Pencils & Polaroids

02: everything is blue

Sam's dark grey eyes filled with concern as we jointly watched Rainer painting a steel blue color over the lockers with the roller brush. "Will you be okay?"

"I have 911 on my speed dial." I intentionally say it loudly. Sam scoffs a laugh in my support. 

Long gone was his not-so-white hoodie. He's changed into a dark tee that permits the curls of his biceps to peek from under its sleeve every time he flexes his arms. It's so unfortunate to hate someone who looks this good. God must love being unfair when he's creating us, humans. Particularly men. 

Rainer stopped painting and gave me a flat look. "You're late." 

"You're boring." My immediate response causes him to turn around. "I thought we were describing each other's flaws." 

He refrained from giving me immediate reactions but the slight crinkle in his eyes and the pursing of his lips always took over. "No. Just yours." He dips his roller brush into the tray that contains the liquid steel blue. "Sam, does your friend know how to paint or should I teach her step by step?" 

"Her friend, is right here," I wave my hand. "And no, I don't need you to teach me anything. My days aren't that bad yet." 

"She doesn't know how to paint." 

All the appreciation I'd mentally showered to my best friend this morning seems like a total waste. The glare I deliver doesn't justify for her betrayal. Clearly, revisiting our girl code rule book one fifty million times in the last five years wasn't sufficient because Sam defied rule number one: any weakness revelation in front of Bark means endgame. 

She takes a safe step away from my glowering and me. "But she's a quick learner. She'll learn it by herself." Her words are mere bandaids to the deeply pierced back-stabbing. 

Her arms wrap around my stone-cold statue of a body. My eyes and hers play cop and thief. I don't hug her back, hinting that her hug isn't going to calm my volcano of anger 

"I'll meet you after detention. Call me." She gives my shoulders a squeeze before turning around, ignoring Rainer's presence, and brisk walks out of school. 

Hurling my bag to the floor, I feel the last layer of my discomfort stripping to the ground. I'm well prepared for the chaffs he's going to do with this newly received sparkling information about me. 

It's me and my fuchsia pink locker against the world. 

After a well-conveyed mental eulogy, I'm standing wide-eyed, staring at my locker which has the word SORRY written on the piece of paper hanging by the door handle that earlier had my doodling on it. I read the five-letter word repeatedly until I'm sure there's no pun or joke hidden in it. 

The imposter who painted my locker pink has decided to play nice. Confusion changes to suspicion before my eyes narrow down at the self-proclaimed Picasso behind me. 

"Apologies should be said face-to-face." His rolling stops. By the time he turns around with a puzzling expression, I'm leaning against the locker beside mine with my thumb pointing to the paper. "Go ahead, own it up." 

His vision zeroes on the paper and instantly, his confusion drops. "Wear your glasses, Mellon, that's not my handwriting." He huffs. 

I kick myself off the metallic steel and sprint to his side. "Then whose is it?" 

He closes the distance between our heads by dropping his head. "I'm guessing yours." 

On a completely separate thought, the idea of planting my own apology note for me and tricking him into owning up seems like the best-worst-apology-enforcing stunt. How could I not do it?!