School started up again a week later. Though she spoke on the phone with Garry every night after her parents went to bed, about the gallery and school and and other things, Ib couldn't help but feel apprehensive. She had never liked school much, not the classes nor the people in them. She was much better off alone (or with Garry, whatever the case might be now) and knew that her classmates found her more than a little strange. She didn't mind. During recess she sat and read, or drew in the small sketchbook her parents bought for her.
She used to have crayons, but threw them out. She was starting to hate the smell.
In any case, school began as usual and Ib entered the fourth grade. She sat in the back of the classroom and pulled her sketchbook out, deciding to doodle before class started. Though she intended to draw a bunch of flowers, the outline somehow blurred in the process and turned into a single rose, dripping petals. Ib stared at it, feeling uneasy. The blue ink of her pen didn't help matters.
She tore the page out and began anew, but this drawing turned into a mannequin in a dress with its head lying on the ground beside it, crying darkly shaded tears. The next, a leering woman with glittering dark hair encased in a picture frame. Then a doll with a stitched mouth and wild hair.
All the images were familiar and Ib hated them all. Why couldn't she just stop? The gallery was determined to haunt her wherever she went, it seemed.