Pencil

A return to school for Ivy, but Nicolas seems to be involving himself in every element of her life now. His involvement, healthy or otherwise, begins to consume Ivy's rational thought.

I left the house, walking down the stone path through the evenly mowed lawn and stood at the bus stop. I looked back at the house. It was just a little larger than the others in the neighbourhood, but none in the neighbourhood were small by any means. Fitted with architectural columns, stone porches with laced iron swings, colonial magnificence combined with European opulence, all that was missing from most gardens was a Greek nude or two. Each house screamed of wealth and power and status, sensibilities and an understanding of what was the done thing. Amidst the four door saloon cars, yummy mummy SUV’s, rich kid mini coopers and sports convertibles sat uncle Nicolas’s blue Austin Healey convertible, one of those gorgeous old British cars from the 60’s kept in perfect condition that wealthy people who aren’t suburban lawyers, accountants, lechers or realtors collect.

The bus pulled up and I got on. First stop as usual, so I sat in my usual place right in the middle. The back of the bus was filled with rowdy juniors, because no senior really got the bus other than me, most of them drove by now. The few seniors who remained were the poor kids; the nerds who couldn’t hitch a ride with rich friends; or the stoners for whom driving would be just another way they could potentially end up dead. Most of the bus was filled with freshman. It might be far to say I hate them with an undying passion and want them all to puke their own guts up because maybe that way they might actually shut up; but I did somewhat wish they would be a little quieter, and it would be fair to say I didn’t like them very much. I know that as someone older you should say ‘that was us though, a few years back’, but it wasn’t. Not me it wasn’t. I have never been a generic idiot, which this lot clearly consist of. There is always that one kid who acts like a normal human being while being transported to school and sits quietly waiting to arrive at another house of a hundred windows where no one wants to be, as opposed to throwing basketballs up and down the bus, trying to chat up girls who want nothing but your credit card, your inheritance and your biceps, or lack thereof in the case of most freshman.

I hid for the journey and tried blocking out the noise with an analysis of Uncle Nicolas. He really was strange. He looked too young to be my uncle; certainly my father must have been the older brother. Father hadn’t even mentioned him before, never mind talked about him at length. Still, it wasn’t long before arriving at school and when we did I got out, pretending not to hear the whispers that were deafening behind me. I imagine everyone had heard what happened to him by now.

That is how I spent the day at least, blocking out noises. Art dragged in, and the witch was in my face as soon as I arrived into the room.

“I know that you have been off, but you really need to catch up on the work you have missed. A week of not doing any art means that you have 8 hours of work to catch up on this week, plus your 8 hours for this week. Now as you know we have started a new project, so you will need to decide what you are doing very quickly so that you can catch up.” She then began to rant about ideas that I definitely wouldn’t use for my project before waiting for her to leave the exam paper with me so that I could use my brain and decide for myself.  Finally she stopped and after a lot of nodding I was finally able to just sit and read the paper for myself. It read “People and places” another ambiguous project title. I started framing some ideas up, people in unexpected places, like tramps in palaces or duchess’s in abandoned houses. It would be alright I supposed, but I wasn’t much interested by it. Then I considered maybe just focusing on faces and portraits, it was something I had grown quite good at and whilst drawing a figure was fine, a face was more detailed and exposed, there was less room to slip up and I liked that. It wasn’t until afterwards that I considered what I had been doing last night, the bench. I wondered then if Uncle Nicolas would be a willing model, and I realised he didn’t even need to be. It could be people missing from places, places that remind you of people. I imagine that everyone would think it was about my dad, and it could be, no one would know any different, but it would be a way for me to pretty much draw whatever I wanted. I explained my idea to the teacher and she seemed to argue minimally. But still was trying to nit-pick at parts of the idea, such as how will I include the people, so I said maybe try doing the people without the places and the places without the people and having some kind of layered final piece where the person was separated from the place but both were visible in the image. She seemed pleased enough with this and handed me some ridiculously boring portrait books. Some were quite good, but I preferred a raw style, something nice and detailed, pencil drawings. I am always given these techniques and new painting styles and things in art, and I don’t hate them, but there is a quality in really precise pencil drawings which is so much sweeter. I realised that I already had plenty of drawings I could use for this project to try and keep Miss I Hate Everything happy. I realised now that every second I spent with Uncle Nicolas would be productive, technically. After Art we had our final period, English. As much as I loved English, class did somewhat bore me. Like all of my other subjects. I was happy enough with the material, but I couldn’t bear a classroom. The teacher was nicer here though, but the entire situation bored me, besides the fact that I was completely uninvolved with other members of the class.

