7. Pretty

"Leave me alone!" you yelled at Mom. I was standing outside your door. I hadn't really meant to eavesdrop, but both of you were shouting so loud it was hard not to.

"Why won't you act mature for once?" Mom asked, "You never listen to me." I sighed.

"Listening can go both ways Sharron," you emphasized mom's name to show you still refused to call her mom.

"I listen," Mom defended herself.

"When do you ever listen to me? Have you ever even considered what I'm going through?" You had begun to cry.

"You're sixteen years old Sienna, nothing could be so bad that you have the right to call your teacher a bitch!" Mom snapped. I couldn't believe you had actually done that. But then again, I suppose I could.

"She is one," you replied stiffly.

"Why are you always fighting? For once could you just think a little before you do something stupid?" Mom pleaded with you. You just ignored her. Mom just left the room in a huff running into me.

"Sorry sweaty, you're okay right?" I looked at her and smiled.

"Of course, I'm always okay," I told her.

I walked into your room quietly; your back was facing the door.

"Sienna?" I whispered. You turned around; your cheeks ran with black mascara and eyeliner. You tried to smile and held out your arms to me.

"I'm sorry you had to hear that Ames," your voice was husky with tears as you pulled me onto the bed into your warm embrace.

"Why do you always fight with her?" I asked into your shoulder.

"I don't know," you fingers ran through my hair. Tugging at each snarl until it was gone.

"She really is worried about you, even if she doesn't show it. I'm worried too." I looked down hoping you wouldn't get mad at me. You touched my chin raising my face to look into your eyes.

"I know, and I'm sorry. You won't have to worry about me much longer, I promise." You wrapped your arms around me one more time. After a bit I pulled back and smirked a little.

"So you actually called Mrs. Harris a bitch, like to her face?" I asked laughing a little. You smiled and nodded and began to laugh yourself. Suddenly we were laughing so hard we couldn't breathe, falling back against your pillows. We were like that until our sides hurt.

When we finally stop laughing and calmed down a little we turned and face each other. You touched my cheek so lightly, as if you were afraid I would break into a million pieces.

"You really are okay, right?" you asked me some time later. I just smiled,

"Of course, I'm always okay."

Fact: I am not okay.

Dr. Citroen tries to talk about mom, but I don't want to. All the while I finger your watch trying not to let anything out. Dr. Citroen tries to play Fact or Fiction, but it doesn't go over well. I just don't know what to do anymore.

Wes tries to talk to me, but I refuse to visit him. He even came to our house asking to see me. Dad just turned him out. Wes leaves messages for me, going so far as to leave me one at school. I haven't responded to any of them.

Dad doesn't talk. There is nothing either of us has to or wants to say. I don't know if he can handle this, and I know I'm making it worse. I make everything worse, I ruin everything. It feels a lot like right after you died, even Grandma came back. When I'm not at school I'm in the studio trying not to feel anything.

The days meld into each other just like before. I'd put off homework, but it's actually a nice distraction. Funny, but I'm getting the best grades I've ever gotten. I just want a distraction, something to bring me up and out of my miserable life.

When I'm not doing homework I paint. I paint the bathtub, filled with blood. I paint the chair which is the color of death. I paint the dark caverns of my dreams, the nothingness that no picture can describe. I paint you without a face, without emotions, not being you. I'm actually beginning to run out of canvas, but I dare not paint the walls into the mural you wanted me to do. I just can't.

It doesn't take long for me to realize that I'm not living. What I'm doing can't possibly be counted as living. I'm existing; I'm taking each day, each hour, each minute, each second at a time. I don't even know how long I can keep this up, this fa├žade of life. I really miss you.

It goes on like this for nearly a month. It's almost as if I went straight past September into October. I think I might've kept going on the way I was if not for my repetition being broken.

It's English. Maybe I've entered some kind of pattern. It's like Mr. Andrews has some sort of presence that forces big events that he doesn't even know about. I'm not paying attention. I never pay attention, but all the teachers give me slack because my family is going through some serious crap. Besides, I still get my work done relatively well. I'm drawing again, not the bath or the chair. I'm trying my hand at drawing myself, but I keep on drawing you instead. It's really beginning to bug me. Suddenly I'm shocked out of my sketch with three loud bangs from the door to the classroom. I look up to see a boy with light, wispy orange hair and an extremely pale face. He looks apologetic as he walks up to Mr. Andrews.

"Sorry I'm late," the boy mumbles, hanging his head, "I couldn't find the room." Mr. Andrews nods with understanding. He stands up and walks from his desk to the front of the classroom.

"Class," he begins, "this is our new student Ethan." Ethan stands in the front, his orange hair falling a little into his eyes. His big, bright, light blue eyes. They're quite stunning, and I can't seem to take my own eyes off them.

"You can sit in the chair in front of Amethyst," Mr. Andrews directs Ethan to the spot in front of me. I quickly look back down to my drawing, hoping he didn't see me staring. But maybe he doesn't care; the whole class was staring at the new kid. From the corner of my eye I see him sit in front of me. I look up again and take in the back of the boy in front of me. He's thin, extremely thin. I bet if he took his shirt off I'd be able to count each and every one of his ribs. But he's also very pretty, with his big blue eyes and fair skin, even the color of his hair. No boy should be that pretty; he almost looks girly. His shoulders are hunched slightly, as if to make himself seem smaller, which doesn't seem possible. The class starts and I go back to trying to draw while not paying attention to the world around me. At the middle of the class period I'm again taken from my art, this time by a thin hand sticking out under my nose. I look up into soft blue eyes, and a gentle smile.

"Hi. I'm Ethan."

"Amethyst is a pretty name," Ethan leans next to my locker as I take out my Spanish folder and notebook. I wonder if he's trying to look cool or something. If he is, he's failing, with that thin frame, cool is not in the equation.

"Thanks," I whisper. Ethan smiles, his smile is so gentle and pretty. How on earth is this boy so pretty?

"De nada," I raise an eyebrow. He points to my Spanish notebook.

"You're welcome in Spanish." I nod. He smirks. I really should know that. But then again, I hate Spanish and I don't pay attention anyways.

"So," I pause a little, "why are you following me." Ethan shrugs.

"A girl with such an interesting name has to be an interesting girl." I cross my arms, giving him a look that says, "Oh really." He just laughs.

"I'll see you later," he says turning around giving me a backwards wave. The weird thing is, all I can think as I watch him walk away is, "Man, he's thin."

Perhaps Ethan was some sort of catalyst, or maybe it was just me. No matter what the reason, after school I go and visit Wes. He doesn't ask me where I've been. He doesn't look hurt or angry. He just gives me a hug, sits me down, and gives me my favorite chocolate malt. It's as if nothing has changed at all. We fall back into our old routine easily.

"How was school?" he asks me. I think about Ethan for a moment. The way he leaned next to my locker, his stupid smirk, and his way too pretty eyes.