my phone rings with her name flashing on my screen, all those painful feelings rush back in, anger boiling right back up inside.
“Is there a reason you’re calling?”
She clears her throat before responding. “I’m just checking up on you.” She pauses, but I don’t speak up. “I heard about Ryan.” Her words are genuine, but hearing her voice again makes me want to punch a hole in the wall, which I’ve done several times before because of her.