Page 9 of Rules

“It’s in his eyes,” she continues, still focused on the painting. “Oh, to be young and in love.”

Her dreamy sigh makes me frown. “And that is something to sigh about? She broke his heart.”

Brook Taylor, always the realist.

“Better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.”

“Alfred Tennyson.” I roll my eyes. “British Romantic. Excuse me if I don’t share your enthusiasm.”

Mrs. Brown looks at me with curious eyes. “Have you ever been in love, Brook?”

“Can’t say I have, ma’am.”

Love is just a hindrance. It makes you weak and vulnerable. You open yourself up for people to see, even if it’s just a glimpse, and they’ll find weaknesses to exploit. People hurt people. And those who are closest to you have the most power to do so.

A small smile curls her lips as she looks at me. I don’t know what she finds so funny, but I don’t care enough to ask.

“One day you will, and then you’ll understand.” Her hand gives my shoulder a squeeze, light eyes staring into mine. “Love works in mysterious ways, Brook. Some are lucky enough to find their forever love on the first try, but the rest of us have to work for it. We fall in love with different people, only to figure out they’re not right for us. But at the time they were right. Everybody who comes into your life is there for a reason. Everybody. Don’t forget that. You can try to resist it, you can try to run away from it, but love will find you and it’ll make you fall nonetheless.”

The silence stretches between us, her words hanging in the air. I’m not sure how we went from quoting a poet to… whatever this is. I swallow hard, trying to think of words to say, but apparently, she’s okay with my silence. Giving me another soft smile, she takes a step back, her hands falling by her sides.

“I’ll go and get ready for class. You don’t stay too long.”

Nodding, I watch her walk away, and only when I’m sure she’s gone do I return my gaze to the canvas.

When I first started, I didn’t have a so-calledart form. I just drew what came to me, mostly with pencil and paper. It’s not like I had extra money to spend on fancy art supplies, but since coming here, Mrs. Brown challenged me to try different techniques, use different media.

I tried it all—coal, tempera, oil, watercolors. But when Mrs. Brown showed us the work of Australian pop artist Loui Jover, I knew what I wanted to do. His ink washed paintings on antique book pages were stunning. Colors mixed with ink on those pages seem like they bring words to life.

Giving them face.

Giving them emotions.

It took me a while to get the hang of it. You’d think something so basic would be simple; you’d be wrong. But all the effort was worth it.

I register the muttered chatter from the other side of the slightly ajar door. Sighing, I remove the canvas from the easel and take it to the back room so it can dry properly. Back in the classroom, I clean my station and pick up my things. I still have to return a book to the library before homeroom starts.

Students are mingling in the hallway. There are more of them than I expected, but when I check my phone—the dinosaur of a flip phone—I realize it’s pretty late. Not like it’s the first time, or last for the matter, I stayed in the art room way longer than expected.

Sighing, I hurry through the mass of people, head bowed, hands tucked into the pockets of my leather jacket as I hurry down the hallway.

When I get to the library, the thick door closes behind me and the smell of books assaults my senses. I stop in my tracks and inhale the familiar scent, letting it wash over me.

The library has always been my safe haven. From an early age, I would sneak in, hiding between the shelves and trying to find escape between the pages of the books. There wasn’t a thing I wouldn’t read, fiction or non-fiction; as long as I could dive into imaginary worlds, I was happy.

After all, no matter how bad things got in books, there were two certainties: you’d either get a happy ending, or you wouldn’t, but at least you knew it wasn’t real.

Real life was different. There were no certainties. No guarantees of a happily ever after. And more often than not, when you think things can’t get worse, you’re fooling yourself. Life gives you a punch in the gut, just to remind you who’s boss.

“Morning, Mrs. Moore,” I whisper, coming closer to the counter.

“Brook.” She turns around, offering me a smile. “Here to grab more books for your art class?”

Mrs. Moore is one quirky lady. She’s in her late fifties but looks and dresses like someone half her age. Her wild hair is colored a bright red color that matches the shade of her lipstick. Her nose is pierced, and she has a few earrings in each of her ears. Most of them she’s made herself. Today she’s wearing one of her colorful, bohemian dresses over a pair of brown leggings, and big, plastic frames are on her nose.

Most of the bookworms would probably be outraged by the fact that I’m tearing up books, but I don’t look at it that way, and thankfully neither does our school librarian. She’s the one who helps me find worn or already damaged books for me to use for my art projects. They’d probably be tossed out, and I give them back life.

“Nah, I’m getting this back.” I give her the book I was carrying in my arms.

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