Chapter 1
My hour-long playlist—which I restarted an hour ago—ends and I examine all my apples. I look at the picture Chelsea sent me of her drawings, which she finished yesterday. Mine pales in comparison. Normally, that would eat at the perfectionist in me and I would restart the process from scratch right now. In this circumstance? It would have to do. Unless I wanted to frustrate myself to the point where I’m forced to join Rose in anger management classes.
I’ve recently come to terms with the fact that I’m not good at the visual arts. At all. And that’s a hard admission on my part. I’ve always been very competitive and thoroughly convinced that I could do anything I put my mind to. Any skill I didn’t have, I’d figure out a way to acquire it. Within weeks, I’d become a master in something I once lagged behind in.
I slip my work into my backpack. Well, I wasn’t going to be Frida Kahlo, unfortunately. That didn’t stop mom from framing my paintings and sticking them to the fridge. Thankfully, art becomes optional next year and I wouldn’t have to see pretentious Ms. E, who I always called “Ms. Evil” behind her back. Who else would make kids draw the same apple a legion of different ways?
My parents were teachers—math and English. Well, professors. They teach at the University of Toronto. Now that I come to think of it, they aced every subject in school too—except art. Maybe that’s why they thought my work was frame-worthy.
Chelsea Jacket was not just good at drawing apples. She was also in every school play and musical, able to act and sing. She even wrote her own songs. She basically brought beauty everywhere she went and with everything she touched. I’ve been friends with her since 7th grade, and something about us gave me the vibes that we would be friends forever. Completing our trio is Rose, the most popular of us three, outwardly beautiful, but tough on the inside. She was captain of the hockey team and notorious for getting into fights both on and off the rink. Most of the time it was defending people she cared about. Then again, many times it was just because someone said the wrong thing to her at the wrong time. Hence, her parents signing her up for anger management classes.
I didn’t bring beauty to everything I touched, like Chelsea, and I didn’t look as beautiful as Rose. When I looked in the mirror, I saw…Well, healthy. I had long, shiny black hair. Big, brown eyes that never needed glasses or contacts (knock on wood). White, strong teeth that never had a cavity. I was fit, too, recently having reached my goal of running 5k this past summer. Suddenly, the apple that was sitting on my desk carried a less superficial purpose for me than serving as a model. I bite into it and back up while chewing, taking in my entire reflection in the vanity. I wondered if Chelsea would draw me if I asked her to. I wonder how she sees me.
I’m shaken out of my internal dialogue by a quiet knock on my door.
I do my best to respond with my mouth full “yes?”
No answer. “Mom?”, I continue.
I hear what sounds like a little kid snicker. As I make my way to the door, chills run up my spine and I feel this uneasy feeling of being watched. I swing open the door to find no one is there. Through the half-open door in the room across from me, I see that mom is laying down, maybe napping. I can hear the Kelly Clarkson show on tv, quietly in the background. We are the only ones home.
“She sees you like—” I jolt my head to search for the source of the voice which sounds delicate and feminine, so gentle, and barely distinguishable from my own thoughts—so much so, that my heightened alertness seems to have cut it off completely. Was the voice answering my inner question, about Chelsea? I guess I would never know. I see no one and nothing. Whatever I was hearing, it’s gone now.
