Little white lies have a way of tainting themselves black, revealing their true colours. I was in too deep, making promises I knew I couldn’t keep. My mother always scolded me as a child for being far too curious for my own good, but I couldn’t help but thirst for knowledge, never satisfied and always yearning for more.
The poets often warn of how curiosity killed the cat—
But what they do not know is that it also revived it.
That night I dreamt of secret glances, hugs that lasted a second too long and blue paint.
Chapter 3
Prodigy
MYALARMwentoffat around 6 AM, forcing me out of my slumber. It went without saying, that slumber had been of much peace to me lately, considering my mind had been flooded with the most peculiar dreams I'd ever had. I never dreamt so vividly back in Jacksonville. It was always just enough to keep my creativity flowing. But now that I was in Paris, it was almost as if my brain was overflowing with ideas. I found a note on my bedside table from Keomi, telling me that she’d gone to class early, which answered the question that swarmed my mind as to where she was.
I sighed, kicking my sheets off and heading straight for the shower in the hopes that it'd wake me up. I put on a pair of black jeans with a single rip on my thigh and a long-sleeved red top I'd gotten from a beachside boutique the last summer I spent in Malibu. I made sure that I had all my stuff for my first day of school, my backpack, my art supplies, and some snacks that I could sneak into class. Gummy bears are always a necessity.
I knitted two braids in my hair and tied tiny red bows at their ends. I looked in the mirror and realized just how nervous I was. I was going to be in a class for an hour surrounded by people I didn't know. It was absolutely terrifying. I had to convince myself that I was a big girl, I was braver than I thought, and that I could do this. I wasn't going to lose my shit over the slightest social inconvenience.
I slung my satchel over my shoulder, made my way out of my room, and down the hall to the main campus. I looked around, and everyone was busy; between reconnecting with their friends after the break and figuring out their new schedules, I was practically invisible, and I'm not going to lie when I admit I loved it. It almost felt like a superpower to blend in amongst the world's elite art students and be the punch they'd never see coming. It felt…powerful almost. However, some people did give me the whole,'I've never seen you around here before' glare, and I simply looked down. Trying my best not to draw any unwanted attention to myself.
The first class I had that morning was English language which was taught by a petite blonde American lady, Madame Stacy. She stuck out like a sore thumb in this school. Her classroom was outlandishly decorated with posters on the walls with dad jokes about punctuation and colourful paper aeroplanes dangling from the ceiling. She talked to her students like they were her equals. The second I walked in, she gave me a welcoming hug; she knew I was new and wanted me to feel welcome. This school had to be one of the nicest places I'd ever been. It was heaven on earth compared to the cliquey privileged disaster that was Clearwater high.
"Okay, students, take your assigned seats. As for you, Armani, you can sit on the empty chair by the window." She smiled, her perfect white teeth contrasting with the flirty red of her lips.
I was seated next to a chatty but stunning Sri Lankan girl named Anika. She talked my ear off almost the entire lesson and even asked to accompany me to my next class, my favourite class– Art. I politely declined her offer only because I wasn't one for idle conversation, and she seemed a tad bit more extroverted than I was. Once English was over, I proceeded to grab some of my personal art supplies from my locker before heading to class.
My art teacher was an older man with wise, dark eyes and a crooked smile. He hadn't had a ring on his finger, so I assumed he wasn't in a relationship– which many artists were not. What can I say? We are a rather pretentious bunch and often find it difficult to build long-lasting relationships with others. Most artists believe in the Latin saying ars vita est, which simply means that art is life itself. I couldn't possibly imagine dedicating my entire life to my artwork. I believe that there's a difference between merely being alive and living. Being alive is a feeling; it simply means that you have a pulse and that you're breathing, andliving,however, is pursuing things that make you a better human.
I believe that every human being must leave something of value behind, be it a painting, a life or a building made of stone. Something to outlive them, something to prove that they have indeed lived. For what is the point of having your feet brush the earth if there is no footprint– no memory of your existence left behind?
Just as I was beginning to get swept away by my thoughts, I heard the classroom door creek open.
And then In walked a boy who carried himself like a man. He had thick wispy curls of dark hair that looped gently around his ears, cascading delicately onto his forehead. He is significantly tall and lean. So much so that one could see his build from the tightness of his black Rolling Stones T-shirt, monsieur Etienne shook his hand firmly with a smile– but the boy didn't smile back. He didn't look like he smiled often. He merely shrugged and gave him an acknowledging nod. His body language was very French, incredibly nonchalant as he strode across the room to his seat, like it didn't even occur to him that there were people around him.
The blond girl splayed in the chair next to him with crayons in her tied-up hair, Ellie, I think– tried to spark a conversation with him, but that spark died out just as soon as she initiated rubbing the firewood. Instead, he just glared at her. Not in a rude way, more of an'I genuinely couldn't care less about the words that come out of your mouth'kind of way. He wore a single silver earring on his left ear, and as he took his bottom lip between his teeth, he was entirely consumed by focus. Watching him estimate what to draw made him look ten times more attractive than he already was. I could almost see an x-ray vision of the gears of his fantastical mind spinning. He has this silent but deadly beauty. It crept up on you and led you to the slaughter when you least expected it.
"Who is he?" I asked the rather alternative-looking girl beside me,
"Who?" She asked bluntly in a thick British accent from behind her dark makeup,
"Him, the one who just came in." I clarified,
"Oh, that's River. He's Monsieur Etienne's prodigy." She spat bitterly as if she had some hidden agenda against him. "You know you'd think that he'd at least give someone else a chance, but no, it's always been fucking River."
"Oh, um, okay, I see, that must suck," I replied awkwardly, trying not to laugh at her frustration, not knowing what to say.
"It sucks ass, new girl. What's your name?"
"Armani," I replied, realizing she wasn't as intimidating as she seemed.
"It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, despite it being under the guise of you salivating over my classmate. I'm Victoria King." She said with a slight smile. Unfortunately, she didn't look like she smiled much.
"Tori," I concluded.
"What did you just call me?"
"Tori, that's your new nickname." I teased.
"No, it isn't." She protested with a laugh of disbelief, but clearly, she didn't know how persistent I could be.
