4. Even though he enjoys being the center of attention, there's something about others looking at his artwork that makes him feel self-conscious.
Odd's mother is a sculptor by trade but a creator by passion. That's what she says to anyone who asks after her work, usually accompanied with a smile or the self-conscious tucking of hair behind her ear. Some of Odd's earliest memories are of lying on the worn floorboards of her studio in the back garden. The studio had started out as a shed before his father had walled it in, before the large glass windows were put in, before his mother created a space just for her.
It was a spot where his sisters rarely dared to tread, too busy playing or fighting amongst themselves in the main house. His mother would hand him a lump of unmoulded clay and leave him to play while she worked on vases, plates, pots, or statues. He'd listen to the soft instrumentals she'd have playing, the slightly off-rhythm rasp of the potter's wheel, and mould his clay clump into snakes or dragons, snowmen or primitive knights.
He was never very good at creating with clay, of forming shapes that were three dimensional and could support themselves, but he enjoyed the feeling of letting his imagination run wild with no repercussions. It was peaceful. It was a start.
. . … . .
"What're you working on?"
"Nothing."
He shifts the sketchbook aside, away from Jan's curious eyes. The other boy doesn't take the hint and Odd frowns as Jan leans over the table to get a better look at his drawing.
"Why did you draw so many legs?"
Odd frowns at his drawing. "It's Sleipnir," he explains. "He has eight legs."
"It looks weird." Jan adjusts his glasses. "Why not draw something normal looking?"
Odd flips the cover of the sketchbook closed. He's been going through a "mythology phase" as his father likes to say. Norse, Greek, Celtic…He likes the different types of gods and the magic. He imagines they could make cool art or video games. At Jan's words he can't help but wonder if he'd been wrong.
He shrugs at the other boy. "Normal is just another way of saying boring. I don't want to be boring."
"Yeah," Jan replies after a moment, "but the assignment was to draw an animal. I don't think eight-legged horses are animals."
"Of course they are," Odd protests. He crosses his arms over his chest and frowns at Jan. "What else would they be?"
Nevertheless, at the end of the week he hands in a drawing of a regular four-legged horse to their teacher. He can't help but notice how boring it looks. Sleipnir would have been so much cooler.
/
"The Achilles heel of an artist lies in the hope that his art is good. Kapil Gupta."
Odd looks up from where he's sitting in the back garden, sketching mindlessly. Or, rather, erasing his mindless sketches. His mother is leaning against the door to her studio, overalls decorated in a splatter of paint and dry clay.
"What, Mamma?"
"Why are you erasing your art, Odd?"
Odd snorts and looks back at the half finished sketch on his page. He'd been trying for something epic. Something with substance, but something that also showed movement. A lined face, a raised sword. Something out of history or mythology. His attempt had been poor and lifeless.
"It's not very good," he says critically.
His mother crosses the garden to sit next to him. Wordlessly, she takes the sketchbook from him and studies the half-formed idea. "May I?" she asks. He shrugs and refrains from wincing as she flips backwards through the pages. The drawings are childish, the lines unsteady. He studies the grass beneath his feet so that he doesn't have to see her expression as she looks through his doodles.
"You have an eye for detail," she says finally. She's stopped on the picture of Sleipnir he'd drawn last school year. Her finger traces the curved neck, the lifted feet, the wild eye. "You can get the emotion across so that the viewer feels something, that is a skill few can master."
"You're just saying that."
She stares at him steadily, eyebrows arched. "Have I ever lied to you, Odd?"
"No, Mamma."
"Then why would I start now?" She turns back to the sketch. "You struggle with faces, with making them three-dimensional. That is also a difficult skill. It's why I prefer working with clay and pottery, in a way it's easier. Paper you have to manipulate, you have to coax it into showing that side of itself. Clay is pliable, it does what you will it to."
She flips back to the sketch he'd been erasing. "A human is not flat, they have a soul, a life. That is what you need to capture. Whether it's in the glint of the eyes, the crook of a smile, maybe a hidden dimple or the tapering of a musician's fingers. Find that and the rest will come."
"Is that all I have to do?" he asks glibly, rolling his eyes.
