1 1-- him

I've always been a bit... out of place.

While the other kids played in the playground, I would sit in the sandbox for hours, drawing the trees. While the other kids played football, I would find that special piece of rock and draw on the pavement. While the other kids dreamed to be doctors and firemen and lawyers, I dreamed to be an artist.

My pencils always seemed shorter than everyone else's, since I spent so much of it doodling on the corners of notebooks and worksheets.

Was I bullied? Yes, of course I was. Did I care? Not one bit. As long as they didn't stop me from drawing, I really could not care less.

But there is one thing that constantly gets in the way. My family was poor, and art supplies are expensive. While I would love to buy those blank canvasses and vibrant paints, I had to deal with watery paint and paper that easily soaks and smudges.

So you can imagine my excitement when my grandma gave me a whole hundred bucks for my 16th birthday. Yeah, it was a special day, but keep in mind that my family was poor, and money usually went directly to food and shelter and other necessities.

A whole hundred bucks to spend on art supplies.

The sky was just a tainted orange shade, and I figured I could rush to the store before it closed.

There's this art shop near 22 Dal Rd that I absolutely love. Sure, it looks shabby, but don't be tricked by its outward appearance. It has everything, and I mean, EVERYTHING, that an artist could ever hope for. And it isn't too pricey either.

And as I enter the shop (the bell rings, signalling my entrance), I feel this rush of familiarity. It's kind of comforting, really, the smell of paint and canvas and wood and who knows what else was in an art shop. As I picked up a pot of paint from a teetering stack, I thought about it.

An art shop was a shop of everything new and nostalgic at the same time. It was a place of possibilities, a place of dreams, a place of--

Someone entered the shop, anf the bell rang. I startled, turned, and promptly tripped over myself. There was a loud CRASH as I knocked over the stack of paints and landed right in the middle of the rolling pots of paint. Every other time I had been in this shop, I was utterly alone. Just the owner and me. And paint.

I didn't like the fact that there was someone else in the shop, and I especially didn't like the fact that I had basically made a really embarrassing first impression. Knocking over a pile of pots of paint?

'One of the dumbest thing you ever did,' I mentally scolded myself.

Looking up, I saw the person who had startled me. First thing I noticed was her hair. It was blonde, but cropped up to her ears. Then the information just came raining in. Freckles. A grey hoodie with long sleeves. Dark jeans. Blue, green, or grey eyes? Was that a smile? Wait. Was that a smile?

It took me a moment to smile back, and accept her outstretched hand. With surprising strength, she pulled me up.

We were close, and obviously she noticed that about the same time I did. She scuttled back a step, and we both let out a sigh of both relief and maybe, just maybe, of disappointment.

"Thanks," I said apologetically. "I'm just so clumsy and everything..."

She nodded in understanding, still smiling.

"Yeah, so... I'm James." I winced at the directness and absolute awkwardness of my situation.

"I-- I-- I'm San-- Sandi." Her voice was soft and a little fragile, stuttering at almost every syllable.

"Cool." I smiled.

She smiled.

We stared at each other.

Then, at about the same time, we both looked away and went right on with our own business. But as I went to the canvas aisle, my mind wasn't on the type of canvas I was going to buy. I was thinking about her, about the gentle way her eyes crinkled up when she smiled, about the small tear on her sleeve. There was a warm feeling in me, and I felt... overwhelmed in the best way possible.