Allison sat in her math classroom ten minutes after the bell had gone to signal the beginning of lunch. Her math teacher, an older man with a head of thick grey hair, still sat at his desk. He hadn't even noticed the bell or the fact that one of his students was studiously drawing his bent head as the minutes slowly ticked by. Allison sat in her customary seat at the back of the classroom, farthest from the door, and inked in the weathered lines of age around her subject's ears. The hair had been difficult to draw, as it was hard to do grey with blank ink, but eventually she decided to give her tired math teacher the black hair she imagined he wished for.
The sunlight streamed in through the dirty glass in shafts of broken light, casting a soft glow over her page but making the varnished wood of her desk seem to glare. The words 'This is my desk. Fuck off or die" were prominent in the already-marred wood, but Allison stared intently at the page in front of her. There was a faint scratching of pens in the room for the next seven minutes, and then Allison finished her brilliant piece of artwork and had exited the room.
Her math teacher sat, still oblivious to her presence –or lack thereof- peering at the papers on his desk with unseeing eyes.
Lunch time was one of her least favourite times of the day. When she was in class she could melt into the background, fade into the woodwork, but when she was at lunch she stood out. As the other students milled around the fields in large and small groups, Allison couldn't help but feel conspicuous on her own.
She perched herself on a bench and began scanning the scenes before her for something to draw. The inked drawing of her math teacher was still unfinished, but somehow she couldn't bring herself to add the finishing touches – thinking about how unhappy and lifeless he looked made her sad.
Eventually her eyes settled on a group of boys just behind the gym, rolled pieces of paper in hand and smoke wafting up into the late summer sky. She pulled a thick pen from her bag and flipped to a new piece of paper. Blank pieces of paper always made her happy. It was just so clean and pure, waiting for something, for anything, to make it pretty or grubby or inspiring or whatever the person wanted.
She drew for half of lunch, making the focus of her drawing one boy in particular. He looked so sure of himself that Allison was sure he wasn't. Eventually she finished, satisfied with the way the smoke had turned out, and she lay down on the bench with her sketchbook open on her stomach.
She held the book up awkwardly to block out the sun, and flipped quickly through the pages. She couldn't remember a time when she hadn't drawn. It was the easiest way to make yourself invisible. So long as you looked like you were doing something productive, and as long as you had something to show for it, then people would leave you alone.
People were always trying to compliment Allison on her drawings, peering over her shoulder as she worked and making noises of approval. That was why she'd stopped taking art, after grade seven. They always wanted her to use more colour, to draw happy people in happy places. To, as they said, put her talents to good use. But her drawings were for her, and for the people she drew, even though they didn't know it. Besides, she couldn't stand the praise. The drawings were good, and she knew that without being smug about it, but there was always something wrong. Maybe the lines weren't quite right, or the shading changed or there was something missing. Why couldn't they see it?
"Hey, what's this?" The sketchbook was suddenly yanked from her hands and Allison shut her eyes quickly to keep out the sun. There was the soft sound of pages turning, and she slowly sat up and opened her eyes. It was the boy who she'd sketched, looking arrogant once again.
"You're not bad at this, you know that?" Allison had never met someone who could compliment her drawing while sounding like he was mocking her at the same time.
"You always sit out here, alone? Not saying anything?" He stared at her, still idly flipping the pages. "Maybe, 'cause you're alone too long, you don't remember how to talk. Is that it?"
"See now, this is just getting silly. What's the use of me talking to you if you're not going to answer? I could just talk and talk and talk-"
"I'd rather you didn't," Allison broke in, quickly snatching the book out of his hands.
He grinned at her triumphantly. "I knew I could get you to talk."
Allison folded her legs up underneath her and clutched her sketchbook protectively.
He leaned back and slung one of his arms over the back of the bench. Allison studied him. When she'd drawn him, she'd captured some of the arrogance, but now, up close, she could tell there was a lot she was missing.
The bell sounded, but neither moved. After a few moments, Allison slowly stretched her legs out, stood up, and crept away silently. He grinned after her.
As soon as she entered English, she began sketching again, trying to capture the overwhelming overconfidence that the boy had portrayed. By the end of last period, she had it down. A mischievous smirk, a glint in his eye, and a casual lean against a brick wall.