It all started with an assignment.
The task seemed simple enough. They had the quarter to fill two-hundred pages in a new sketchbook. The one rule: all sketches had to be drawn from life. People, animals, objects, it didn't matter. So long as it was observed, not imagined.
Most of the students had scoffed, some muttering about how easy and tedious the task seemed. They had just over three months to complete the assignment. Filling two-hundred pages before three months had passed? Piece of cake. But Gunter wasn't so sure.
He chewed the inside of his mouth and did the math. Three months was roughly twelve weeks. Twelve weeks was eighty-four days. If they were to complete the assignment on time, they'd need to fill at least three pages a day-plus their other class work. It sounded easy now, when they'd plenty of time between classes to spare. He wondered how daunting a task it'd be when midterms rolled around. Or even after the first couple weeks, when the aw yeah, i'm gonna tackle this assignment! phase had long worn off.
Gunter spent the first week trying to find things to draw. It started pretty easy, as predicted. He'd doodle passer-byers as he sat outside of his favorite cafe, or joggers during lunch breaks in the local park. He drew buildings and plants, dogs and birds as they bounced across branches or stalked the ground for stray fries. It took about a week to realize just how big this task was going to be. By Sunday night he'd filled a mere eighteen pages. Class assignments were picking up now that the first week of the quarter had passed, and he had less and less time to go to the cafe or the park. He'd already drawn just about every interesting looking object in his room. It was starting to look like he needed to find a better source if he wanted to complete this assignment at all.
He mentioned this concern to Erd on Friday afternoon. Despite the blinding sun, his friend had insisted they go to one of the less popular squares. Gunter could draw and he could skate. Gunter had agreed this would be a useful idea, and he'd began to draw Erd whenever he pulled a sharp pose on his skateboard. Erd, of course, had asked if the sketchbook was for a class. Gunter told him about the assignment.
"Maybe you should go to some of the clubs?" Erd suggested. He kicked his skateboard into his hands and twirled it once, tucking it under an arm. Gunter blinked and huffed. He'd been in the middle of drawing Erd's balancing exercise. He looked up at Erd and tilted his head.
"Clubs?"
"Yeah! Like, the swing-dance club. That club for pokemon and stuff-but, uh, shit. They just stand around in a circle with their gameboys, don't they?" Erd paused to rub his goatee. After a few seconds he snapped his fingers. "-Oh! Or. One of the sports teams. You could probably knock out a bunch of pages doing those, uh, gesture sketches. Like what you're doing with me."
It was a good idea. Gesture sketches were quick, easy, and he could fill up two pages in just a few minutes. The art department had life drawing sessions every Saturday, but that would only cover twelve of his eighty-four days. There also was no guarantee he'd be able to make it to each session. Having a large variety of clubs or sports teams to follow? It'd be useful for weeks he knew other activities would prevent him from weekend availability. Plus, clubs meant being around other students. Busy students. Students who wouldn't have time or attention to loom over his shoulders and ask questions. Some might, of course, but it was worth a shot. He'd rather risk a few curious gazes than get a lower than necessary grade on a major assignment.
The following day, Gunter checked one of the bulletin boards in the student center. He spotted a flyer for the swing-dance club Erd had mentioned. The pokemon flyer ( or so he assumed ) was half-torn away. There didn't seem to be anything up regarding the sports teams, and he frowned. Without knowing their schedules it pretty much pulled them out of the loop. Then, one caught his eye: a ballet club. They'd be meeting in a nearby building; an hour of lessons and group dance before a late evening of free-dancing.
He remembers the old Degas paintings of ballerinas. How elegant they were. The various slopes, curves and movements in their dancing. He imagines the excitement of catching it on paper. The raw motions and energy, flowing from his pencils. Ballerinas made the most painful and challenging positions look as easy as walking. They were incredible to watch.
Decision made. He'd go to the ballet class that evening.
"Who's that?"
Annie's eyes narrowed. She watched an unfamiliar boy slip through the studio doors and slink into a far corner. He settled close to their duffle bags and discarded sweaters, and a flash of suspicion buzzed through her veins. Mina bounded up beside her and poked her head over Annie's shoulder. She blinked once, and a wide smile split her features. Her finger poked Annie's shoulder and pointed discretely as possible as the stranger pulled a spiral bound book from his backpack.
"I dunno. But look! He's got a sketchbook! He must be another art student." She cupped a hand beside Annie's ear and whispered, "you think he'll draw us?"
"What are we? A bunch of French girls?" Annie said, masking a faint twitch in her lips. She cast the artist another wary glance, sighed, and stretched her arms to her sides. "Because that's not creepy at all."
