(Edit: I fixed up the mistakes and added some more bits in
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The relaxed chatter of the other pupils didn't die down as Mr Bynes skipped into room 42, a chromatic selection of acrylic paintings on canvas under his arm.
He slammed the paintings down hard on the desk, and I stopped talking and looked at him curiously.
Mr Bynes was one of a kind. The only way to describe him, is totally, utterly, and completely insane. Even in his appearance, you could tell he was a colourful character.
Bright, multicoloured glasses perched on his nose. His young face was angular and well shaped, like a statue. His hair looked as if a selection of crazed children had been set loose on it with a palette of hair dye. He reminded me of a rebellious teenager.
"Buenas noches, la clase!" he greeted in a strange, sleazy accent, turning to the cabinet behind his crowded desk and flinging the doors open dramatically.
I giggled, as my best friend Mike leaned in towards my ear.
"Hey Peyton, do you think he realises he just said 'goodnight' instead on 'good afternoon' in Spanish?"
"I chuckled, and glanced at the clock, which read three o’clock. Mr Bynes whipped around suddenly, with a fistful of stiff paintbrushes in one hand, and some dusty pencils in the other.
"It may be the afternoon, but it's dark outside!" he exclaimed in his loud, cinematic voice.
Whoa, I thought. He has good hearing for someone who seems to stroll around in a daze.
Sure enough, the blistery winter afternoon had melted into blackness outside. The clouds were heavy and dense; snow was on its way.
Mr Bynes set the pencils and brushes down, and they rolled off his abstractly shaped desk and clattered to the floor noisily. He took no notice, and instead turned his attention to the scarlet Christmas tree beside the dark window.
"I'm scared my tree might die! There's no light in this dump!" He cried, putting his hands to his multicoloured head.
"But sir," Mark called out from my right. “The tree is fake-"
"Hush. And pick up those pencils you dropped," he said, laughing as Mark dejectedly lifted the pencils and brushes off the floor.
Mr Bynes suddenly jumped onto his chair, ruler in hand, standing over us.
"Can I have your attention, ladies and gentlemen, and Mike."
The class giggled and Mike laughed with them.
"You have coursework for tomorrow, year thirteen. Get it done. This side shall paint," he gestured to Mike's and my side of the classroom. "And this side shall use graphite sticks. Rapidementé!" He clapped his hands and jumped from his seat, sitting on it and humming winter wonderland to himself.
The sound of chairs scraping against the floor filled the room as the class rushed into the art store. I stood up to go and brave the stampede for paint, but Mike's hand caught my shoulder, and I felt my heart jolt.
"It's okay. I'll get the paints," he said smiling, before strolling into the art store.
Mike was the most awesome person I knew. I'd known him since I was small. He had sandy, disarrayed hair which was dirtied with brown which gave it a unique colour; his tall frame, and his soft brown eyes. Any time I saw him, a part of me ignited into this mad fire in my chest. My heart would race and a perpetual grin would plaster on to my face.
I guess it was because I was in love with him.
The sad thing was that there was nothing I could do about it. Because no matter how many times I had tried to tell him how I feel, I stopped in my tracks because I was scared in case it ruined our friendship, if he didn't feel the same way. So it was friends for now. And I guess I could live with that.
My eyes snapped up from my musings as he came into view, carrying a palette of acrylic paints. He set them on the desk, before zipping open his art folder and retrieving two of his own paint splodged shirts; ones we used for painting in instead of the moth bitten school aprons. Plus, as it was a charity non uniform day, and I didn't want paint on my jeans.
I thanked him and shrugged the shirt on, taking a paintbrush and watching Mr Bynes throw paper at people from his desk. It didn't work of course, instead the thick paper performed an extravagant arc in the air, before whizzing back and attacking him in the face.
Eventually after he had figured out it was best to give them out by hand (or get Mark to do it for him) I started on my assignment: Paint something I admired.
Hmmm. What do I admire anyway? I tried not to let my mind wander to the boy sitting next to me as I asked myself this.
