I observe him. He holds a brimming smile as he talks to Dylan about the football game.
Conner is right. Andy acts like my bodyguard.
No—he acts like an older brother. But I need to tell him that not every guy in my life will hurt me.
Will he accept that?
And why am I too scared to tell him to take a step back and trust that I know an evil person when I see one?
11
DEAD TREE
Ready to Fight [Roby Fayer and Tom Gefen]
&
You’re Somebody Else [Flora Cash]
After the bell rings,Andy and I make our way to Creative Arts. On Fridays, Creative Arts goes for an hour and a half. It’s our longest session, usually involving an art project.
We don’t talk on the way to class. I notice his awkward form, and I’m not really in the mood to talk to him.
When we enter, Mr Rogers has nothing on the table, nor is there anything out for us to work with. And once we are all inside, I track Conner’s movements until he sits at the back.
Mr Rogest tells us we will work outside, saying, “I want you all to explore the school and find anything that piques your interest. When you do, you’re to draw it.”
With those parting words, he ushers us out of the room.
Andy asks, “Where will you go?”
“I’m not sure. You?”
“I’m going to go where we hang and draw the houses outside of our school while I smoke. If you can’t find anything to draw, come chill with me, okay?”
“Sure…”
I wave until Andy is no longer in view. Then, I scan my surroundings in wonder at what I’m going to draw. Most of the junior students chill at the silver benches near the cafeteria, but as I look around, nothing is interesting for me to draw.
So, I head towards the school entrance in need of finding anything interesting when I notice the oak tree at the far back of the oval.
When I was in Year Seven, Andy and some of his friends claimed that lightning struck the old oak tree, leaving a black streak resembling a lightning bolt down the side.
It’s likely a lie, but I imagine that story and envision it. On a stormy night, the power lines above the tree became static, attracting the lightning surge. When it struck, the lightning hit the tree blindly and burned half of the tree.
I place my bag on the ground and sit on it so ants won’t crawl across my skin. As I flip through my art book, I turn to an empty page, grab my HP pencil, and do a light sketch outlining the tree. Nothing too fancy yet, as I outline the skeletal structure before I move on to the branches and leaves.
My mind wanders, and I imagine a tree flourishing. Flowers bloom bright pink, blue, and yellow, blossoming in summer and bringing life to a dead tree. My imagination runs wild, as half the tree is in its proper form. Twig branches, dead leaves, and a burnt streak where lightning struck.
Then, on the other side, I revitalise the tree. After years of death, life blooms. The branches reach further out, and the flowers spring to life, aching for the taste of summer warmth. Bees taste the pollen straight out of their sacs.
What would Mr Rogers think? He instructed us to draw something around school, and I did…to an extent. But if I hide the other part of the tree, I definitely hit the mark that Mr Rogers wants us to achieve.
“Hey.” My body jerks at the voice closer behind me. Conner leans forward and looks over my shoulder. “Beautiful.”
“You don’t think Mr Rogers will mark me down?”
“He knows you’re a fantasy artist,” Conner replies as he sits beside me and places his art book on his lap.