Sketch

I looked over her shoulder (so slim, her frame) at her sketchbook, laying open on her lap, and all I could think was ‘No fair.’ Apparently, it’s not enough for some people to just be pretty (and smart and most likely immensely popular), but she has to be an amazing artist as well. She had landscape drawings (I still can’t draw trees to this day, and flowers all turn ugly by my hand), still-life artwork (mine look like whatever the object was really wasn’t interested in staying still), and people.

Really, it was the people that got me. Hers are all perfectly shaped, looking like…well, people. I’ve always liked drawing people best, and actually thought I was somewhat decent, but next to hers… Well, mine now seem all lopsided and disfigured, with body parts that look like they came from The Turkey Dinner From Hell, and the faces like they belong in some lame sci-fi or horror film. It’s all pretty sad, really, cause if I ever went into the world to live off my art, I would probably end up living in the gutter or in a cardboard box or something and have to eat my own body parts for food.

It wasn’t just how talented she drew them, but something about them drew me in. First glance, I was interested. Second, I had to stare. By my third glance, I was half-expecting her to turn and stare at me, all angry, all “What the hell are you doing?” She didn’t, and so I kept my eyes on the page. All girls, all in the type of pose that you would associate with being really lonely and unpopular and depressed. Not like her. She did turn then, looked at me. “You were looking…?” Quiet, also unlike her, though the short, brown hair that curled out ever so slightly at the ends dancing around her angular, pale face was.

“Yeah,” I said, realizing I was caught. I didn’t know whether to turn and walk away, or just stand and gape like an animal of lesser intelligence. Based on the fact that I wasn’t moving, it was definitely the latter. “I, uh, like your pictures.” It sounded so lame.

She smiled (and this was her, it was so her!), blushing ever so slightly. I couldn’t help but feel so ugly, so inadequate, next to her. “Thanks,” she replied, turning back to her work. Her small T-shirt showed off the curves of her back as she colored in the shadows of a figure with her pencil.

I just walked back to my table after that, looking through my sketchbook and feeling like shit every time I turned the page to another one of my childish, awful drawings. Candles, people, vases, every time I turned the page, another sad sketch would appear, and I would look back to see if maybe she was looking over my shoulder at my art and if maybe she would say it was good, even if it wasn’t true.

The bell rang then, and she stood up, short skirt dark against her pale thighs, and I watched her go before leaving myself. I didn’t draw any people in self-conscious poses that night, nor did I practice at all to get better so that someday, she could look at my drawings and say they were good and mean it. Maybe I just knew it wouldn’t happen, maybe I didn’t. Anyway, I remembered hearing that she killed herself a few days ago, and I kind of felt bad about it. I didn’t dedicate this story to her or anything, but I just remembered about it, so I guess that’s why I wrote it down.

What I want to know from people who read this is how they see the nameless and mostly genderless (I only say mostly because the comments and the way this is written is rather...feminine)main character. It’s kind of one of those stories where you just see it in a different way, and I like to know this type of thing about readers. No personal experience, really, just a blend of normal life with a hint of teenage angst.

Go figure.