Sketch Book

Drawings in a sketch book, All mine for all time

The pages of a sketch book flip rapidly past a girl's small thumb. On each page is a boy, drawn softly and shaded gently in pencil, sitting at his desk in different positions. Dates for each drawing are written tinily and meticulously at the bottom right corner of each page - one for every day of the week since the first day of school.

Holding a short pencil between her small fingers curled around it, she writes the date with the care of a surgeon. She lifts her hand, eases her grip a little, and begins to draw. Soft, fuzzy outlines at first, gradually darkened as the drawing takes shape. More soft lines for details. A few sparingly placed thick dark lines to make certain edges stick out. Finally, she adjusts her grip, tilting the pencil slightly more, and begins so softly, so delicately shading. The pencil tip moves back and forth soothingly, barely touching the paper. Pressing the pencil tip firmly, but unoppressively into the paper, she darkens the shading, completing a remarkably real - though not too complicated - and pleasant drawing of a desk and a chair.

The girl sighs softly. She looks at her drawing and at the empty seat one row right and three rows in front of her. The boy in her sketch book has been absent a whole week and was absent again today. In his chair hovers a strong emptiness, as if the air and light convene above it trying to create with their ethereal essence something or someone that needs to be there. In the drawing, the same emptiness is seen and felt. The drawing illustrates the desk perfectly; not every detail is exact or present, but all the essential feelings of the desk are captured profoundly.

The girl passes two fingers over the empty drawn desk. Her small brown eyes widen and round as she gazes intently into her drawing. After this bit of caressing, she drops her head and buries it into the pages of her sketch book. On her left eye, cheek, and nose she feels the poignant burden of emptiness where the boy should be, as well as the memories of all the drawings behind this page. On her right eye, cheek, and nose she feels the cold emptiness of blank pages. It's a relief from the heat and tension on her left, but contains a sharp touch of fear - the unknown that will eventually fill these clean, blank pages.

Someone taps the girl on the back of her shoulder.

"Aya," she turns her head to see her short, slightly tubby, kind faced math teacher standing above her, trying to hand her a worksheet.

"Please try not to sleep in class. You might do badly on the test," the teacher admonishes gently in a naturally soft voice with a slight waver induced by a habit of drinking coffee. A small, thick gray mustache flutters like wings as he moves his mouth.

"Sorry," Aya sits up and looks down as her soft, airy reply barely leaves her lips. She doesn't notice the teacher over her shoulder, scanning her drawing of the empty desk.

"Here, take this," the teacher moves his hand in front of her, offering the worksheet. Aya barely lifts her head and raises her left arm to take the paper by the edge between the soft pressure of her fingertips. She sets it down like a blanket on top of her sketch book. Her right hand is on her lap still holding the pencil. She stares at the math problems before her. Everything on the worksheet is so simple and organized. Rows of numbers with symbols between them, placed in ways that make sense. But do they make sense? Can they make sense if there's no meaning behind them?

"Try to finish it before the end of class " you have 12 minutes left," the teacher, who has been observing Aya observe the worksheet, advises with a touch of worry, "Then come see me after class."

Aya nods slightly, still staring at the worksheet, and the teacher walks back to his large desk between the class and the blackboard. Aya's gaze rolls slowly down as her eyes calmly absorb all the information on the page. She puts her pencil in her left breast pocket and pulls out a thick gray pen with a clear half displaying blood red ink. After closing her sketch book and setting it on the side of her desk, she holds the worksheet steady with her left hand, leans into her desk, and begins drawing the solution to the first problem without rereading it. She draws large numbers and symbols representing the information needed to solve the problem in a sort of oval in the space allotted to the problem, then extends curves of small symbols and numbers from each bit of information. The curves wind their way towards the center of the oval, at times merging with other curves, eventually ending before an empty space, gradually becoming a blank circle at the center of the oval. When all the lines and curves are finished, she draws the only number among all the infinite numbers that can answer the problem in the middle of the circle. She does this for every problem, except the ones that can be answered without showing work. She finishes in 6 minutes, giving her 6 minutes to sleep with her head on her sketch book between her folded arms.

The bell rings and Aya remains how she is as the other boys and girls pack their things and slip through the narrow aisles to their next class. Once everyone is gone, the teacher stands and walks toward Aya. He sits in the desk next to hers and turns it to face her. He looks at her for a bit. She doesn't move, but for her soft, dreamy breathing. She wears a woolly blue knit sweater, small blue jeans, and black and pink shoes. Her straight black hair slides from her head gently down her upper back, almost as if floating on it rather than resting. It covers her shoulders a bit, and falls to the desk. Her face is half covered by hair, glimpses of skin and portions of features peer through it like dappled light through shadow. She turns her head to face the teacher but doesn't lift her head.

"Can I look at your work?" the teacher asks. She nods ever slightly, her features moving sleepily down and up with her head. The teacher examines the work, sighs, and says almost dejectedly, "Well, it's perfect as usual." He watches her lack of reaction and her continual, unperturbed breathing.

"Aya," he says, "is something wrong?" She continues without response. "You're a wonderful student," he praises, "your work is the best in the class, and I can tell from the way you do it that you're very creative." To this Aya responds, or at least the teacher thinks she responds, by letting her soft features shift ever slightly into the softest of frowns. Her lips lie ever slightly open, as if to let these words slip inside her as she inhales. Then her soft exhalation feels of pungent, distant lament.

"Do you have trouble with other kids?" he asks earnestly. She doesn't respond.

"Well, you'd better head to your next class soon. Don't want to be too late."

The teacher leaves. Aya falls into black empty sleep as soon as he shuts the door. 

Reviews

[spitballing]

I'm always a loveable grump when it comes to romance. All I can think of is how one sided this is and chances are the guy she's drawing isn't even aware of anything and would likely not like her crushing on him so bad. But, I'm a grump with love. :)

The only thing that kind of worries me here is you might be making a mary sue character. How she's perfect at drawing and aces school work while almost completely out of it. Always keep on your toes about this kind of stuff.

But, on the other hand, and ignoring how much of a romance grump I am this is very well written and done in a way that is rather dreamy. It's pretty original in its style and it flows well. It also takes a very simple, possibly slow scene, and expands on it in a way that makes it interesting.

So, good work!