"So," Mike began, as he got a pencil out of his bag. "Any plans for the weekend?"
"My mum is having a house party for my cousin's eighteenth," I informed him with a smile. If there was one thing I loved, it was having the family all together for an occasion.
"Sounds like fun," he said, smiling slightly as he began to sketch.
I had the annoying trait that I couldn't draw something without a picture, so I had no idea what to draw. I'd have to wait until I got home, and had a look on Google Images.
Mike was already sketching away, his eager eyes totally focused on the white paper, which was slowly being filled light grey, swishing lines. He then reached for a paint brush.
I looked away and back to my paper, as I knew that he found it hard to draw when people were watching.
I stared blankly at the paper, and Mike looked up.
"Lost for ideas?" he teased, grinning.
"I need a picture to draw..." I said disdainfully, looking at the page and biting my lip.
"Use your initiative and find something in the room," he suggested.
"Okay, I admire Mr Bynes' dorky little tree," I said sarcastically.
I looked up at him. "Well, something that's familiar should be easy to pick from your head. So what do you admire that's familiar?"
"Erm..." I mumbled, unable to form a coherent answer while he was unleashing the full force of his eyes on me. He was so close I could see every colour swimming around in his eyes, soft warm browns, tawny golds, and a streak of beige. Fantastic, I thought.
He nodded his head in a prompt, but I still couldn't think straight with his eyes hypnotising me like that.
Time crawled slowly as the hands of the clock got closer and closer to the end of school. Mike continued to paint, while I doodled on the corner of my paper. After I had finished my drawing (it ended up being a cute little stick man who I had creatively named Doodle Dude) I heard a violent scrunching noise to my side.
I turned my head inquisitively, to see Mike destroying his artwork.
“What are you doing?” I demanded, watching the beautiful painting being crushed into oblivion under his hands.
“It sucked. It really sucked,” he mumbled, his voice low with frustration. It wasn't unlike Mike to be a perfectionist when it came to artwork, but he was obviously trying very hard to get something right in the picture.
“It looked fine to me,” I said, watching him begin to sketch out again on a second sheet.
Just then, the shrill scream of the bell interrupted us, informing us that school was over for another day.
"Class is over, peasants. Now get out of my classroom," he said crisply, as the class filed out the door while Mike and I got tidied.
I lifted a palette from the cupboard. I needed to get my own paints to take home.
"I'll come too, I need some more green," Mike said, allowing me to enter the room 42 store first, before following behind.
I flicked on the lights, and shivered slightly; the room was ice cold.
The store was more of an eccentric staff room for the art teachers, really. There was a long bench to the left of the room, filled with paints, pastels, trays of pencils, and old scraps of newspaper. To the right, and old squishy sofa sat. It was covered in colourful textile squares that the first years had made on their favourite cities. They had been carelessly stitched in, and in some places the material was hanging off.
In front of the sofa, a little wooden table stood, with an old fashioned TV set on top, sitting on a battered VCR. Both were splodged with paint, and a small tower of videos were stacked beside them. There was also a kettle and some tubs of hot chocolate, a jar of tea bags, and a drum of coffee, beside a silver sink filled with mugs. A silver mini fridge sat near the kettle.
We headed to the bench and squeezed some paint onto the palettes, as the door was closed behind with a conspicuous click.
I shot Mike a look, and he looked back to the door, raising an eyebrow.
"Was it me, or did that door click like it just locked?"
"I think it did," I replied nervously, as Mike crossed the room and pulled on the door handle. The door remained rigid. Mike pulled the handle a little harder, but it stood vigilant.
"Uh oh," he said, looking back at me for help.
"Oh, please don't tell me we're locked in!" I cried joining him at the door and peering through the small pane of glass set in it. The room was empty and pitch dark.
"Mr Bynes? Is anyone there? We're locked in!" I shouted through the wood, giving the door a rough shake.
