/083. And.
Senior year, Dib takes an art class on a whim. He needs a break from all his hard sciences and their linear thought pattern. He needs something fun, because English class really isn't. Intro to art is open, and he's Membrane's son and the class salutorian (second to Zim, which grinds his nerves) so he gets in.
The class is mostly freshmen, a few sophomores, and two other seniors come in to paint and work during that class period because they have other classes that take precedence over the advanced art hour but they want to keep up with their AP work. Gretchen and Zita have both specialized somewhat in art, apparently, and they both shine. They're friends now; bristling in-you-face Zita and sweet Gretchen, he'd never have guessed.
After all his anatomy and drafting sketches, Dib has a passable, even hand – he discovers this, when his drawings don't come off badly when compared with the rest of the class. He has a little natural talent and lots of practice, and his pictures don't look all that clumsy even when they're up against Zita's conte or Gretchen's charcoals.
What he lacks is a good sense of color. His acrylics are smeary and low contrast, and the never-drying oils are a nightmare, plain and simple. He doesn't both to carry a paint palette home because no amount of out-of-class work is going to salvage his paintings and really, he tells himself, he's barely bothering with this class.
It's a surprise (a huge surprise) when after class one day Gretchen comes blushingly up to him and asks if she can paint his portrait, in oils, because they're her favorite.
"Why me?" he asks blankly, staring while she shuffles her feet and her shoulders collapse. Zita glares at him over her friend.
"We think you have an interesting face," she says, scowling, which is probably an insult, really. They don't clash per se but Zita isn't fond of him. In fact, she's annoyed with him a lot, which makes him feel a little awkward and a little smug all at once.
He runs his hand through his hair, thinking about after school, keeping an eye on Zim and his own personal projects that are running down in the lab. When he opens his mouth to refuse, "okay" pops out.
They meet at her house after school. Gretchen has a canvas stretched and prepared, and her parents aren't home. They're going to be alone together for however long this takes. Dib yanks nervously at his collar, beginning to sweat a little – because he's not that oblivious, seriously, he does have an idea at what might be at the root of this. But she just makes him sit down at the kitchen table, and take off his leather jacket.
The kitchen is warm, the light is cool – winter light, glassy and still, spilling in through the big windows. Even Dib after this little training can tell that this light will look good on him. It makes his start, disparate colors dramatic, like a plate photograph.
"Where should I look?" he asks her. Gretchen fiddles with her brush.
"I don't know. Wherever you want."
So, intently, curiously, he looks at her.
She paints for about an hour, an hour fifteen... she gets absorbed quickly, and stops blushing when she glances at his face. It's good to have the chance to really look at her. She has good teeth and her wrists are slender and pale, loose as she paints. Sitting like this is a good excuse just to look, without fear or shame or compunction. It's been a long time since he watched another human this closely, and was looked at back.
Probably, she could go a lot longer without noticing, but the timer she set buzzes and snaps her out of the trance. She gives her brushes a last swish in the turpentine and smiles embarrassedly at him.
"Can I see?" he asks, although he's been looking at her for just as long as she's been looking at him, and has nothing to show for it. She widens her eyes at him, but nods.
A painting – the painting makes him look different. This painting is all carefully and meticulously about him, his face, his shoulders, his arm hooked over the back of the chair. There are bare trees stark in the background. His jaw is sharp, the bridge of his nose sharp, his lips are pale and severe. She's got the scar through his eyebrow where Zim just barely marked him once. His features are a little cloudy yet, though, and she hasn't really started on his eyes. He can already see how she'll use the ocher paint laid down on the background to build his eye color, and how his dark pupils will match the interesting multilayered darkness of his jacket slung over the chain.
"I like it," he says softly. Gretchen smiles, fast and shy. "Should I come back tomorrow?"
She stares at him a moment, then fervently: "Yes."
"Okay," he says, laughing, feeling abruptly self-conscious, more so than usual. He always feels self conscious because he has to know where his body is, if he's fighting. Also, he's curious, about everything else, about this too. "So, hey, why are oil paints your favorites?"
She's silent for a little, putting her tubes of color back into her paint box – Alizarin and cadmium red, ultramarine and pthalo blue... Then: "Well, y'know... an oil painting, really it, ah, it can take years to finish, because it takes years to dry. You know, the good artists in the old days... they painted and painted but they didn't really see them finished." Her eyes are the same color as his, he can see; and deep, wide, intense. Struggling to convey something. "Because an oil painting isn't finished 'til it dries, and if there's enough paint it could take forever. And the colors might change, some, or the top might crackle and show what's underneath. Years and years, you just don't know. There's always something that might happen, might change. You don't know." She hesitates lamely, and concludes. "...that's why."
"So... a gamble. Wow." Dib pauses. "...Wow. That's got to be the longest speech I've ever heard you make." Her blush is positively fiery. She looks away.
She walks him to the door, and lets him out. He turns around on her front step before this door can close, because suddenly, he really wants to step back through it. "So I'll see you tomorrow," he says.
"Don't forget," she replies, suddenly pleading, looking up at him.
Dib looks back at her. Really looks. He says, "I won't."
3.23.08
They're cute together.
