“Can I see one of yours?” I stop him from changing the page when I see a design that catches my eye.
“Sure, I guess.” He’s hesitant and I get it. I don’t particularly like to show people my designs when they aren’t complete either. But I dig into my bag and pull out my well-worn sketchbook, handing it over to him hesitantly.
“Be nice,” I warn him.
“Right back at you. I don’t exactly have a lot of time to perfect my art.”
“Same,” I chuckle.
Ty nods, and takes my book while I take his. Flipping through the pages, I’m more amazed with each passing page. There’s no theme, no one clear direction, but clearly things he likes. There’s a portrait of four guys standing together, a portrait of clearly Ty and another guy with shaggy hair, a side portrait of an older woman, directly following a side portrait of an older man. Then there are florals and insects, snakes and dogs, in all different styles. It’s obvious Ty draws what he sees as well as designs straight from his imagination.
“Wow,” I say softly, a whisper.
“Right back at you,” he says in the same kind of amazed tone that I have. “These are amazing, Roxie.”
“I need to work on my line work and my shading. I know it’s not as realistic as it could be, but I’m working on it.”
“I can see what you’re saying, but that comes with time and practice. My friend Asher is the one who got me into drawing and he’s been designing since first grade, I swear. I literally watched as his designs went from like mine to something almost real.”
I nod, but look at him with a shy smile and I bump his shoulder with mine. “I think your stuff is really, really talented.”
“Thanks,” Ty says with a barely there smile and bumps my shoulder back. “So, Roxie, tell me about yourself.”
“What, you want to do the favorite color talk now?” I tease, sticking my tongue out.
“Ay dios mio,” he slips into Spanish and I’m mesmerized.
“I wish I could speak another language,” I say softly.
“It is pretty handy,” Ty smirks, turning to another page in my book, one that I started last night and my cheeksburn.
It’s a sketch of him. Just like I remembered from class, sitting at the desk as he turned to look at me. It’s a very, very rough sketch and I almost want to jump across and grab my book back.
But Ty just looks at the book. He’s quiet, well, quieter than before, just staring down at my work.
It’s quiet for longer than I think it should be, and the nerves flutter in my stomach like butterflies. He’s been looking too long and he hates it.
Reaching forward, I try to grab the book but he holds it out of reach.
Stupid long arms.
“Is this me?” he asks.
“Maybe.” I quirk an eyebrow, sit back and cross my arms over my chest. I may be embarrassed but I’m not going to let it show. Another fun trait I’ve picked up to protect myself.
“This is…” His words tamper off in a breathless way and I can’t tell if it’s good or bad.
I don’t need his approval, his admiration, or whatever else to feel good about my work. It’s my work and I’m trying to be better.
“It’s a rough sketch. I only got to spend, like, fifteen minutes on it before lights out last night,” I say roughly, grabbing the book and stuffing it into my bag, turning on my back and letting the sun hit my face.
I’m pale, very pale, and I always have been. One of my foster moms said I reminded her of Snow White. All black hair, pale creamy skin and naturally red lips. I’m all softness on the outside, but I’m all bite on the inside.
Life has let me down too many times for me to have much ‘softness’ left in me.
“Roxie, look at me,” Ty asks quietly, tapping my arm gently. Peeking through one closed eye, I weigh my options. It’s not like I can sit here and pretend I can’t hear him.
“Yeah?” I mutter, sighing with the word.
