The Revealing
Chapter 3

I had never not had something to paint. I always had thoughts whirling around my mind that I could use in a picture, so I painted my thoughts, and there they were, out on the canvas. It was space in all its glory—the sun, the moon and the stars. It was a dark picture with the only light coming from the main subject, the moon.

“That is beautiful, Obsidian.”

Mrs. Aubrey sighed, clearly impressed that I had done a good job, but I wasn’t done, not even close. I still had a lot more to add and fix. It needed to be perfect.

“It’s not done yet,” I said.

“I can’t wait to see the final product. I’m glad I gave you the opportunity to do this, but I still want you to keep your side of the deal.”

She looked as stern as she could, but I could tell it was hard for her to be too strict.

“Don’t worry. All this stuff that you’re teaching is like the ABCs to me. I can finish all of the assignments quicker than you can say, ‘Hand it in by Friday.’” I smiled at her.

“Hand it in by Friday.”

Damian was behind me. I whipped around and glared at him with all the glare I had left. He smiled at me, mocking me.

“That’s a very pretty picture, Bunny. Where are all the numbers?”

He annoyed me so much.

“What numbers?” My voice sounded disturbingly evil. Maybe it was because my aggression seeped into my words, or maybe it was because he was doing a good job of joining my bad side.

“You know—paint by numbers? There is no way you painted that all by yourself, Bunny.”

I think I like Bambi better.

“This was done all by Obsidian alone. She had no paint by numbers, Damian, but I think yours is waiting for you at your seat.”

Mrs. Aubrey had my back. I choked out a small laugh before he turned unwillingly to go to his seat. I beamed at my officially favourite teacher.

“Thanks for that,” I said.

“No problem, sweetie. If he ever gives you a problem, then you can always come to me about it. I don’t take any of his nonsense.”

At that, the bell rang, and I was free to go to music. This was the only class other than English and art that I had no escort to. On the way to English, I had wandered around the school for a while but found the class before it was time to go in, and I’d found my art class almost instantly, but by the time I had found my English class, I’d had no time to look for my music class. Now I knew it was time to get lost, and I was right. I was wandering aimlessly and getting worried that if I didn’t replace my class soon, I would get one of the crappy instruments. As luck would have it, I bumped into a girl who looked about my age and had glowing turquoise eyes. She had ink-black hair that reached the top of her hips, and it was pin straight. The straightness was not the work of a straightener; it was natural, I could tell—and she could tell that I was lost.

“Hi. I’m Willow.” She smiled at me kindly.

“Oh, um, I’m Obsidian.”

“Do you need help with something?” Her eyebrows pulled together in a questioning manner.

“Yes, I do. I actually have music this period, but I can’t really place where it is. You see, I’m—”

“New? Yeah, I sort of figured.” She gave an innocent giggle.

Wonderful. She is the giggling type.

“It’s right down this hallway here.”

“Thanks so much. I was afraid I would get stuck with a really disastrous instrument.”

I laughed at her reaction, and then she laughed too. I thought, If this girl is anything like I think she is, then she will be amazing and a fun person to hang out with.

“Oh no, we’re late.” She sighed and walked into the classroom.

Just as I had suspected would happen, all the male heads in the room turned—and not just because someone had called their attention by walking into the room. Willow walked over to the music teacher, who was short and a little on the chubby side. She flashed him a smile, and she was in. He gave her a brand-newish flute, and she sat in her seat. She then looked over at me and nodded encouragingly as if to say, “Do what I just did, and you can get the instrument you want.” I didn’t think she realized that she got what she wanted not because she asked but because the teacher based the majority of his decision on how long her legs looked in her jeans. I didn’t think the teacher was a pervert or anything, but I didn’t think anyone could have said no to her, no matter what he thought his reasoning was.

She looked at me expectantly, so I walked over and asked if I could play the piano. The teacher, Mr. Torrent, looked at me and laughed loudly in front of everyone. I could already tell I would not like this teacher.

“There are only two available spots in this school to take the piano as an instrument. Almost everyone in this classroom wants them, and you think you can waltz in here—late, I might add—and have the boldness to ask me if you can have one of those available spots?”

I shook my head, embarrassed. “No, sir.”

“There is one last instrument—well, two if you count what I’m going to assign to you that is available.”

Please be a clarinet. Please be a clarinet.

“There is the last clarinet.”

Yes!

“Or your voice.”

What! I couldn’t sing in front of a crowd if my life had depended on it, and it looked as if Mr. Torrent knew this. I knew exactly what the next words to come out of his mouth would be.

“And I want to give this clarinet to the little boy with the glasses who sits in the front row and comes to class on time. Looks like the solo is yours, Miss, uh—Xanthis, is it?” he said as he looked at his attendance sheet. Again, his class list had previous class pictures, and mine was a silhouette with a question mark, as I had seen on Mrs. Aubrey’s list.

He gave me a villainous smile. I sat down beside Willow and slumped into the chair, defeated. I could never pass this class if he wanted me to sing. The next thing that happened surprised me. Willow jumped out of her seat.

