I don't own The Breakfast Club
A/N: I have forgotten to mention in previous chapters that if any characters seem OOC, please let me know. I will do my best to keep them in character as much as possible. Also, this chapter will be the introduction of my OC. If her personality/characteristics fall under the lines of a 'Mary-Sue' please let me know and I will do my best to change them. Thank you!
Enjoy!
A small paintbrush involuntarily rolled off the table and clattered onto the hardwood floors. Hearing that noise, Susan Quimby's eyes fluttered open and stared directly at the canvas. Great! Another reminder of how hard she had worked on painting a simple fruit bowl had turned out to be a complete disaster. She had stayed up the majority of the night sketching, trying to get the proper circumference and shine of the Gold Rush apple, the official fruit of Chicago, and the texture of the peach. So much for trying to show her realism at midnight.
Just last night, she was about to give up on her painting and puncture a hole in her canvas but she couldn't afford an 'F' in art. Art was her favorite class and she took every moment of it with great significance. It was a class where she could be herself and do it without the nagging of her uncle. She didn't understand why he was so against her artwork? Her mother, rest her soul, was a great painter and Susan believed she got some of her skills. It was what made her happy, sometimes, and she wanted to continue that. However if she was to compare her mother's artwork with her own, Susan would always be last. Getting to same skill as her mother once was, was a skill that she knew she was going to have to be patient for but she couldn't. She craved for it!
Getting up from her bed, she walked over to her canvas and glared at the uneven Gold Rush apple. Stupid apple. Why do you have to be so round she thought as she took a paintbrush from her set and dipped it in cadmium yellow. She swiped the brush against the canvas and gave the apple another shine. That was as much of a change she was going to make to this painting before handing it over to the teacher. If artwork was about freedom of expression, why did they have to get a grade on it?
"Pfft," she scoffed and threw her paintbrush back on the table. Whatever. After a few more years, when she was a famous painter she wouldn't have to worry about grades but sell her artwork.
Once the paint dried on her canvas, Susan threw a sheet over it and wrapped it up to transport it to school. She took the canvas in her hands and walked over to the kitchen where she was welcomed by the cheerful whistle of a yellow canary. "Hello cutie," Susan smiled as she walked up to the cage and looked at the little ball of fluff. The canary jumped from one perch to the other as she fluttered her wings and chirped her hellos to Susan with a tilt of her head. It was quite the endearing sight and Susan quickly pulled out her sketchbook and made a quick sketch of the canary's posture. She'd fill in the details later, preferably math class where she would be bored to death.
She took in her surroundings and the only noises that she could hear were that of the canary. Her grandmother was probably sleeping, which Susan didn't find odd. Usually, her grandmother would be the first one awake making breakfast but she probably had a long day from cooking and cleaning. Whenever her grandmother baked those infamous pies of hers, she always rewarded herself with a nice long sleep. Right before her eyes, a cherry pie was carefully baked last night and it rested on the counter of the kitchen. Susan resisted the urge to dig into it with a fork, but it was a treat that she was going to have wait for after school.
Before she headed out to start her day, she took a tea kettle filled with water and placed it on the stove. At this time, the least she could do was make her grandmother some tea before she left. She was grateful that her grandmother was kind enough to take her in, a couple of months after the death of her mother. Sometimes her uncle would drop by for a visit but Susan was glad that he would come once every week. Resentment lingered within her and she hated his criticism and her future as an artist. Life had shown her that she couldn't make everyone happy and as a teen, she had to look after herself in this tough world.
Once the tea kettle whistled, she took it off the stove and placed a couple of teabags inside for them to steep. Taking a look at the clock, she immediately grabbed her backpack and canvas and ran out the door. Right by the driveway, she grabbed a hold of the handles of her bicycle and peddled as quickly as she could down the road towards Shermer High. The last thing she needed was a tardy slip and the look of disapproval from the vice principal.