Thanks for the reviews last chapters. I wish I know more about what you think about this if possible. ^^ I made this just for you, because now, I'm a little alive out of school. xD Good thing Drina isn't here and it's about Art! ~
Oh yeah, I disclaim Evermore. If I own it, well, you know what'll happen to Damen lol. :3
Apparently, I modelled for someone in a short time (and I wanted to make that time short in that moment, not wanting to expose myself to the world much) when back when I live at New York, before I move to New Mexico and here for Ever.
Even though everyone laughs hard and solid as they passed it to one another – girls are giggling more than they ever did when they first saw me – Only Ever noticed something.
If Damen just moved here from New Mexico and not New York, well, doesn't it seem like he should've looked a little bit younger in that picture? Because I can't think of anyone who looks exactly the same at seventeen as they did at fourteen, or even fifteen, and yet, that thumbnail on Miles's Sidekick showed Damen looking exactly the same as he does right now. And it just doesn't make any sense.
Her idea sure is catchy and true, can make sense to everyone if ever she talks about it. And she learned not to talk about 'normal' things she observes – pretty normal to us like physic powers, about auras and rainbows – to the real normal people.
Art class today, second to my favourite class – English. I love drawing, sketching, painting and any other literary work of art. Just say 'art' to me and I am a total geek for owning different timeless arts by my oldest friends – Van Gogh, Picasso; just say whoever because I got every masterpiece you know of and it's all original. Don't get me started on telling history about every painting I got.
Going early and never thinking being late, I went to the supply closet, grabbing some artistic stuffs and head for my easel.
I never think high school could be fun. I used to think it's only for ignorant humans who know nothing about everything and some other know-it-all teaches boring stuffs about everything. Sorry for the sarcasm and the offended.
Doing home works is pretty cool for me, too because while all other teens think it's all a pain in the gut, I think it's awesome. I finally managed to get my hands on the most wonderful activity I have to get – the assignment for today is to emulate one of the great masters, to choose one of their iconic paintings, to attempt to re-create it.
Ms. Machado, the art class teacher, looks forward to everyone's canvas; especially mine. She is ordering her supplies in the closet, as I am the first one already here, even before there's no class yet. 'What will this new student draw, I wonder?' Her head spits out wonder at what I can possibly achieve, making high expectations. 'I just hope it's wonderful!'
I sigh, not wanting to impress her, but I can't help showing some of my talent off. And that's a temptation to make it. I made my mind up. I would draw my dear friend's Woman with Yellow Hair. And guess who the blonde is.
Soon after every student filled the room in seconds, we finally started. Ever refuse to react when she notice how I am set up right next to hers. With the brush, I want to impress her, as I flick it properly, spilling paint in its places orderly.
She just goes about the business of buttoning her smock and selecting a brush, stealing the occasional glance at my canvas and trying not to gawk at this masterpiece in the making-a seriously perfect rendition of Picasso's Woman with Yellow Hair. A rule: Show off what you can do to a woman (to impress her.)
But I underestimated her. I forgot that she's a little different and special than others. Not just because she is a physic or whatever, but she is the woman I long for as always; the woman I always yearn for. I thought I can make her feel better because of my painting but, unexpectedly it didn't turn out right.
She even thinks that her painting is pretty much the exact opposite of mine. That I think that we're really compatible with each other because I can do things she can't do yet and I have skills she hasn't got while she has the abilities that I can't do – like softening and opening my heart to love; To surrender to Mr. Cupid and say that he won our bet a long time ago; To believe that even 'God' exists.
Ever sighs as she makes hers, not knowing I, too, steal glances with a silent chuckle at her canvas. It's pretty cute and interesting. Somehow she got the idea that those simple Van Gogh swirls would be a sure thing, a cinch to reproduce, an easy A.
But from the looks of her chaotic, hectic strokes, she completely misjudged it. And now it's so far gone, she thinks she can't possibly save it. And she has no idea what to do. But, I know.
And I just need to give her a hint about 'it' or should I say me?
Because even if in quizzes that there's no "pop" for us anymore – as me and Ever can just brush our fingers to the questions. Poof! The answers are there. Except that I even use a pencil as a disguise; that we already know the story of a book once it landed on our hands; and that every answer is in a teacher's mind, which we can read clearly like a sheet of paper.
Art is different. Talent cannot be faked.
"Starry night?" I ask Ever suddenly, nodding to increase up her self-confidence, not guessing her masterpiece but knowing it by heart at…
My drippy, pathetic, blue mottled canvas, how he could've made such an accurate guess from such a poorly realized mess?
