Lessons In Life-Continued

“Do you think if I asked him to Prom he’s go with me?” asked Martha, staring dreamily at the poster of Jonny Depp plastered to her locker door.

“I honestly think you’re delusional” I replied.

“My dad knows his agent” she continued, having ignored me.

“If you paid him enough maybe” answered Lilly, “although, can you imagine all the girls trying to touch him, it would be disgusting.”

“That’s just because you prefer vagina over penis” I added in again, thoughtlessly flipping through my art book. “You hate anything that glorifies the male ego.”

“Well...” I tuned out of Lilly’s speech about how men think with their penises, Lord knows I had heard it enough times to know it word for word. She hated the way men objectified women, the way they thought with their penises, she hated them simply because it was okay for them to love a woman but so very wrong for her to.
I focused on the images in my book, the pain and suffering that had suddenly engulfed my mind. In front of me was an obscure picture depicting the sorrow of losing a child in battle, the pain of the artist struck me as if it were my own.

“You’ll ruin your vision if you stare at that picture any longer” said Martha, interrupting my train of thought. I snapped the book shut instantly.

“It was all the talk of penis, it had me feeling sick” I shrugged. In truth I just wanted to be anywhere but here.

“You really should join the dark side” replied Lilly, her arm casually draping across my shoulder. “We could do something with your hair, I am sure you’d have a girlfriend in no time.”

“Thanks for the advice Lil” I replied, “I think I am okay being single at the moment though, really, it’s too messed up in here for more than one person to handle” I added, tapping my head.

“She had her reasons Beth, none of us could have stopped her” said Martha, her voice soft. “We have to keep our lives going; she would have wanted us to live.”

“I know” I nodded, it didn’t matter what I told myself though, the pain never seemed to stop being there. You think it would disappear, even little by little, but no matter what I do or how long I wait, it still lingers, exactly the same as it did before.
The bell rang signalling time for class; there was no way that you could ever get used to the high pitched ding of the bell. It was a sound that haunted your ears.
“I’m fine” I said to the girls as they hesitantly made their way towards their classroom. Truth is, I wasn’t fine, I was far from fine.
As soon as they were out of view I ducked through the crowd of students lazily making their way to their own classes. I tried to act normal, just like I was on my way somewhere, I didn’t need anyone to see the panic in my eyes or hear the thudding of my overworked heart. It wouldn’t matter to them that I was upset anyway, they didn’t know me and they didn’t care to.
The funny thing about old schools like this was that the hallways seemed to be never-ending mazes. The twisted and turned and continued on for ages, no matter where you were going you always felt lost. One floor looked like another and there was no way that someone who didn’t know the school would ever get out alive.
As the hallway slowly emptied of students, my pathway to the door became easier. I didn’t have to think about where I was going. I had walked these halls so many times that I could navigate through them with my eyes closed.
My escape plan was going perfectly until I collided with something that felt like a brick wall.

-Just a little more from tonight. Not finished, not edited, and totally off the top of my head. One day all of this will come together more. Maybe one day it will be a little more like an actual story.

Lessons In Life-Continued

“So how was the camp?” asked my art teacher. She was slightly eccentric, a complete oddball and nothing like any other teacher I had ever had in the past. She was everything that this school was not, and everything that I loved. She was one of my good friends, not a best friend like two teenagers, more of a good mentor and friend whenever I needed someone to talk to. She was like the female version of my uncle, only he wore suits for a living and she destroyed them. I guess in many ways she was like the mother I never had.

“It was horrible” I replied slumping into my chair.

“Oh come on, forced physical activity and conformity. What’s there not to love?” she laughed to herself.
“Just think my dear, soon you and your talent will be out of these school halls and living a life” she added, placing paint covered hands on my face. It felt like something a grandmother would do, but I chose not to comment on her breach of my personal space. “And you won’t have to worry about any of these silly graduating class rituals.”

“It can’t come quick enough” I mumbled to myself.

“You know people would kill to have their high school years back right?” she asked, moving back to the front of the room where the class lesson plan was written. It was written in vain, we probably wouldn’t follow it.

“They need to be committed” I replied pulling out my books. As if on cue the bell rang, and a small number of students started to file into the room.
I also pulled out my i-Pod; this was the one class where I could get away with being anti social and playing music as I worked. I was never told off and never asked to put it away. It was deemed part of my creative process.
Art was, of course, my favourite class, and it showed. It was the class I put all my effort into, followed closely by English. The school demanded that I take both a maths and science subject, it was to ‘even out’ my timetable and college choices. Like I could care about what college I went to. The only other person in my family to have gone to college was my uncle, and he went to a community college and turned out better than anyone I know that went to an ‘Ivy League’ college. I probably didn’t have a hope of getting into one anyway. Of course I am sure because of my uncle’s influence any decision made by them could be swayed, much like my high-school acceptance was.
I figure as long as I can make a living off my camera, and some of my art work, I’ll be fine.
Maybe I was being completely delusional, thinking that I could do what so many other artists fail to do, but I had to at least try it. I was not going to live off someone else’s money for the entirety of my life. The charity handouts would stop the day I turned 18, I was determined for them to stop, with or without my uncle’s approval.

“Today I want you to continue working on your final projects, remember they have to be submitted on time at the end of the semester, and they have to consist of at least four separate pieces, connected by one common theme...” I drowned out her voice. I had heard this at least once a week. I knew what my art project was, I knew the guidelines and I knew when it was due. My problem was I didn’t know what to choose as a theme. I was struggling to make everything in my head into a concept.
I still had time though, the end of the semester was not too far away, but my project was still completely do-able. It wasn’t like I wasted my time in this class either; I did plenty of work, from sketches to paintings. I just hadn’t thought of a way of pulling it together yet.
I decided today was the day I developed my photo’s from camp. I needed the pictures of the landscape and the pictures to give to Martha. The girl was an all out nerd; her timetable was packed the seams with math and science subjects. To make sure she gave herself time to be creative she was a full on scrapbook freak. She demanded pictures and keepsakes from everything we did, it was crazy. She collected movie ticket stubs, ribbons, pictures, anything that had any remnant of the event attached to it. I figured to save the nagging I would just develope them today, it wouldn’t take too long, and I would be alone in the dark room.
The development process was like a second nature to me these days. I knew the chemical process for everything off the top of my head, there was no need to read instructions, I had it memorized.
First we developed the film in the developer solution, then the stop bath, then the fixer. Simple, easy, and all the notes and instructions around the dark room would make you think that it was fool proof. If I ever got in trouble I had Louisa, my art teacher, there to help me.
She had insisted that we call her Louisa from the very first lesson I ever had with her. I guess being called ‘Professor’ made her feel old or something. Calling her by her first name felt more personal anyway.
All up I had three rolls of film from the camp. They didn’t take too long to develope, while one was in the developer I would examine the first roll I developed, picking and choosing the pictures I would print, checking those that were out of focus and making notes.
By the end of the lesson I had developed plenty of pictures for Martha, leaving them to dry while I continued on in other classes. At least I had the comfort of the ritual of school to numb me from everything else that was going on around me.

-So there we have a small update. Nothing major, but I did do another re-edit of the story. I'll end up writing more soon, so watch this space.