The Artist | Chapter Eight

"You're good at teaching. I'm impressed," I heard Toby say, making me look up from my drawing to face him. He was sitting at his desk, a look of concentration on his face as he clicked on his wireless mouse. I bit the inside of my cheek, remembering that he was coloring a poster that was going to be used next year. He was doing it in Photoshop. I was familiar with that - maybe I could help?

"The kids love you, or maybe it's because you're closer to their age. I can't really tell," he continued to say, pushing his bangs aside with his free hand. I looked away from him, not knowing how to reply to his comment. The class I'd taken had left the art room about thirty minutes ago, and neither Toby or I had a class to take for the next three hours.

I wanted to talk with him, but my mouth seemed sealed. Yeah, that wasn't what I was going for.

"You look stressed. Are you okay?" I heard him ask, making me look up before shaking my head. He was always asking me that — asking if I was okay. It made my heart dance whenever he did, since he meant he had to have been observing me in some way.

"I can help with the poster," I said at a go. It came out rushed, and I wasn't sure Toby would even be able to make out what I had said.

"It's okay don't worry about me," he said, still clicking on his mouse. "It doesn't take much time to do anyway."

I found myself humming at that before I looked down at the drawing I was doing. It was another composition for a future painting on movement, but this time I was drawing chickens.

"Plus, I didn't know you knew how to do graphics on a computer. Your mum's pretty traditional with her art, I thought you were the same," Toby said, making me look up from my drawing. I shrugged, not knowing what to say to that either. I didn't do it often, but I'd watched enough lessons on it to know how it worked to an extent. Also, my dad did something similar since he was an illustrator and cartoonist. I've watched him work, and I've tried my hands on some of his stuff as well.

"I'm not sure why I'm surprised, you're a prodigy," Toby chuckled, and I wasn't sure if he'd been talking more to himself than to me. He didn't say anything after that, and the room fell into silence once more.

"Do you like stickers?"

"What?" I felt my face flush at his genuine puzzled reaction when he looked up from his computer. I shook my head, looking down at my drawing as I mentally scolded myself for being so stupid.

"I'm sorry, I'm not really sure why I asked," I apologized, but I did know why. I'd felt like the room was too quiet, and I'd wanted to talk to him so I'd just thought up something random to ask. I heard him chuckle a bit - he sounded quite amused.

"You're odd," he chuckled. I could feel my chest tighten a bit, but what he said afterward made me relax. "You're odd in a sweet goofy way. I like it." He turned back to his computer and continued with what he was doing, and I just sat in my seat as I felt warmth rush to my cheeks.

"So how are you preparing for college. You'll be gone in a few months," I heard him say, making me look up before turning towards him. I couldn't really read his expression, but I'm guessing there wasn't much to read since he seemed to still give what he was doing his full focus.

"I'm not doing much really? I'm going to live in the school's residence, I think?" I said, watching him nod at my words.

"I used to live in my college's residence, but they had single rooms so I never had a roommate to pester me," he laughed, letting go of his mouse, and taking his gaze off his laptop's screen so he could look at me. "There were general bathrooms, and a general lounge, laundry, and kitchen for each floor, though. I absolutely hated it, someone always took what I put in the fridge, even when it was labeled."

I chuckled at that, letting my fingers drum against the surface of my wooden desk lightly.

"I never used that kitchen. I used to use someone else's—" he paused like he'd discovered he was saying too much. He smiled awkwardly, before continuing to talk to me. "Are you doing a masters right after? I didn't have an opportunity to do mine. So, yeah, I get excited about talking about the prospect at all," he said, running a hand through his hair. I loved how it was full and well kept. I wanted to touch it — run my fingers through it, but I guess the possibility would just have to live in my head.

"No, I'm not doing a degree exactly. It's more like an apprentice based program," I said, making Toby nod as he muttered a small oh. Apprentice based programs were common with people that wanted to be full-fledged independent artists. I was taking a similar part as my mother. My dad had gone into a polytechnic, and Ava was already doing a proper design degree at a university.

"That makes sense," he said, "but don't get too caught up with your instructors. Some of them are going to be amazing but—" he trailed, pausing a bit. "You might hurt yourself if you're not careful, maybe even hurt them as well along the way."

I started putting the pieces together in my head, and I sort of got a light bulb moment when it all came together.

"What happened?" I asked, mentally slapping myself immediately after when I watched his face fall. "You don't have to tell me..." I muttered, looking away.

"It's kind of obvious, isn't it?" I heard him say with a pained laugh. It echoed through the room, leaving pin drop silence behind. I stared at my drawing, not wanting to look at him. "I was kind of in the situation you were in your senior year. The only difference being that he entertained my idea, and everything ended up being a big mess."

The room was soon silent again, the only sound in the background being that of the turning fan blades.

"I was the happiest person in the world for a few months. So, yeah, it was great, but what happened after that isn't something I want repeated..." he trailed. "I'm sorry, I don't think I really want to put it in detail. I hate thinking and talking about it."

Nodding at his words, I bit my bottom lip in thought. "I understand."

My words echoed through the room, and it was followed by silence. Toby went back to working on the poster on his laptop and didn't say much after that.

"But you know I don't want to hurt you..." I trailed when I felt the silence was too suffocating for me to just keep shut. Toby paused what he was doing to look up at me. I watched him sigh, and he smiled a little when he rested his head on his raised hand.

"I don't want to hurt you either," he said, making me nod my head.

"I love you," I said, watching him frown at my words.

"You really shouldn't use strong words like that," he chuckled, running a hand through his hair. "You think you love me. It's normal, we tend to think that way about people we look up to. Plus, you'll be off to college in a few months, I don't think you want to start this."

I didn't say anything after that. He turned back to his laptop, making me look down at my hands. I could feel my chest pang — it hurt. I decided to swallow the pain, and just continue with my drawing. It was just a rejection, right? People got it all the time. I could handle it, right?

You can't. The tear that made a splash at the corner of my drawing pad sort of silently told me. I blinked, rubbing my eyes with a balled fist.

I went through the rest of the day being quiet and partly in my own mind, and hen it was time for me to leave I quickly packed up my things, not wanting the emotional tension I'd been forcing down to choke me.

"Caleb, wait," I heard Toby's voice say as my hold on the doorknob of the art room's door loosened. I turned, looking at him with confused eyes, watching as he made his way to me.

"Come," he muttered just high enough for me to hear as I watched him stretch out his arms. I was a bit hesitant, but I dropped my backpack and walked into the hug. He wrapped his hands around me, pulling me into a tight hold.

"I promise it'll get better. I know how you're feeling. It hurts, it really does." I couldn't hold my tears as he muttered words of comfort to me. I just cried, letting him hold me as I ruined his work shirt.

"I love you," I muttered when he pulled me away and made to rearrange strands of my hair that had gotten stuck to my forehead with his fingers. I stared at him, watching as a sad smile made its way to his lips. He soon took his hand away, and I tried to steady my breathing. He turned, walking away and leaving me standing by the door. I watched him return to his work on the computer, and after a while, I decide to pick up my bag and leave the art room.

I was shaking with each step I made on my way back home and hurried into my room to be on my own before anyone could stop me and ask why my eyes were red.

I cried.

Cried until I passed out to sleep.