She thumps him on the shoulder with his sketchbook before handing it back. "I don't want to see you erasing your art like that again. Keep practicing. You have a good eye."
. . … . .
"Mr. Della Robbia," Mrs. Hertz says. He ignores her long-suffering sigh and thin-lipped look, he's pretty sure at this point that this is just her look. Instead, he smiles brightly at his chemistry teacher and tries to look as innocent as Jeremie. Her frown deepens. "While I appreciate the creativity, you do not need to illustrate the answers for chemical decomposition."
"I thought it would add clarity to the process," he counters.
"Regardless, there are not zombie chemicals." She sets his exam down in front of him and shakes her head as she moves to the next table.
"What?" Odd asks, catching Jeremie's horrified look.
"You didn't," the other blonde questions.
"He did," Ulrich confirms, flipping through Odd's exam. "I do like the X's on the chemical eyes. That's a nice touch."
"Thank you," he says, bowing as much as the table will allow. "I aim to please."
Jeremie groans and looks a bit sick.
/
Ulrich had claimed fatigue from traveling and retreated upstairs shortly after supper. Odd hadn't thought much about it at the time. He'd stayed downstairs, ignoring Louise's pointed questions about his friend and teasing Marie about her spray-tan mishap. Honestly, it's her own fault. He and Marie are the fairest of their siblings, there's no way they'll ever be anything but pale.
He wanders upstairs to his room about an hour after Ulrich had retreated. He's expecting him to be asleep. Or maybe on the phone with Annie or Yumi. Maybe Jeremie. So, he's surprised to see Ulrich has retrieved the stray canvases tucked in the corner of the room and has propped them up against any flat surface he can find. He's studying them silently.
"What are you doing?" Odd questions. He tries to make his voice sound light, pleasant, maybe curious. It comes out thin and reedy to his ears, too needy, too exposed.
Ulrich is crouched in front of one of them. It's a painting of his father dressed as Radamès from Verdi's Aida. He'd never finished the background of the painting, but he's pleased with how his father looks, a mix of shadows and spotlight. Ulrich has the portrait positioned next to one of Pauline wandering a shoreline.
"My mother paints," Ulrich says. His voice is soft, thoughtful. Odd lets his bedroom door close, leans against the wall and watches his best friend examine the paintings.
"I didn't know that."
"Not like this," Ulrich adds. He stands, turning toward the bed and Odd is thankful that Ulrich hasn't gone through his sketchbooks. He doesn't know why he didn't hide the paintings as soon as they got here. Ulrich's fingers reach out, brush the air in front of the painting of Kiwi. "Sometimes I forget that you have real talent."
Odd's face heats and he shakes his head, scoffs loudly. "Yeah, right," he agrees. "I just get bored."
Ulrich glances over his shoulder at him. He looks serious and Odd feels his smile fade slightly. "I mean it," he says. "You're really good, even if you pretend you aren't."
"Yeah, well, thanks." He pushes off the wall and begins to gather the canvases. "So, why were you rooting through my personal artwork?"
Ulrich shrugs, helps him replace the canvases in the corner and drape a sheet over them. "I was curious," he admits. "I saw the one of your sister's graduation downstairs and wondered if there were more."
Odd pauses, startled. Not many people realize the painting of Adele in her cap and gown were done by him. He's surprised Ulrich does. "Yeah, well, next time ask, okay? What if there was something embarrassing in there?"
He turns and catches Ulrich's amused look. "Like that'd be anything new."
/
"Have you thought of entering this year's art competition?" Mr. Andriesse questions. Odd jumps at the question, pulling his headphones down around his neck. He hadn't heard the art teacher approach. "I know Monsieur Chardin has mentioned you joining the short film competition, but I think you'd do well in the art category as well."
Odd shrugs and turns back to the watercolor he'd been working on. He hates water colors, has never had the patience for them, but this piece had demanded them. And Odd is nothing if not obliging. He has to admit the watercolors do a good job of muting the image, making it look fuzzy and dreamlike. The vague figure of a young girl half hidden in the ripples of water.
