Once class was done, I headed straight for the arts room. I needed to see what I had to work with, because if I needed something that was unavailable I for sure was not going to put it from my pocket. My steps echoed like stomps in the hallway and I was aware that I was throwing a tantrum. I figured the universe could at least concede me that much.

The arts room was full of freshmen doing extracurricular lessons. They all looked up as I stormed in, but I ignored them and headed for the back, where a couple of the folks from the committee were waiting.

"We're here to help," Trevor said. The girl next to him nodded. "Just tell us what to do."

I dumped my tote bag in his waiting arms and pulled out my notebook and pen. I set out to inspect the many cabinets and lockers of supplies. When it came to paints, brushes and lacquers we were good. The problem was the canvas. That was when I pulled out my notebook and scribbled down a couple of notes that I tore and handed to each of them.

After reading them, they both looked up. The girl, whose name I thought was Laura, said, "Where are we going to get all of this?"

I gave them both a sullen look and Trevor guessed at its meaning. He returned my bag to me and to the other girl said, "C'mon, we should be able to help with this much." Then he glanced at me, "We'll try to be quick."

"Good," I muttered, plopping on a seat. "I need all the time I can get."

As they left in search of the materials I needed, I opened my notebook to a blank page to make a sketch of the picture I'd seen earlier in my mind. Realistically I only had about three hours after school each day plus Saturday to do this. It sounded like a lot, but I knew that good art wasn't something that should be rushed. As I traced lines on the paper I asked myself if this had to be good art. This was a high school dance, for goodness's sake, not a piece I was meaning to enter for a contest or something. It didn't have to be perfect. Art was the one thing in my life that allowed me to not be perfect, and now I suddenly felt all this pressure about it and it was all Sawyer's fault and his big mouth's.

I was going to kill him the next time I saw him, which in light of the events wasn't going to be at all this week. I'd already told Mr. Davies about the change of plans, not even mentioning that Sawyer had approached me about a week long vacation first. Of course our teacher was fine with the development. The look of surprise on his face when he found out I was in charge of making a new art piece had bothered me. It shouldn't have, because I'd never told him. And he hadn't been the only one. Matt and Ryan had also looked pretty shocked. It was as though people had thought I was too uptight for something soft and intangible like art.

I pressed my lips and drew darker lines, reminding myself that at the end of the day this wasn't Sawyer's fault but mine. Despite trying my best to hide them, I'd carelessly let him see my doodles before. Despite trying to cultivate an air of logic and hard work and intellectualism, eventually someone was going to realize that art was really what ran through my veins. And that someone happened to be him.

I pushed the somewhat finished sketch away with a huff and grabbed my phone to find instructions to make a canvas. I'd never made one from scratch, but I'd seen videos before. Also, I knew that if we bought a canvas big enough to function as a backdrop for the pictures, it would cost a fortune. This was the only way. I had to make it today so that it was primed and ready to start painting tomorrow after class.

Trevor and Laura returned with all the materials as the class was ending. The art teacher helped us prepare the room so that there was enough space for all of us. I was thankful that they'd stayed to help me because the wooden bars were too long for me to properly handle and align by myself. A few splinters later and many grunts of frustration, the frame was assembled and the canvas fabric was stapled in place and cut to size. They helped me stand the canvas up and I realized it was large enough that I'd require a step ladder to paint the top portions. We gathered all the things I'd need for the next day and locked up.

I looked back into the room from the window and it felt like the canvas was a dragon I had to slay.

I didn't sleep at all that night. I tossed and turned in bed, consumed by the ideas I had for the painting and the sudden fear that I was not ready to make them justice. I simply had never tried. I'd spent years drawing, doodling and painting in the corner between my closet and my bed, never sharing them with the world. Never getting feedback about what was good, what I had to improve, which techniques I should explore. My skills had been sufficient to win a middle school contest, but how did I know they'd evolved since? What guarantee did I have that what I was going to paint would turn out fine, and not some sort of joke people could laugh at?

The next morning I required copious amounts of coffee just to make it to school, but it made me jittery all day. I was so out of it that even though I stared directly at Sawyer and his necklace made of Lexie's arms, I barely even registered it. I just ambled my way through the day until class was done and I stood in front of the looming canvas.

A laugh startled out of me. If this was what being an artist felt like, I could see why papa and mama had drilled into my head that I'd starve as an artist. There was no way to survive like this.

I smacked my cheeks and squeezed them together. I had to focus. This wasn't some sort of life test. This was just a school thing I had to get by with. Just like any other project in the past that had required some degree of paint. It was no big deal. I got this.

The classroom was empty today and I couldn't be happier. I didn't need any witnesses to my meltdown. Or breakthrough, depending on the point of view. I pulled an apron above my head and tied it around my waist. I wheeled a cart to a comfortable place and loaded it with all the acrylic paint colors I thought I was going to need, plus buckets of water, brushes and palettes for mixing the paint, and a pile of rags to try to keep things tidy. As I mixed paint I tried to envision the best perspective angle so that every couple who stood before the backdrop showed up in the pictures as though they were standing in the middle of an enchanted forest. I got onto the step ladder, took a deep breath and touched the canvas with the brush.

I was transported to a different time or place. Somewhere, where it was only me and art. Me and colors. Me and the visions in my head. Nothing mattered. I was an artist and I was free to create worlds that didn't exist. It was exhilarating. I felt powerful. Why had I denied myself this for so long?

