Young Writers Society

My stomach fluttered with butterflies, each generating a surge of tension that quickened my pulse. I stepped into the brightly lit room and smelled the aroma of oil paints–this was my first official painting class, despite spending most of my life with a paintbrush in hand. The room’s farthest wall was one large window, granting its witness a magnificent view of the gardens below. Nature’s exuberance unfurled in petals from diverse plants–its palette of vermillion roses, sapphire irises, and emerald leaves reaching upward, glistening in the morning dew.

I sat at an easel near the view, and as I placed my backpack on the floor, my body shifted immediately. My shoulders tensed up as I saw Zeke enter the room. I never expected to see him again, especially not in an art class. As he gazed at me, my eyes widened. I felt a tightness in my chest as my breath caught in my throat. My skin tingled with heightened sensitivity as if invisible fingers traced a path along my arms and neck, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. As our eyes met, a rush colored my cheeks, a silent confession of the turmoil within. His lips curled in a playful upturn, but his gaze and smile darted away as quickly as it appeared.

My hands were stuck, frozen until someone beside me swatted them, and a familiar voice snapped my attention back. Nadine called, “Hello! Earth to Abigail!”

She roughly tossed her backpack on the floor, shuffling with the set-up before her.

“Hey… Didn’t expect to see you in this class.”

“Lately, I’ve been wanting to try painting, and I figured it was time to unleash my inner artist.” She tossed her twisted black hair behind her shoulder. Her long brown legs slinked out, one ankle crossed over the other. She had one arm draped over the chair behind her, poised.

“Don’t expect me to give up my project for teaching you how to paint when you struggle.”

She smacked the air playfully. “Oh, please, time to dip my toes in paint, as they say. It can’t be that difficult.”

I began setting up my station, my head tilting back as I laughed. “Nobody says that! How will I ever teach your newbie ass?”

“Hey, I am no newbie,” she scoffed as I watched her suspiciously. “Okay, yeah… so I am.” She shrugged, taking off her jacket and revealing her boho-patterned maxi dress.

I rolled my eyes, amazed at her shameless ability to pursue her interests. “Maybe I can’t sit back and watch you struggle.”

She smiled widely. “That’s the spirit! I knew you wouldn’t let me down.”

Before I could respond, the professor, Ms. Sanderson, began the class, and we became engrossed in the creative process. Ms. Sanderson had gray pixie-cut hair and thick black glasses, overpowering her animated expressions. She explained her journey as an artist, encouraging us to paint what we desired, insisting there are no rules in art. My brush glided across the canvas, bringing life to the shapes in my mind. Amidst the chaotic mix of colors and shapes, I alone grasped the hidden logic. My eyes narrowed with intensity, and a profound serenity filled me as I ignored my troubles.

Isadora texted me, disrupting my peace, almost as if foreshadowing my demise, as the professor dismissed us for a brief break.

Abigail, I need to tell you something.

I read over it several times, trying to collect myself. Eventually, I responded with, ‘What?’

Father found your paintings. He is asking questions. He and Mom have been fighting all morning. This is worse than before.

My heart sank in panic. ‘He didn’t touch them, right? What are they fighting about?’

No, I don’t think he did, but he’s furious. He says you should focus on your studies and forget about that nonsense. Mom was quick to defend you, of course. She hid them before he did anything, I think.

Tears threatened to spill from my eyes. My efforts to please him were constant, always striving to meet the expectations of being a Winslow, but art remained my own. I sighed as I walked back into class, texting, ‘I won’t do that. It’s part of who I am.’

I know. He isn’t taking this lightly, and I don’t know how to talk to him. I keep waiting for the right moment, and watching Mom get nowhere isn’t encouraging, either.

I did not text her back. On the one hand, I yearned to follow my dreams and embrace my true self, but on the other, I felt pressured to conform to the rigidity expected of me. If I told him about my project, he might appreciate my goals.

As I finished my painting, my mind felt tangled in a web, like the oiled colors in the abstract figure on my canvas. My paintbrush slowly trailed out with a final touch. At last, I finished my piece: a silhouetted figure of a woman throwing her head back, with her hair splayed out.

“All right, class, settle down,” Ms. Sanderson announced as I cleaned my station. “I hope you all enjoyed exploring your artistic talents today. We have one more task to complete. I will pass out a ‘Getting to Know Me’ sheet. Please fill it out thoroughly, and once you’re done, feel free to leave.”

As the sheets approached me, my internal struggle twisted into a knot. There was a deep-seated eagerness to get to know my classmates more, my curiosity getting the best of me, and an overwhelming desire to bridge the gap between strangers. I longed to connect with souls who appreciated art as much as me.

Yet, conversely, apprehension nagged incessantly. How could I be open and reveal my personality's intricacies when trying to figure myself out? My hands gripped the paper as I read over each question.

While pondering my answers, I glanced around the room, observing my classmates. Zeke stood out, a pencil resting casually behind his ear. His eyes narrowed slightly in a distant yet pensive gaze. His calm exterior bounded, leaning backward while holding the paper in his lap before placing it on the table to write. What secrets, what dreams did he harbor? Despite the air of trouble about him, it intrigued me. Ugh, what was I thinking? The campus greenhouse incident during my freshman year was the most trouble I had ever been in. Thinking it would be ideal for a late-night painting session, I ended up triggering the alarm and causing a commotion. It led to a stern warning from a security officer and, worse, a scolding from my father. Despite the lectures, it was one of my most cherished college experiences because I had created one of the best photorealistic paintings in my collection.

My focus returned to my paper, and I mustered over my options. Should I meticulously mull over each question, deciphering the most appropriate and acceptable responses? Or should I go with my gut, trusting my reactions to offer a genuine glimpse into myself?