"Emily's work is better," Odd states. It isn't a lie. He's seen her work, the richness of the colors she gets, the technique she employs. She's not good at people, but her landscapes are something to be paused at, something to take in.
"In some ways," Mr. Andriesse agrees. He shakes his head. "It's a mystery that two of my best students don't see the value in their own work."
Odd laughs brightly. "Maybe we're just humble," he jokes. "I'll think about it."
"Do," Mr. Andriesse presses. He steps away, retreating back to the stack of canvases he's evaluating from the lower classes.
Odd studies his painting, the way the blues and greens hint at a forested area. The smudge of the girl or faerie standing in the middle. There's no way he can enter this painting, even if he wanted to. Jeremie would have his head the second they unveiled it. Odd shrugs, pulls his headphones back on, and resumes painting. That solves that.
/
It isn't the first time Einstein's caught him sketching, but it is the first time the other boy actively takes an interest in it. It's still early Sunday morning, crisp in the factory, and only a bit of dim yellow light spilling through the high factory windows. Odd had woken first, a crick in his neck and an ache in his shoulder. The others were still asleep, exhausted after a night of running drills and listening to Einstein's techno-babble.
Odd had pulled out his sketchpad, braced it against his folded knees, and begun work on sketching out his friends as they slept on the floor. He becomes aware of Jeremie waking, the soft groan that speaks of stiffened muscles and mistreated necks, the rattle of the computer chair moving. Odd keeps his eyes focused on his three subjects. The light is hitting them in such an interesting way.
Ulrich is closest to him, face half turned into the fold of his arm. Then Aelita, curled up and nose wrinkled as though she's about to sneeze. Yumi looks peaceful, relaxed, on Aelita's other side, hand curled in a strangely innocent way. He hears Jeremie get up, stumble in the gloom and cold over to his side.
Odd keeps his shoulders loose, keeps his hand light as he sets to work darkening Ulrich's hair, shadows Aelita's face. He finds it interesting that the brightest, most innocent of all of them is the one half hidden in the darkness. It's a nice juxtaposition, he thinks. A way of highlighting Lyoko's hold on her, even still. He isn't sure if he likes it or hates it.
"It's good," Jeremie says. He sounds surprised, maybe a tinge regretful which Odd almost laughs at.
"Thanks, Einstein," he says instead. He shifts his focus to Ulrich's hand, resting near his hip like he's reaching for a sword. "Not that I don't like an audience, but you're kinda hovering."
"Sorry," Jeremie replies. He steps aside and Odd spares a glance to see him move to a clean spot nearby.
Odd feels his fingers relax.
/
They gather around Yumi's kitchen table, pizza and pink-frosted cupcakes devoured. Odd had teased Aelita about not getting black ones, but the strawberry flavor had paired nicely with the champagne Yumi's parents had brought out. He catches Ulrich's eye, winks at him just to see him roll his eyes. As usual, Ulrich doesn't disappoint.
Yumi's just finished unwrapping Aelita's graduation gift and there's a lot of squealing and hugging going on over there. Odd's used to it from his sisters, even if he's never really understood it. Jeremie's wearing his usual perplexed look, watching the two girls like he's studying them for science or something. Odd wonders if Jeremie realizes how creepy he can be sometimes.
"Alright, alright, enough," Odd shouts. He nudges his own gift towards Yumi. "Saved the best for last."
"Is it going to explode?" Yumi questions, eyebrow raised.
Odd scoffs lightly. "Of course not. I wouldn't do that to your mother."
Yumi rolls her eyes, but she takes the package. It's a long slim rectangle and she frowns curiously at it, trying to guess what it is by its weight. Odd rolls his eyes and crosses his arms over his chest. He can't help but bounce his foot at how long she's taking. It's ridiculous how slow she is at opening gifts, almost as bad as Einstein who needs to save the paper.
"Come on," he snaps.
Yumi raises her eyebrows at him, but she pulls the paper off. Below it is a thin sheet of cardboard, and below that the painting he'd spent most of the semester working off-and-on completing.
"I wasn't sure what your apartment was going to look like," he says. "But, I know you and you'll probably wait until later to get art. Something about necessities and all that. And I figured…I don't know. I mean, it's not a toaster, but art can be useful too, y'know?"