Hours went by and I only realized it was dark out when my eyes couldn't adjust any longer. I stepped down from the ladder with a sigh, figuring that I best called Toni to come pick me up, when I turned and realized that I wasn't by myself. I screamed and the palette clattered to the floor facedown. I didn't know if to quickly clean up the mess or if to hurl the thing at Sawyer's face.

"How long have you been there?" I asked him, noting that he was in his mechanic overalls. As usual he tied the top around his waist and wore only a stained wife beater. His arms sported grease splotches and an old scratch on his shoulder that was already scabbing over. Worse of all, he was casually eating a sub while he sat cross legged on a table, as though this were his living room.

He shrugged the scratched up shoulder. "A while." I whined and this only made him smile. "I even tried to get your attention a couple of times, but you were just too engrossed."

As I cleaned up the mess from the floor with the rags, I multitasked by glaring at him and asking, "Yeah, but why are you here?"

He swallowed his food and took a swig of soda. "I'm on break and figured you might like company. I even brought you a sub as a peace offering, see?"

I did see it. And also the Dr. Pepper next to it. My stomach growled and there was no denying that I was going to accept said peace offerings.

"Thanks," I grumbled as I pulled up a chair and sat like a proper person. "But why would you offer to keep me company?"

"Guess I felt guilty for getting you into this mess." Sawyer scratched his head at the spot where a tie held his hair up. He focused on his sandwich for a second before saying, "Yesterday, I just wanted you off my back. I figured this way you could show off to the school how great you are and leave me alone for the week."

That caught me in the middle of unwrapping my sub. I glared up at him. "That was mean."

He had the gall to appear embarrassed, which sucked because it only made him look cute and it pinched my heart in a way I didn't appreciate.

"I took it straight from a page of the book of Aurora Martinez's type of plots."

I bit into the sandwich considering this. Yeah, that was like something I'd do. I was constantly manipulating situations to suit me and Sawyer knew this better than anyone else. He'd been my victim all through childhood.

"I respect that," I mumbled. But then I felt like I had to add, "Except you outed my secret hobby to the entire school and that was a douche move that not even I would have pulled."

He gave me a look like he doubted it and I smacked the closest part of him that I could find, which ended up being his very solid arm. I should've gone for the leg; at least that one was clothed.

He rubbed at the sore spot. His eyes twinkled and he said, "If it's any consolation your friend Courtney ripped me a new one yesterday."

It was some consolation. If anyone had a meaner streak than me it was her. We ate in silence for a few minutes, both of us looking at the half painted canvas. I was going to have to pull at least one all nighter this week. I'd been painting well into the night today, and all I'd really accomplished was half of the base colors. I sighed.

"It's really good," he said, and I looked up at him with wide eyes. He was done with his food and sat back, leaning his hands against the table. I couldn't help but note begrudgingly that he was art. A perfect sculpture of muscle and sharp angles and eyes that shone like jewels. I tore mine away from his figure when he caught me staring. "Why did you hide it?"

My brain scrambled to understand what he was talking about until it caught on. He was referring to my art.

"You know how my parents are," I said.

There was silence for a bit until he shook his head. "Nope, sorry. I have no idea what you mean by that. Your parents love you."

Something in his voice bothered me, but I couldn't tell what it was. The words he'd said were perfectly normal. There shouldn't be an undercurrent.

I frowned. "They do, but they're very traditional. To them this-" I motioned all around. "Is just a side activity, not a way of life."

"Wait, so," as he said this he angled closer to me and I glanced around, seeing that I'd trapped myself in the chair against a bunch of tables. And much too close Sawyer was not something I was ready for. I remained stiff as a rod as he leaned down to put his chin on his hand, propping his elbow on his thigh. "So, you'd make this into a way of life?"

I gave an awkward laugh. "What? No. It was just a figure of speech-"

"Because you could," he said, shutting me up. Grey eyes bore into mine with an intensity I'd never seen before. "If it's you, you can make it. You can do anything you want."

What I wanted right there and then was not something I should do. I'd get in a world of trouble if I pushed myself up and caught his lips with mine. So I stood up and walked over to the canvas to put some distance between us. I rubbed the goosebumps all over my arms.

"Thanks, but life's not that easy," I said.

I heard him rustle behind me and then he joined me. But I was safe, because he was just looking up at the strokes of paint on the stretched up fabric.

"It sure isn't but-" He sighed. "Rory, you have what it takes."

Heat rushed up my neck and face. I didn't know what to say to my childhood nemesis suddenly dropping such a vote of confidence on me like it was the MOAB. I busied myself with cleaning up the room and grabbing my things.

"Done for the day?" he asked.

"Ah, yeah." I hung the apron on a peg high above me and turned. He was looking at me with a little smile on his face that had me fearing he could read my mind. Or my heart, which would have been a lot worse. "Thanks for the company and uh, the food. I accept your apology. You should leave now."

The smile widened. Dang him, he knew I was freaking out.

"Do you need a ride home?"

And wrap my thighs around his waist? Heck no.

"No, don't worry. I already rang Toni and she's on her way," I lied.

He knew it, because he said, "I'll wait until she arrives."

And he did. I had to pretend I needed to go to the bathroom to call her from there. I tried not to overthink the whole thing, but I couldn't help it. Especially when he showed up again the next night, and the next. Each time carrying dinner for two from what undoubtedly was the money he was making for mortgage. And because things were awkward and tense between us every single time, we both made sure to not step into the landmines that were the heavier topics hanging between us like guillotine blades. And in the dark privacy of my mind, I could admit to myself that that week, as he took his break to dine and watched me paint, was one of the best of my life.

are we still thinking that Sawyer is a typical bad boy? or that Rory is a typical good girl?