"Annie, come on!"
"Come on, what?" Annie scoffed, frowning as she pulled away from her friend. She cast another sharp glance towards the corner of the room. The artist was looking in their direction but he adverted his gaze. She squinted, lips curling. Yeah, look away. I saw you.
Their instructor, a senior long involved in the club, called them together. Annie turned without another glance to the artist, and the dancers separated to the mirrored walls for warm ups.
Annie tilted, slow, side to side. She pliéd once, twice, grande plié. Once, twice again, and rose onto her toes to hold. She tried to keep her focus on her own movements. The routine practice, everything that needed to go into their warm ups. But she kept thinking, wondering, if the artist in the back of the room was drawing them. She'd catch herself shooting glances at his reflection. But every time she dared to check, he'd have his head ducked. His eyes would be focused on the book propped between his knees. It was starting to piss her off.
After a while, she gave up. She had more important things to do than watch some moron scribble away.
The warm ups concluded, and the dancers organized themselves into lines. They kept two arm's length apart. Once, Annie's eyes shifted to Mina, who was exchanging glances and giggling with Krista. Annie scowled at them and rolled her eyes, scratching the area just beneath her eye. She resisted the temptation to look in the artist's direction.
It wasn't the first time an artist had wandered into their studio to draw. But it didn't make her like it any more and it didn't irritate her any less. Especially when it was a new-new guest. Someone she'd never seen before. A few of the ones before him had been chatty and distracting. At least one guy hadn't drawn the whole time he was there. Instead, he'd tried flirting up a few of the girls ( one of the guys, too ). She wondered if any of the other girls felt the same tension she did, or if they were all enjoying the extra set of eyes like Mina was.
A snort worked its way into her throat and she glared ahead. The instructor played a simple song, piano, and they began a series of twirls, holds and movements. Annie closed her eyes and allowed her muscles to do the thinking, the feeling, for her.
Her arms swept at her sides and her body moved swift, smooth as a river. She pirouetted, feeling light as a feather. Gravity couldn't touch her when she danced. She couldn't feel strain on her toes as she slid back to heel and sole, floating through the motions. Only when the music had ended did she allow herself to exhale in full and her eyes to open. She rolled her shoulders back and straightened.
Annie shot a glance across the floor to the artist sitting in the corner. She was surprised to find herself disappointed when she realized his eyes were still glued to his sketchbook. His pencil performed its own crooked dance across the paper.
She pursed her lips. Her eyes squinted. He wasn't even watching. She looked from his face to the pencil, wrinkling her nose at its lopsided posture. He wasn't even holding his pencil like a normal person.
She rolled her eyes at herself, turning her attention away and letting it slide back to Mina. The girl smiled at her and she scowled in return, earning little more than a soft titter.
Their lesson carried on. From basic twirls and pliés, to more elaborate combinations. Once the warm-up and beginner's dance was complete, a few dancers moved to leave. The rest shuffled, organizing into their usual performance lines. Annie took a spot in the second row; close enough to see and hear the instructor but not too close. Too eager.
Annie glided across the floor, whirling with ease. She'd forgotten the silent one sitting in the corner of the room. She'd forgotten to even care anymore. She's lost to the gentle ballad, the movement, the way the world would spin and twist around her as she fluttered from place to place. The air came and went from her lungs in rhythm with the song. She felt as though it were something she'd been dancing to all her life. It was so familiar. So comforting and fluid, sweet as a good dream. She ended without swaying, her hands a delicate arc above her head.
As she reset for a second practice she caught a sudden movement. The artist scrambled through his backpack. She watched from the corners of her eyes as he fumbled out a small flip phone. He popped it open, placing it against his ear. The artist cupped a hand over his mouth and muttered into the speaker. Then, in a flash of movement, he scooped his bag over shoulder and half-jogged to the doors. And he was gone.
Annie furrowed her brows and frowned. He seemed to run off in quite a hurry... hope that wasn't an emergency or anything. She couldn't recall his expression; if he'd appeared worried or frightened.
Huh. Whatever. Not her problem.
Their practice continued until, finally, the instructor called it over.
Annie grabbed for her towel and water bottle, taking a long swig of the sweet, cool liquid. She exhaled and wiped down her face, shaking her hair out of her eyes. Mina and Krista pranced up to her, giggling and shooting glances at one of the other girls on the way over. Annie immediately gave them a suspicious arc of her brow, but said nothing. She'd let them do the talking.
"We're getting so good!" Mina said, taking a long drink of her water after. Krista nodded.