I took my usual seat in the corner of the room. He smiled at me when I entered and I got my books out. Class begun, I took the usual notes, read the chapter we were supposed to and did all the usual work. When everyone was busy writing, Mr Tanner approached me and kneeled down a little before changing his mind and pulling up a chair.

“How are you coping?” I just smiled awkwardly and faced him, trying to reassure him. He smiled awkwardly back.

“Well I am pleased to see you back and I don’t want you to drown in the work. The exams aren’t far away, but we can worry about that a little later, the important thing is to take care of yourself for now. If you do need any help with anything, even another subject, you know you can come to me and I will do the best I can to help you.” I thanked him and he asked me if there was anything specific I needed help with, I told him that I was alright for the time being, but appreciated his support. Contented, he rested a hand on my shoulder before standing and leaving, going back to his desk.

I was ready to leave school already. The day was boring, the looks were cold and I was sick of pity. Truth be told I felt little. Yes I was sad but I did not feel the heart wrenching ache that everyone seemed to expect of me. I knew I would miss him before long, but I had seen him fairly recently, my father, and so for the time being I did not miss him so very much. I was certain that I was upset that he was gone, but for the time being other things were capturing my attentions, my suspicions. With terrible ado class ended and I got up to leave, I made my way past most people but ended up stuck in the hallways behind some little freshman girls giggling and saying nonsensical things. I was frustrated and uninterested and eventually just shoved my way past. My swift escape from school was cut short when I got outside, however.

“Hey Claret! What’s the matter? Running home to your mummy and… oh yeah, your uncle now, isn’t it?” I turned and saw that prick of a jock whose name had escaped me at this moment in time. He and his minions had gathered and seemed to find something quite amusing.

“I hear mommy has been treating your uncle very nicely, very nicely indeed.” They chuckled. I slid a pencil from my pocket and pushed it inside the sleeve of my cardigan. He approached me and leaned in. “I wouldn’t rush home, wouldn’t want to catch them screwing in your bed or anything.” He lifted his hand as if to stroke my cheek. I took the pencil and stabbed it into his hand before he could reach me. His hand bled and he squealed and swore under his breath. Blood dripped off the pencil. I smiled. I looked up and Uncle Charlie was standing by his sports car wearing low rise jeans, a leather jacket and a pair of sun glasses. He was smiling and began to walk over to me; anyone who was not crowding around the event with me and the jock, was staring at him, clearly in awe of his beauty. I tucked the pencil back into my pocket and watched as the jock and his mates cowered away from me. Uncle Charlie held out his hand to me as he got closer. I took it. He kissed it.

“That is how I should greet you, as a young woman. If we were in France, that is. It is a sign of respect.” He said, smiling before removing his sunglasses. His eyes were wide with an apparent sort of glee. He leaned in to me. “Let’s get out of here.” I smiled, feeling a wild sense of adrenaline course through my veins. He opened the car door to me and I got in, before he jumped in himself.

“What happened?” He asked me.

“He ruined my pencil.” I replied, he laughed wildly and started the car, before revving the engine and driving quickly away from the school. I was going to ask where he was taking me, but sitting there beside him in the car made me forget any and all rational thought, the feel of the engine coursing through my bones, the knowledge that he was there beside me, completely in control, made me forget any desire to be rational. The scenery flooded my vision, turning from blurred grey buildings to a long speeding smear of green. My hair batted about behind me and I found myself staring at his relaxed figure. He shoulders were slouched in the way that a models might do, as the muscles on his shoulders helped him maintain a tough exterior. His hand rested calmly on the gear leaver and with the other he rested his finger tips on the bottom of the steering wheel, gently turning it from side to side as necessary. His movement was so slow, so fluid, and yet the car was moving so fast. I closed my eyes and felt the strong wind beating my bare skin and wondered to myself how I could have been without this man for so long, how could I not have known of his existence? Time spent with Uncle Nicolas gave you more adrenaline than I had ever experienced in my whole life to date.

Author's Note

The beginnings of a more sinister side to both Uncle Nicolas and Ivy. again as this is in it's early stages I would appreciate reviews that focus most of atmosphere and plot. Also I am curious as to opinions about this more distant style of narration. It is fantastic to write in, and is important for the characterisation. Is it too difficult to get into as a result of the style? Or do you see how it would be strange if the narration was in 3rd person/ a more typical form of 1st person narration with a more typical tone?