7 We'll Be Partners

On the very last week of the late Fall, one of our teachers concluded a final project for the season: an art project, a piece of painting or drawing that could be shown in a classroom-made, do-it-yourself school art gallery exhibit. Everything had to be finished and everything had to be held when Winter comes.

It wasn't a shock, to most, that a group of art teachers would give one project per year's season to their students; our collective gasps came from the very instructions that our teacher gave, that one student should each have a partner and the art piece should specifically be that said partner's portrait.

Their quick puff of breaths was more of elongated sighs of disbelief, disappointment, disinterest, anything with the prefix "dis." They groaned and moaned, scratched their heads and almost pulled their hairs out until nothing was left. I remained muted as I stared across the room with a face painted as if I'm one of those protagonists in trouble within silent horror movies from the 50's.

"A Pair and Paintings of Two," what a funny sentence. Someone may puke from the overly cheesy title, and someone may gawk at it like the loveless, stone-cold-hearted they are. It was a proposed theme for the art gallery as if it was some kind of a romantic plot device to trigger somebody into becoming a couple.

The pair was chosen randomly by having the students' names written on a small piece of rolled-up paper, placed inside a fish bowl-like glass, and then plucked away, read after like it was some kind of choosing the next Victors of an imaginary Hunger Games. Of course, none of us wanted to shout the ever-famous lines "I volunteer as a Tribute!" And since the total of students in our classroom ends in an odd number, the last person picked would be paired to the other student with the class's same total odd number.

"Hey Madisson," asked Jamie, a classmate right next to mine. "What's the anagrammed word for the four-letter curse words I'm about to say?"

Jamie Henderson was a friend of Jacob's. A literal no good, but a student nonetheless. The dark color of his hair seem noticeable whenever the light pierce through it or the wind blows. He liked to play guitar whenever the classroom's on break, and they'll form a small circle on one side of the room singing songs I've never even heard of. He slouched against his chair with the left feet across the right as if he owns the whole world, eyes puffy from sleeplessness due to his obsession with indie RPG games.

Madisson replied with the same disinterested, grumpy look plastered all around her face. "Don't even try." Three words of disbelief and disappointed tones came out of her voice, almost seeped out to break the nearest five-inch layer of textbook it could grapple.

Madisson Wallock's a complicated one. A fighter and a taekwondo sports player, but still a student to be considered. Known for her habit of creating anagrams from most words, she quickly garnered the title of being a word nerd. Yet she held her head up while walking along the corridors of the school and flaunted an imaginary honorary badge that she is, in fact, a word nerd.

She was Jamie's unlucky art piece pair. They called themselves "The Troublesome Partners" since they concluded that nothing will be done in their projects but the horrible pains and troubles. Unlucky to Jamie, and unlucky to Madisson. At least, that's how they'd view each other.

Most of my classmates were unmotivated with the suddenly proposed project, let alone something that would force everyone of us to pair up with our fellow classmates as if seeing them every day for a whole school year wasn't enough.

One of the only ones that remain undaunted by the peer pressures of the process of the creation of art pieces were those who were actually from the art club, which seemed a little unequal for those whose art isn't their forte.

"You seemed troubled," Jacob said. His widened signature smirk was making the whole day worse than it already was.

"How could you not be?" I asked him.

"No need to be all sarcastic." He said. His chuckles fueled my already further demise. He somehow knew that painting and drawing were my weaknesses when he once oversaw an almost failing grade handed to me by the art teacher weeks ago.

"And you're not challenged by this sudden turn of events?" I said. I faced him and wore and forced smile, teeth all showed and gritted in a wave of dimmed anger.

"Not at all!" He said. His ear-to-ear grin grew even wider, both hands below the comfort of his head.

The choosing of the pairs continued, with each person scoffing and groaning and whining at the result. It filled the air, their continued voices until a barrage of noise slowly raised its own volume. Soon, there were peals of laughter and cries. There were even the casual chatting and the sudden shouts of surprise. The teacher kept raising her own voice, trying to keep the ear-bleeding music to a minimum.

The intermittent attempts didn't work.

The sound, however, was somehow blocked by an imaginary invisible force field around my ear. They were nothing to me, the noise, but the sounds of muffled voices and static. My focus leered at an annoying presence in front of me, a face on an angel with devil's horns. It was almost Winter, seemingly cold, but I could feel the heat rising above the level I could bear.

But I am Zachary. Zachary's a level-headed person. Zachary's someone who would not get angry over trivial matters. Zachary who's using a third-person point of view to make himself calm from the situation.

The intermittent attempts almost didn't work.

The pairing up continued and the sudden heap of cheers followed. It came from some of my fellow classmates whose partner was a member of the art club. A lucky bunch of hooligans, the first thoughts that came to my mind. And unlucky for the art club members, who would be likely doing all the work for their partners instead.

"Jacob's still not called yet, no?" Asked Madisson. Indeed he wasn't, and so was I, and so was a few more. The dwindled number of small papers inside the fish-bowl like glass could now be counted by the number of fingers in two sets of hands.

"That's right! I guess the ones you're going to end up with are going to be lucky." Jamie said. I shot a look at him, a look of disgust.

"Lucky?" I said. The contempt within that word almost slipped out.

"Oh right, you didn't know," Madisson said. She looked straight at me, and then at Jacob. Jacob's beam of a smile turned solemn. "That guy's good in painting."

"No, he's a master in drawing," Jamie added to the conversation. "Right? Or was it both?"

"No, it was painting. Anti ping. Giant nip. Gain pint. Ping tain." Madisson said while counting on her slendered fingers.

"There goes the walking scrabble game. How many points is it this time?" Jamie asked.

Zachary. Jacob. Our names were called out in front of the class by the teacher.

"Well, would you look at that: finally, a lucky match," Jamie said. The gleeful tone in his voice didn't match the blank expression plastered across his face.

"Chuck malty. Mulch tacky. A cluck myth." Madisson said, still counting on her fingers.

"And a fine one, above all," Jacob said. He leaned forward, distance length from my already awestricken face. But it was the face of someone who was defeated in a battle, never in a war. "I guess we'll be partners." Jacob continued.

I could see it in his eyes, the energy of a motivated person to uphold a challenge. A motivation unlike any other. It wasn't etched in his expressions, but his looks were burned desires of having me as his art partner.

"I. Guess. We'll. Be. Partners." I said. It felt as if each words were knives being stuck inside my chest. I wished they were true, the knives, to have myself ended once and for all because of the pitiful suffering.

And I wished he could notice my eyes were burning in an almost Winter, a driving rage that could melt even the coldest of storms, and a seething temper that could turn the first falls of snows into burning hails of fire.