"Yeah! Do you think they'll let us perform this month?"
Annie frowned and shrugged, pursing her lips. "Who knows? Most of the other students like the hip-hop and jazz dancers better. Guess we'll find out."
"That's stupid," Mina muttered, but she nodded in agreement. The three walked to the corner to collect their things. Annie grabbed her bag and slung it over her shoulder. Mina suddenly grabbed her forearm and squeeze-shook it. Annie blinked when she was released and watched Mina hop over a bag to reach the spot the artist had occupied. Annie exchanged glances with Krista before they followed. Mina turned around, producing the sketchbook the artist had been holding. Her eyes were wide and bright as she whispered, "he forgot it!"
"Oh no," Krista said, holding one hand before her chin. "We need to return it to him."
"Why?" Annie grumbled, taking another sip of her water. "He lost it. It's his problem, not ours."
"Maybe his name's on the inside cover," Mina said. She began to open it, but Krista reached out and blocked her hand, her eyes widened.
"Mina!" She hissed, "you can't just open his sketchbook!"
"Why not?"
"Yeah, why not?" Annie echoed. Krista huffed, her cheeks puffing a little.
"I know a girl in the painting department, and she says a sketchbook is like an artist's diary. You're not supposed to look at it without permission. It's considered invasive."
"Well, now that you've put it like that." A devious smirk curled Annie's lips. "We should have a look."
Krista shot her a furious look but Mina seemed to brighten, tempted by the air of mischief. She giggled and plucked at the sketchbook's corner, her dark eyes shifting to the side.
"Aw, c'moooon, Krista," she cooed, wagging her brows. "You gotta admit-" and in a sing-song tone "-you're curious to see if he drew yoooou~."
"They always draw you," Annie said, arching a brow. "You might need to know if you have another creeper on board. Remember how the last one behaved?"
"That's true..." Krista frowned, fidgeting with the cuff of one of her leggings. She kept her eyes down. Annie knew they'd already won this one. By now, Krista's curiosity would be too strong for her usual angelic moral.
Sure enough, the girl huffed, casting a nervous glance over her shoulder. "Just-hurry. Before he gets back. He might've realized he forgot it."
"Eeee~!" Mina squealed, bouncing once before she flipped the first page back. It took a minute to get through the sketches. There was a cafe, drawings of a guy on a skateboard, some animals and a few random inanimate objects. Annie assumed they must be from the artist's room. Her nose wrinkled. She was beginning to wonder if he'd been drawing them at all, or if it was just a guise to be a creeper. But, almost as soon as she'd questioned as much, Mina turned the page. They all inhaled.
The pencil lines curved through the page, as graceful as any of the dancers. They captured the movements with so little effort. Even with a small number of lines, Annie could see each gesture from every dancer he'd sketched on the page. She knew each motion by heart. She could feel them in her bones as her eyes ghosted the paper. Mina turned to the next page, and Annie was so caught up in the sketches that she almost didn't notice a crucial detail. Unfortunately for her, Mina and Krista did.
"Annie," Mina breathed, her lips raising into an awed smile, and she placed her fingertips over them. Annie looked at her, squinted and frowned. She didn't like it when Mina looked at her like that. Usually it meant something. Something bad for her.
"What?"
"It's you."
Annie followed Mina's pointing finger to one of the drawings and scoffed. "Yeah? I figured he would have drawn me at least... once..."
She trailed off. As her eyes continued to skim the page, she began to see consistencies appearing in the ballerinas. Her bun. Her bangs. Her nose. The flimsy dress she wore over her practice clothes. It was her. Again and again and again, all over the page.
Mina and Krista stood in silence. She could feel both of them staring at her with some sort of anticipation. She didn't dare look at either of them, but snatched the book out of Mina's hands. Mina squeaked but didn't attempt to grab it back.
Annie flipped through the pages. A heat rose in her face, her chest and neck, as her likeness continued to show. Her again. Still her. Over and over, scrawled one beside the other so she could almost make out the routine they'd done. Her throat ran dry. Something in her stomach stirred.
She slammed the sketchbook shut. Mina and Krista jumped, both of them sliding an inch or two away from her in the process. She tore the sketchbook back open and flipped to the front page. Sure enough, there was a name.
"Gunter Shulz," she growled, shutting the covers again. She cast a glare towards the door and pursed her lips. Mina fidgeted beside her, toying with the ends of her rehearsal skirt.
"So... are ya gonna find him and give it back to him?"
"Oh, I'm going to give it to him," Annie said. Krista winced. Mina let out a soft, nervous laugh, placing a hand on Annie's arm.