"Okay, lets not panic," Mike said slowly, taking my hand off the handle. I was too pissed off to even notice the jump of my hand when he touched it.
"I can't believe Bynes locked us in! Oh, I'll kill him," I fumed. I was sure to miss the party now.
"Lets not resort to homicide. The cleaner will get us out," He said soothingly, as I turned and flopped onto the creaky sofa with a frustrated sigh.
"Hey." I looked up on hearing his soft voice as he sat to my left. "Just be patient, don't worry, okay? We'll get out."
"So while we're in here," he said, grinning at me and throwing his arm over the back of the sofa, "Why don't we make use of the place?," He winked, and I caught his infectious smile instantly, and I grinned back.
“Was that supposed to be some sort of sleazy chat up line?” I teased, and watched him go a little pink around the face.
“Ahem, no it wasn’t. I meant explore the place,” he replied innocently.
He got up, and began rooting through drawers below the bench were the kettle was, and produced a large tin.
He opened it, and I also got up to inspect. Suddenly he burst into laughter, as I looked in the tin.
"Custard Creams!" I said, also laughing as I looked into the tin.
"Remember the time, when we were kids?" he said, flashing me his gorgeous smile.
"Of course! We ate a whole double pack in the back of my uncle's car, and we were so sick after we haven't been able to eat them since!" I laughed at the memory. Even the smell made my stomach swirl at the reminder of it's former plight.
I wrinkled my nose at the inoffensive little biscuits.
"Do you want some tea?" I asked, flicking the kettle on as it grumbled to a start. Mike looked in the tin, and took out some digestive biscuits.
"Sure," he said, before pausing. "See? This isn't so bad," he said quietly. "Though I'm sure you'd rather be at a party than stuck in here with your crazy friend."
"Well, if I had to be stuck anywhere, it would be with my crazy friend."
Brown met blue as he looked at me pensively.
"What?" I said dubiously after a minute, flushing.
He didn't say anything, but the thoughtful look was gone suddenly as the kettle's button snapped down as it boiled.
"Tea's ready. I'll make it," he offered quietly, pouring milk from the fridge into two mugs retrieved from the sink.
I tilted my head at his sudden mood change, but took a seat and watched him while he made the tea. I tucked my auburn hair behind my ear, to look at his expression, but I couldn't see anything out of place.
I shivered and took off my Converses, curling my feet up on the sofa. I took one of the mugs gratefully from Mike with a chocolate biscuit, and he sat with me.
"Hey, look at that," I said, looking over to the large window above the paint bench. Outside, flakes of brilliant white snow twirled and danced, thickly covering the window ledge outside in a frozen blanket.
He took a sip of his tea, looking out at the pitch black sky. "Wow. It's snowing really heavy."
"It's nice, isn't it?" I said, holding my mug in both hands attempting to warm them.
We sat on the sofa for a while, and I didn't even remember that we were locked in the room. I was in there with my best friend, and I was content sitting with him in easy, relaxed stillness. Occasionally he would look over, and he had that thoughtfulness in his eyes again. I wondered what it was he had on his mind.
We took some time to finish our art homework; he asked if he could draw me, and I reluctantly let him. When he was finished, he had produced a simple yet beautiful painting. It was a large oak in a park, with a girl sitting under it. Her features looked similar to my own: Long brown hair, blue irises. We were almost alike, except the girl in the picture was much prettier, I thought.
When I pointed it out to him, he had just said quietly, "I painted you just as I see you now."
I took the compliment poorly, trying not to show my shocked blush.
After rooting around in the store for a while, we found the most interesting things. He managed to fish out an old guitar, which had been horribly abused by the look of it. Mike had a few experimental strums, whilst singing rock songs (should I say trying?) while I nearly rolled on the floor with laughter. We spent twenty minutes looking for an amp. I thought if we made some noise that maybe someone could come and rescue us, or as Mike said, “Rock our way outta this joint.”
We turned on the TV after that, and after trying all the videos, we found one that worked. It was Godzilla, the most recent one made. As the opening credits came on, I shivered violently.
