Page 28 of Rules

What the heck is so interesting about it?

“Well, I can see that your grades have improved.” In other words, I wasn’t failing anymore. Good, that is good. For a second she had me worried that I was failing something, again. “I’m sure one of your dream schools will reach out soon.”

“Let’s hope so.”

“But if you feel like everything is becoming too much…”

“It’s not,” I say quickly, done with this conversation. I don’t even know what the point of it was. Why call me here if my grades were good enough to make me eligible to play?

“If it becomes…” She persists stubbornly. “You’re more than welcome to come here. This door is always open.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I agree quickly. Anything to get out of here. “If that’s it, I have to catch up on some homework before my first class.”

Miss Jenkins holds my stare for a few seconds longer before finally nodding. “Of course. I hope you have a great day. And good luck with your game on Thursday! Go, Wolves!”

“Thanks,” I murmur rapidly as I grab my things and hurry out before she changes her mind. “You too.”

Walking through the busy hallways, I wave to some people I know but don’t stop to talk. Coach and Mrs. Rayan, my homeroom teacher, came to an agreement. Instead of attending homeroom each morning, I can go to the library and use the time to catch up on some studying until the season is over.

So that’s where I go. I was already late since Coach told me Miss Jenkins wanted to see me after practice, so now I’ll have to play catch up all day. Mentally I go over the list of things that needed to be done.

Finish math homework. Check.

Start working on my biology paper. Check.

Catch up on English reading. Yikes. Check.

And the most dreaded one: figure out what the hell I’m going to do with my future. Check.

There is probably more that should be added to that list, but these were the most pressing. And I can only do a handful of things at once before going crazy.

Running my hand through my damp hair, I feel my throat close, making it hard to breathe. A sheer layer of sweat coats my skin, causing my hands to go clammy. The pressure to excel—keep my grades up, win games, bring the trophy home, and get into a division one college—is getting the best of me. It’s happening more and more lately too. With just a few short months before graduation, the pressure is so high it’s messing with my head.

I stop in my tracks, taking a moment to compose myself before I go to the library, and when I do, something in the corner of my eye catches my attention.

Someone.

Peeking through a small crack in the door, I find her standing in front of a canvas, completely oblivious to the outside world.

I knew Brook was an artist. Remnants of paint often adorn her fingertips and occasionally end up on her face too. But I’ve never seen her work.

Until now.

She’s alone in the quiet classroom, but even if she weren’t, she wouldn’t notice anybody else. That’s how immersed she is in her art.

Her eyes are zeroed in on whatever she’s working on, a deep frown crossing her forehead. The mass of brown hair is pulled up in some sort of twist or bun or whatever on top of her head, but one stubborn strand slipped free, curling against her cheek.

A should-be-white, but in reality covered in paint, smock is slipped over her shoulders. It swallows her delicate frame and falls way below her knees.

I can’t see what she’s working on because her profile is turned to me. If I moved, I could probably see it, but it would also mean letting her know that I’m here. Watching. I’m not quite ready for that yet. Brook is one of those people who’s always tense, careful of what to say and how to act in front of people. Afraid she’ll reveal too much. Finding her like this, in her element and oblivious to the outside world, is a unique opportunity and I want to savor it to the fullest.

Making a few taps here and there, Brook takes a step back. Nibbling at the tip of her brush, she observes her canvas while I observe her. The way she stands, with her chin lifted high. Her eyes take in the whole painting, slowly observing every detail.

What does she see? Is she one of those quirky, self-conscious artists who questions every single thing, not letting anybody see her work until she deems it presentable?

Her fingertips are covered in gray and black paint. The strand of hair brushing against her cheek must have irritated or tickled her, because she tucks it away, and in the process, leaves a paint smear on her cheekbone.

Moving closer, I lean against the door frame.

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