"Annie, it's, uh. It's not-"
Annie pulled away, tucking the book under her arm as she adjusted the strap of her bag. She took a long swig of her water and frowned at Mina. Her lips peeled back in a mild snarl.
"Not what?"
"... Nevermind," Mina said, ducking her chin. Annie huffed, and she moved towards the door. Her eyes dipped, stealing a glance at the sketchbook as she pushed out of the studio. If she knew the artistic types, and she sort of did, he'd be back for the stupid thing in the morning. She just had to make sure she was there, and waiting for him.
He hadn't thought the day could get any worse.
Of course this had been the same night as Lana's school play. Of course he'd forgotten. Nadette had called him, all but hissing in his ear that he couldn't NOT show up. His heart had pounded in agreement. It threatened to burst from his chest, alien style, if he didn't fix the situation immediately. And he'd rushed from the studio. Somehow, he'd made it to the little theater on time. But luck didn't come without a price.
When he dug into his backpack later that evening, his sketchbook was no where to be found.
They were already almost two full weeks into the quarter. Fourteen days. At the rate classes were going he didn't know if he'd have time to purchase a new sketchbook and start over from scratch. Making up for dozens of pages of lost work? It seemed impossible.
The only place it could be, he realized, was on the dance studio floor. He hoped that no one would touch it. That he could just stop by first thing in the morning when the studio opened and collect it. He could slip in and out before his first class.
Fingers crossed, Gunter left his small apartment early the next morning. It was a short bike down to the studio. He locked his bike on the rack and jogged inside. He was about half-way down the hall when his heart twisted and sank.
One of the ballerinas stood at the end of the hall, right beside the studio doors. She leaned against the wall, a white hoodie pulled up to veil her profile. His throat soured when he thought he recognized the pale blue leggings she wore, the black dress. His sketchbook, held loose in the curl of her fingers, rested against her waist. It was obvious she was waiting for the owner. Which would mean, maybe, she hadn't opened it. She'd just assumed-correctly-that he'd show up to reclaim it.
A sense of shame engulfed him as he walked towards her. He tried to keep his eyes anywhere but on her. They focused as much as they could on the sketchbook in her grasp. Gunter reached her, silent, and stood. He expected her to say something first or look up, but she didn't move. Nerves tingled in his chest and he resisted the urge to pluck and pull at his hoodie sleeves.
"Gunter Shulz?"
She spoke so bluntly it almost made him jump. She knew his name? But that could only mean...
His eyes dropped to the sketchbook in her fingers. That would mean that she'd opened it. His stomach curled and he swallowed. Heat clouded in his cheeks and nose. A sense of self consciousness draped over him like a cold sheet. He wondered if she'd seen his scribbles, or if she'd only looked at the front page. That was where his name would be. Maybe there was hope yet.
He nodded.
"Yeah."
The ballerina scoffed, and she pushed off the wall to face him. His heart dropped further when his fears were confirmed. He prayed to any entity who'd listen that she hadn't ventured far into the pages. She regarded him coolly as she handed over the sketchbook. He bit the inside of his mouth and reached to take it. As he pulled back and the book resisted, his hand stopped. She hadn't released her end of the sketchbook. He looked up, flinching when he noticed she was still staring at him.
"You drew me," she said, tone flat. "A lot."
He shrank. He wanted to shrivel into the ground and disappear.
So she had looked. She'd looked and she'd been able to recognize herself. He'd never felt so stupid, so creepy, so just... Invasive in his life. His fingers loosened on his end of the sketchbook and he began to withdraw. She nudged the book closer and huffed.
"Why?"
Gunter accepted the sketchbook and held it against his chest. He wrapped one arm over it as the other hand scratched his neck. His lips pursed and he swallowed.
"You're, uh. A good dancer."
"I know that," she said, expression dull. "But so are the other girls. So don't try that 'special snowflake' singling out bullshit."
He bit his lip. She stared at him for a few more seconds before she scoffed, turning her head to glare in the other direction. Gunter shifted his weight from foot to foot; he adjusted the sketchbook in his arms. He wasn't sure how to put it into words without sounding creepy or weird. Artist terms sometimes came off that way to people who didn't know how their brains ticked, what their eyes noticed. But he had to come up with something. She obviously wasn't okay with this situation.
"You... I could, uh. See the music in you."
Her head tilted to one side. The answer seemed to irritate her further. He shook his head, prying the sketchbook open and thumbing at the pages until he found the drawings of her. He turned the sketchbook in his hands and held it out to her, shaking his head.
"Look. I-it... you flow. All your S-curves are perfect."