He has to physically bite his tongue to stop rambling. The others have also fallen quiet, studying the painting. It's more impressionistic than he usually does, but he thinks it fits Yumi. She's made up of all these ideas, all these contradictions and colors, that up close they blur together into something else. Evening blue. Dark trees. Soft rain. Hint of poppies. For remembrance.
"So, yeah, if it doesn't work with your design element, it's cool."
"You painted this?" Yumi questions, looking up at him. Odd shrugs, doesn't deny it. "This is…it's beautiful, Odd. Thank you."
He doesn't expect her to pull him into a hug, but he doesn't hesitate to return it either.
/
Aelita calls him from Venice. She's breathless with excitement as she describes the gondolas and the canals, the decaying grandeur of the slowly-sinking city, the hanging plants and carnival masques. Odd listens to her, imagines he's walking those old streets, crossing the bridges, listening to accordion music and smelling the stagnant air of low tide.
"I wish you could see it," she sighs. "I'd love to see how you'd capture it."
"I'm sure a postcard could capture it just as well, if not better. Or that camera of yours. Take lots of pictures to show me when you get back."
"You sell yourself short, Odd."
"Nah," he laughs. "I just know my strengths."
"Mm."
"Come on," he coaxes, "tell me what else you've seen, what else you've done."
Aelita sighs. "Jeremie and I visited-"
"Einstein's there?" he asks, surprised. "I thought he was visiting you in Switzerland."
She's quiet for a moment, but it's a happy kind of quiet. His eyebrows raise even if she can't see him. "He decided to take the train to Venice with me," she replies.
"Aelita," he says, mock-seriously, "is there something you haven't told me?"
She laughs, soft and musical. It's a sound he's found he's missed. "I'm sure there are many things," she teases.
"Aelita!"
"My card's running out. I'll send a postcard!"
Odd stares at his phone incredulously as the line goes dead. He shakes his head, but can't suppress his smile.
. . … . .
Pauline is helping him pack. For real this time. Not just for a semester or a school year, but for permanent. Odd still can't quite wrap his head around the idea. Judging by the amused, indulgent looks Pauline shoots his way she understands.
"Are you bringing all the canvases?" she asks. She's facing the stack that has taken over a corner of his room, piled precariously on top of each other. Odd hesitates, staring at the sheet covering them.
"No," he replies after a moment. "There wouldn't be any room in the flat."
Pauline nods. "Mind if I take some for my own house?" she asks. Before he can reply she's pulled the sheet off and is rifling through the stacked canvases.
"Hey!"
"What, you want them to sit up here gathering dust for eternity?" she questions. She flips through the larger canvases, studying and discarding each one precisely. "You know, we were jealous of you. Elisabeth and me."
"Well, of course. I'm awesome."
Pauline shoots him a withering look and he shrugs unrepentantly. "With an ego that big I'm surprised you could fit your head through the door."
"Don't be jealous." He shifts from foot-to-foot, goes to empty out his dresser so he doesn't have to see his sister go through his artwork. "So, why were you jealous?"
"Well, maybe envious would fit better," she admits. "You had this gift, this connection to Mamma. The two of you could sit and talk about art for hours, or sit quietly and just do. We couldn't do that." She pulls out a painting, stands and stares at it. "You two would disappear into her studio and completely lose track of time."
"You could've joined us."
Pauline looks over at him, her blue-gray eyes unreadable. Their mother's eyes. "No, we couldn't," she replies simply. She turns her attention back to the painting. "Is this supposed to be me?"
Odd wanders over, peering over her shoulder at the painting she's holding. "Oh, yeah." It's the painting of her wandering the shoreline in the late evening, the tide pulling at her feet and her burnt orange skirt fluttering just above the waves. "From a few years ago."
"I remember. I loved that skirt." She sighs wistfully and then steps back, still holding the painting. "I'm taking this one."
"Of course, you've always been a narcissist." He dodges her half-hearted punch.
"You're impossible. And to think I was just being nice and complimenting you. I'm glad you'll be in another country," she sniffs.
He pulls her into a hug, careful of the canvas still in her hands. "I'll miss you too."