“Well that was weird.”
I took my seat beside Rowan in the art room, turning to face him. I huffed and ran a hand through my fringe, which was beginning to grow out and was now too long to wear on my forehead. He looked up from his drawing. Today his creepy sketch was of an older woman, she was sitting on a mushroom with broken legs and ripped butterfly wings. I shuddered, is he even allowed to draw such morbid stuff for school? There was no doubting his artistic skills, but he chose to use them in such a crude way.
“What was weird?” He asked mildly, licking the tip of his pencil before returning it to the page. His tongue peeked out of the side of his mouth as he concentrated.
“I got kept behind in physics and Sir started asking me all these completely irrelevant questions,” I grumbled, “and get this, I felt really weird for a minute before getting super worked up.”
Rowan tilted his head up to stare at me again; his green eyes reflected my face in them. I could see my own expression of eagerness to talk. “Did he say something to make you mad?”
“Nope. I just felt really angry. Oh, I was a bit pissed as well because he called you a girl, but it was before that, and then after, too.” I frowned, realising how stupid I was beginning to sound, “you know what? Never mind. I just realised how crazy I am for saying that.”
“Not crazy,” Rowan mumbled around his tongue which was, again, sat in the corner of his bottom lip. He had returned to his sketchbook, obviously bored of our conversation. I sighed, settling into my stool.
Mr Mac swept past our desk and stopped in front of it, “ah, Karin, you’re here. I have your book, one moment.”
“I have a late note,” I called after him, but he just waved a dismissive hand and strode off into the store cupboard where I presumed my book was.
He returned a moment later, sketchpad in hand. “You’ve done well so far. Critical references are a bit lacking in annotations, though. And I’d like to see some more copy pieces, if that are alright with you?”
“Yeah, okay,” I shrugged, taking my pad from him. I flipped it open to a study page and settled down. I started to scribble down nonsense about colour and texture. At some point during the time I was anxiously writing about the depth of a painting, Mr Mac had put on another one of his weird meditate trance mix tapes on for background music for us to work with. While I was often appreciative of his peculiar CDs, today I just wasn’t feeling it and it began to grate on my sanity.
“I swear to god if I hear another throat singer in this song I will murder him,” Rowan muttered darkly next to me and I chuckled in agreement. Apparently Rowan wasn’t big into the music today, either.
“I think it’s actually brainwashing music,” I sniggered.
“I would not be surprised.” Rowan said seriously, and I felt my brows go up in confusion. Rowan looked at me, completely deadpan and I wondered if this was something I was supposed to understand.
“Huh.” Was all I could think of to say before ducking down to focus on my work.
The lesson passed by without a hitch for the first half hour until I became bored of the annotations. I put my pen down and stared out of the huge window. The glass hadn’t been replaced, and warped the world beyond it. It had an eerie effect, and I began to notice that the distortion set off random streaks of light throughout the room which were brighter than the usual glow from the sun.
I turned, looking ahead at the cluttered whiteboard. Every free space in the art room was completely covered in, well, art. The board was no exception. Some pieces were inked on with whiteboard pens; others were attached to it with blue tack. The only thing that was allocated a permanent space was the little patch in the top left hand corner, where Mr Mac would write the date.
“Karin?” Rowan’s voice made me jerk out of my internal musing. I was confused, and worried and I didn’t understand why.
That was, until I let my gaze drop to the book in front of me where my pen and ruler were stark upright, turning slowly all by themselves.