One of her brows quirked. "My curves?"
"Yeah. -I mean-no! I-"
He stuttered and trailed off, shrinking again when her eyes flicked upward and scrutinized him. Gunter swallowed, shutting the book and tucking it back under his arm.
She must think him weird or disturbed. Especially since he'd mentioned the curves. Idiot. Only artists understand what that means; that's not some sort of perverted comment. He cringed at the thought, gnawing on the inside of his mouth and wishing he could just melt into the floor. Of course, that wasn't possible. The ballerina was quiet, both brows raised. For a split second he thought her irritation had dissolved into entertainment. As though she found his uncomfortable state to be quite the laugh. Then, she snorted.
"Uh-huh."
He could have cringed. Nothing said 'unconvinced' quite like that sound.
Gunter bowed his head, shrugging his shoulders in signal he wasn't sure what else could be added to that. How he could excuse himself any further. She must have felt so awkward and embarrassed seeing that he'd only drawn her. There'd been at least a dozen other dances on the floor and he'd only focused on her. He felt the heat in his face grow more intense. And he hated himself for not having gone to the swing-dance club instead. For having left his sketchbook behind at all.
The ballerina sighed and tilted her head.
"Is that an artist thing?"
"What?"
"'S-curve'?"
"-Yes," he said, maybe a bit too quickly. One of her brows lowered. He swallowed, nodding again.
That didn't seem to help his case. But, she grew tired and sighed, shaking her head at herself and resting her hands on her hips. She stared at him, studied him up and down. He felt his insides shrivel and fidgeted with the corner of his sketchbook as she scrutinized him. He couldn't tell if she was angry or miffed or even the slightest bit irritated. She wore a poker face well.
"Is this for a class?" She asked. He nodded.
"Action analysis."
"What's the assignment?"
"Two-hundred pages filled by the end of the quarter."
The ballerina pursed her lips.
"... whatever," she grumbled, ducking to pick up her backpack. He blinked as she shrugged it onto her shoulders and turned to look at him. "If you decide to show your face again, try to draw the other girls. You're going to make them jealous. Or give them dumb ideas."
He felt his face heat to his ears and he nodded.
She snorted and brushed past him, rolling her eyes as she strode on. He remained silent until he was certain she was a ways away. But just as he turned to pull his own pack from his shoulders, she spoke up.
"It's Annie, by the way," she said. And the ballerina walked away. He stared after her as she disappeared through the glass doors and strolled down the sidewalk. He stared for a bit too long, maybe. After a while, his shoulders sank into place, and he felt a sigh leave him in a slow exhale. He worked his backpack off and wedged his sketchbook inside. After a double-check to make sure it was really there, he zipped the pack shut and slung it over his shoulder.
Gunter mounted his bike and started down the road, sitting up and casting an upward glance. The sky was overcast. Gray, with a slight chance of golden sun. He'd always preferred these sorts of days.
As he biked back, he thought of her. How what he told her had been the truth. But only part of it.
When she started dancing, he'd been entranced. She moved with such precision and grace. She'd flowed with the music as though she was bound to it, carried herself with confidence and without question. There'd been something different and deliberate about each of her movements, no matter how small. He'd noticed immediately; the artist's eye, if you will. Able to pick out an individual's characteristics, what makes them who they are. What makes them unique. He'd noticed hers. Or some of them, at least. When she danced she was untouchable by gravity. She was one with the melodies, weightless and happy. And he hadn't been able to take his eyes off of her.
Maybe he would go back to the studio. He'd filled a whole ten pages, after all. Might be worth it.
She caught herself again. Her eyes would dart to the mirror, skim the back corner for signs of his reflection. It'd been a full week. The night was just beginning. He was late. If he was coming at all.
Annie snarled under her breath, forcing her eyes back to her own reflection. She continued to roll her toes, from the ball of her feet all the way over to the tops and back again. She didn't know why she kept looking for him. He'd probably be too embarrassed to show back up. What did she care? And yet, she felt that tiny swell of disappointment grow with each and every glance to find the corner vacant.
She closed her eyes and exhaled, lifting onto her toes and circling her arms and hands in front of her. Whatever. She was here to dance. To continue perfecting her abilities even while away from her home studio or out of classes. She didn't need to worry about-
"Psst!"
Annie's eyes snapped open, and she shot Mina a sharp glance. Mina smiled, tipping her eyes and head towards the mirror. Annie turned her head, and her eyes locked with the artist's. Gunter Shulz ducked his gaze, fast but not fast enough.
A flutter filled her chest, and she hated herself for it. But, for once, she didn't care if they had an audience.