"Peyton, are you cold?" he asked, shrugging off his jacket and reaching over to put around me.
"Mike, I'm fine. You'll be cold if you take that off."
"I'm not cold," he said, ignoring my attempts to shake the it off me.
"But you will be," I warned him. He just shrugged, now in his thin black t-shirt.
"My thermostat must be messed up," I said irritated, curling in even closer to him, clutching the jacket to myself, as Godzilla roared angrily in the background, swiping a helicopter out of the air.
He looked over worriedly. "Look, feel how cold my hands are," and pressed my hand to his face. He jumped a little at the cold touch. He didn't speak, but instead touched the back of his hand to my cold cheek. His hand was surprisingly warm. My pulse stumbled and then raced. Ignoring the painful grinding of my heart against my ribs, I turned my attention back to the movie.
"Don't you ever feel sorry for Godzilla?" I asked as rockets whizzed through the air, spattering giant lizard blood everywhere as they collided with Godzilla.
"Hmm... well, he doesn't really understand I suppose."
"Poor little misunderstood lizard," I said sadly, as the movie got to the awful part when Godzilla got stuck on the Brooklyn bridge.
I sniffed a little, as the movie came to an end.
"You need some cheering up by the looks of it," he said, looking at me, bewildered. He got up, and held out a hand, but I snuggled away from it. "Let's explore," he said, winking.
"No...so... cold." I pretended to shudder violently.
"Don't make me move you."
"Like to see you try," I challenged him back, raising an eyebrow.
One moment, I was upright on the sofa, next, I was upside down, slung over his shoulder.
"Arghh!" I half yelled, half laughed, now getting an excellent view of his back.
"Put me down!" I laughed, squirming on his shoulder. But then I caught his lovely scent, and I felt quite happy where I was.
"Nuh uh," he said, walking around the store. "I warned you! Oh wow, look at these lovely drawings of..." he paused. "Well, I think that one's a dog, or possibly a log with a face..." he moved along the first year wall displays, pretending to take interest.
As we passed another display, we passed a box full of cameras, used to lend out to pupils for photography assignments. I grabbed one on the way by.
Putting my eye to the eyepiece, clicked it experimentally. The camera enveloped us in strobe light as it flashed.
"What did you take a picture of?"
"Uh... your butt," I said dubiously, now in a fit of mirth as I hung over his shoulder.
"You're so funny," was his sarcastic reply, as he allowed me to be vertical again.
"Whoa," I said, feeling my blood being chased back down to my feet again. I wobbled a little, and his hand wrapped around my forearm.
"Maybe that wasn't good for you," he reasoned.
"I was having a great time, actually," I admitted truthfully, but as I looked up again, there was a new fire in his eyes. One that I hadn't seen before.
My heart began to race.
Before I knew it, he was closer than he had been a millisecond. When my brain realised what he was about to do, I moved the rest of the distance instantaneously. All the suppressed feelings came at me at once, exploding like lava out of a fissure.
I only meant for it to be one kiss. Experimental, almost. But as soon as our lips made contact, I was unable to control myself. My fingers knotted into his soft hair and I clung to him, dreading the moment when he would push me away.
But he didn't. He kissed me back. His arms pulled me closer to him.
I broke away first to replenish my air supply. He murmured quietly in my ear, "I've wanted to do that for a long time."
There was a sudden click and a cleaner entered the store. Seeing us wrapped around each other, she dropped her mop in shock, her mouth gaping. We both jumped about a mile back from each other, and instantiously I knew we were both in deep trouble.
But it was so worth it.
), there's really not an aura of "relaxing." Keep things realistic--write as if you yourself are there. Another one was "said panickedly." Were you looking for "gabbled" or "cried" or something to that effect? Adverbs are often trimmings on an already loaded chicken. "Said" by itself works great. 
)
But then I read the next sentence and realized he meant about using the supplies of the room. I would make that clearer here so the reader doesn't get confused.