Page 8 of Rules

Chapter Three

BROOK

“This looks stunning, Brook.” The sudden comment surprises me, making me jolt in my seat. School doesn’t start for another hour, so I thought I’d have some peace and quiet.

I turn around, facing the older woman. “Mrs. Brown, you scared me.”

Her lips spread in an apologetic smile, making the wrinkles around her lips and eyes more prominent.

“I’m so sorry, my dear. I thought you heard me. I wasn’t that quiet when I got here.”

Gazing over her shoulder, I see her handbag and a couple of plastic bags laid down on the desk.

“I guess I was in the zone.” I shrug, turning back to the canvas I was working on. I tilt my head to the side, observing it critically.

Soft steps come closer, and although I want to hide my painting so she can’t see it, I surpass the urge.

Mrs. Brown stops right behind me, her wrinkled hands touching my shoulders. My whole body tenses at her nearness, but I push the uncomfortable feeling away.

I took this class because it seemed like an easy way to get credits, and I always liked to doodle to pass the time. Contrary to my beliefs, I learned fast enough Mrs. Brown may seem like an old, fragile lady—newsflash, she’s anything but. When it comes to art, she has a no-nonsense policy. If you’re here, you’re here to work.

And, as it turns out, I’m not half bad.

I’m not trying to fool myself into believing there could be something more to my abilities. I’m not dreaming of being discovered and becoming a famous artist.

This, my art and stolen hours before classes start for the day, is something that belongs only to me. And when you come from the wrong side of the tracks, things that are only yours are hard to find and even harder to keep, so you hold on to them for dear life.

Mrs. Brown helped me transform those doodles into something more. Something that even I can’t deny looks breathtaking.

Breathtaking and personal.

So personal that she’s the only one I let see it, and even that reluctantly. Guess you can’t hide what you’re working on if the person lets you use her space and materials for free. Whenever you want it, no less. She’s been trying to persuade me to enter competitions, put my art out there, but my answer is always the same. Hell no. No way am I showing this to anybody else.

It’s personal.

It’s mine.

Coming from the deepest, darkest part of me.

A part I don’t let anybody see.

Vulnerable and naked, that’s how I feel every time she watches one of my projects.

I tried separating it. Separating my art from my experience, my life, but when I paint, my brain turns off and my hand gets a will of its own. There is no way of knowing what will await me once I take a step back and actually see the canvas in front of me.

“This is so…” She stops, and I can imagine her amber eyes taking in every line, every color. Weighing it. Analyzing it. “Angsty.”

Angry is more like it.

“That’s one way of putting it,” I agree.

“He’s in love with her?”

I look at the scene painted on the canvas. The way the black ink mixes with different shades of grays and red.

A lone guy on the sidelines, his posture stiff as his eyes stay glued to the girl standing in the middle of the room. She’s surrounded by people, faceless, nameless people, who don’t mean a thing because he’s watching her, but she doesn’t see him. Doesn’t even glance his way.

I shrug, not bothering to say anything when the canvas is giving the answer loud and clear.

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