She cringes in embarrassment, moving away her eyes from mine and looks at her painting. And I don't think it's that bad. Well, it isn't bad for me. Because everything she does herself so effortlessly is too much adorable to take by words.
I gaze at her, while she tortures herself glancing at my curving brushstrokes, and adds it to the never-ending list of things I'm amazingly good at. Well, not much to brag but because it's a lot of hard work and practice, especially time.
My mouth opens a little as I realize that she's been realizing the clues I left her and hers alone. Want to give me an example?
I've been peeking in her thoughts lately (like only now) and I'm impressed she finally made sense about my abilities, with her human intuition. Not to mention how I usually go on to include all manner of random historical facts, talking about those long-ago days as though I am actually there.
Other Evidence taken: Skimming through all three hundred and odd pages of Wuthering Heights in just one night.
I shake my head, laughing stiffly and quietly as she focuses on her canvas now. I'm amazed she figured that out easily than other normal people. Well, as expected of my dear Ever. She's even sharper than before; much more of an observer.
Using my potential as an ambidextrous, I write my English homework with my 'pen' (because I didn't made it last night and I'm too eager not to stop doing my art) with my right hand and continues the artwork by my left hand. I am so into painting and writing that I didn't noticed Ms. Machado gaping in front of me.
I immediately stopped writing as using my right hand I grabbed the yellow paint in front of me as excuse. Luckily, I hide the notes stealthily as a ninja, together with my pen as Ever looks on how I hide that fast. But, all she sees is the blur.
"Just like Pablo himself. Wonderful!" Ms. Machado says, smoothing her long glossy braid as she stares at my canvas, her aura vibrating a beautiful cobalt blue, as her mind performs cartwheels and somersaults, jumping in glee, racing through her mental roster of talented former students, realizing she's never had one with such innate, natural ability – until now.
"And Ever?"
She asks, looking at Ever. 'What on earth could that possibly be?' Her mind shrieks in confusion. She's too much to be a perfectionist in art.
"Oh, um, it's supposed to be Van Gogh. You know, Starry Night?" Ever cringes in shame, her worst suspicions confirmed by her thoughts. I glance at her, as she hides her face in embarrassment.
"Well, it's an honourable start." She nods, struggling to keep her face neutral, relaxed. ''Van Gogh's style is much more difficult than it seems. Just don't forget the gold, and the yellows! It is a starry, starry night after all!"
We watch her walk away (I'm secretly looking at the teacher even though I'm painting and writing again in the same time) as Ever looks at me, shaking her head in frustration. She just splashed her canvas resulting in a blob of green. "How do you do it?" She gazes at my painting to hers, comparing, contrasting, and feeling her confidence plummet.
My heart captivated by you? That's what I thought. And I think it's a time to show who I really am. And what she is.
I smile, my eyes finding hers. "Who do you think taught Picasso?" I brag, as if she knows what I'm talking about, that I am really the one who taught Picasso about painting and art; the one who taught him things about it and sharing what I know to those great philosophers and artists known today.
Ever seems to get the point slowly, but confused at what I've said. She drops her brush to the floor, sending mushy globs of green paint splattering across her shoes, her smock, and her face, holding her breath as I lean down to retrieve it, before placing it back in her hand.
I didn't know that it'll be this shocking for her. I should've calculated it. But, she surprised me with her emotion and it's the first one I got from her before the last time she disappeared from me. When I say that in those old times, Ever will either laugh or ask if I'm kidding. But I guess now, she gets the point unbelievably.
Knowing I have this chance, I took it to tell her about beginnings and new opportunities life has to offer. That life is nothing but a big bully together with his cousin time that when you're waiting, they make you wait long; that if you enjoy life, time shortens it. The great thing about those two is that when you're sad, Life and Time mock you and they both salute you when you're smiling, laughing and happy.
"Everyone has to start somewhere," I say, my eyes dark and smouldering, my fingers seeking the scar on her face. I want to know personally if she already done it.
The one on my forehead that she got from that tragic accident.
The one that's hidden under her bangs; the one that I have no way of knowing about, as she thinks.
"Even Picasso had a teacher." I smile, withdrawing my hand and the warmth that came with it, returning to my painting, reminding Ever to breathe.
I love art. Drawing and such. I wish I'm ambidextrous, too lol. :] Mostly about Animes and Manga. I'm such a geek. D:
*Goes out in front of the computer and goes to the room watching Death Note Live Action*
Please Review this chapter. C: