Suspicion is a Healers' Guide: A Possible Perspective by Ivy Mello
Disclaimer: Characters in the book Speak belong to Laurie Halse Anderrson.
Chapter One
"A true artist paints from the canvas of their soul," Mr. Freeman explains. Rapid hand gestures cease only to dive into a pale of blue paint. "Just splash that baby on their and bam- the birth of a masterpiece!"
Okay already, was all I thought, if you're going to fake an accent, do it right please. A couple of students snickered in the last two rows behind me against the back wall.
"Brits and their 'don't do this wack' shiz," somebody whispered. Chuckles grew like a wave. Travis Petrakis, who sits behind me, answered with his big brainy mouth.
"Be quiet, Zuko."
I slid my canvas closer and was absorbed into the acrylic paint of a grape vine.
"Make me, Petrakis," Zuko hissed back.
Thunder clapped from up front. Mr. Freeman frowned at the both of them.
"I appreciate your input David, but please settle down before a riot starts," He states.
Thank you.
Fifteen minutes after cupping blobs of purple imperfection onto the grape vine, Mr. Freeman called on me to come front to his desk.
"Yes?" I asked, hiding a bit of agitation from being distracted abruptly.
He hesitated. I followed his finger toward the back of the room. One quiet mouse with red hair and brown glasses hid quietly, shrunk and concentrating in the corner.
"You know her, right? Silent girl, eh?" He whispered.
Hands folded around the corners of the canvas in order to remain secluded from attention. Melinda Sardino shrunk lower behind her desk. Her slick paint brush lifted, elbows relaxed on the desk. She was forging herself to turn a deaf ear.
I sighed.
"She's just… I don't quite know," I exclaimed. And it wasn't any of my business.
"You two will cooperate very well together. Partners, go on to it!"
"Okay then."
I gathered my paint tubes into a stack and leveled them onto my canvas, a distance from the wet paint. I slid them onto the desk beside hers, the one with the squeaky chair and wads of dried gum under the cubby hole.
Melinda glanced over for a second notified me, nodded a greeting, and drew back to her work. I slid my chair closer to hers and peered over her shoulder. Specks of yellow gleamed in a hazy navy fog hovering over a palm bush horizon.
"That's impressive." No doubt to lying.
"Thanks." She raised her eyebrows and shook vigorously. She needed to let go of some stress.
"Are you alright?" I asked. I gently touched her shoulder. It shook some more in response. A trance was making her stone face stiffen. A flashback? Her fingers fled from behind the canvas to the covers of her desk.
"You're bleeding," I shot out of my seat. "Mr. Freeman!"
"No, wait, it's alright," Melinda bit her lip. I grabbed her by the wrist. Mr. Freeman caught up instantly.
"Ivy, here is a pass for you each. Bring her to the nurse's office pronto."
I led her out the door. The absence of noise struck us in the hallway. Were those our hearts speeding up like bullets?
"Honestly it's no big deal," She applied pressure to the wound.
"Melinda, it's half the size of a coconut. You'll need anti-bacterial ointment and a wash cloth. Gauge too."
I swear I could see a relieving smile peek from within her dismal expression. Just for a split second, because then the nurse came rushing at us with warm hands wrapped in latex gloves.