“Mr. Torrent, I don’t think it is fair for you to give Obsidian the singing. After all, she is a new kid. Isn’t that bad enough?”

He looked at her as if considering what she was saying. “Well, unless someone is willing to change instruments with her and she accepts that person’s offer, then my hands are tied.”

“I will switch with her.” Willow held out her flute in her hands, offering me the instrument.

“No,” I answered.

She stared at me in disbelief, as if it were the first time she’d heard that word. I continued, justifying my answer.

“I can’t take your instrument. After all, it’s my fault that I was late. I shouldn’t be excused from this action.”

“But you’re new. You can’t help being late. You don’t know where anything is,” she said, her voice lifting in pitch.

“Yes, but I could have asked someone how to get here. So this is my final decision. I’m not using the flute.”

Mr. Torrent couldn’t have looked any more bored. “All right, you’re staying on the flute, and you’re staying with the voice.”

That was that. Class went by as the first day should have gone; people had to try out their instruments and say their names out loud. He told me to sing mine, but I didn’t; I spoke it, saying I was unprepared to sing and had a sore throat. I couldn’t believe that excuse actually worked. At the end of class, I made an agreement with the teacher. If I could keep up with the tests and such, I wouldn’t have to sing in front of the class; I’d just do small things, such as scales. Willow had turned out to be an instant friend. I could tell she was glad that she had gotten stuck with the flute—at least that was how she put it.

Finally, the lunch bell rang, and Willow suggested I eat lunch with her at her table. Not able to refuse her twice in one day, I accepted her lunch offer. We walked into the unusually small cafeteria, and all the heads turned.

“Wow, you must be really popular,” I whispered to Willow.

“No, silly, they are looking at you. I mean, you are the new girl.”

Oh yeah, thanks for the reminder. “Well, this sucks. Where do we sit?”

She pointed at a table in the far corner of the cafeteria, which a group of students already occupied.

“The special today is rice and chicken with sauce. Are you going to get some?” Willow said.

“No, I think I’m just going to have a salad or something.”

“All right, but you’re missing out.” She smiled as we headed toward the counter.

She wasn’t kidding that I would be missing out; the rice had the most inviting scent rice could ever have had. I thought it was the sauce. “Maybe I will get the special,” I said, and she laughed.

“Once you smell Lydia’s cooking, you can’t turn it down.” She beamed at me as she handed me one of the plates.

I reached over and grabbed a Diet Coke. I’d never cared much for regular Coke. Mason thought Diet Coke was disgusting, but regular Coke was always too sweet for me.

We walked over to the table, and my stomach was doing backflips. I was never one of the popular kids back home, and I was not going to be one here, even though I had more of a chance here, given that it was a smaller school than my last.

As we got closer to the table, I noticed who was sitting there. I didn’t like it one bit. I wanted to turn around and eat lunch in the bathroom, something I would have preferred now. Damian looked up and smiled as we approached. It was not the smile he had greeted me with during art. His smile clearly said, “This is going to be fun.” Next to Damian sat a girl I did not recognize, next was a boy I had seen talking to Car in first period, and then, as I turned my eyes, I saw him. Car sat looking as cool as a cucumber with his foot up and his arm draped over the back of the chair next to him, which, other than Willow’s seat, was the only one remaining at the table. Car was laughing at a joke they’d all shared before we had arrived. His eyes were crinkled, and his dimples were showing. His facial expression was that of sheer joy. Seeing him so happy made me feel great. When we finally reached the table, the smile I wore was real, and that was a good thing, because people could always tell if my smiles weren’t real and were made of fake enthusiasm.

“Hey, guys, this is the new girl. Her name is Obsidian,” Willow said.

I nodded at everyone. They were all polite, except Damian, who permanently acted like a jerk. I ignored his sarcastic comments.

“Hey, Bunny, didn’t think you would make it to lunch. Can’t wait to see you in detention.” He smiled.

Did he have to bring that up? Luckily, Car defended my case.

“She wouldn’t have detention if you hadn’t butted in, Damian.” His tone was playful.

“It’s not my fault she is Shire’s new punching bag.”

Car laughed. It was odd to see them engaging in playful banter. I ended up sitting in the spot I had predicted, and Car did not move the arm he had draped over the chair earlier. I was now aware of every cell in my body and wanted to lean back onto his arm, but I won the war against my hormonal personality. I was glad. Lunch went by pretty well, and I joined in on most of the conversations, always with the help of Car prompting me. Most of the questions they asked me were about where I used to live and why I had moved to the middle of nowhere. I laughed and answered the questions. I felt as if I were a new toy that siblings were fighting over. It was nice to feel wanted. God knew it hadn’t been like that in my old school.

I’d never really blended in with high school kids my age during that time. I was a lot more mature than other people in my grade, who thought that looking good and having a boyfriend or girlfriend was the goal in high school, whereas my goal was to graduate.

After lunch ended, Willow walked me to my gym class and gave me an unexpected hug good-bye. She wished me luck in gym, and she was off.

I’d never liked gym. I had always spent my spare time in the library, so I never had joined sports teams, and I was fine with that way of life. Right when I walked in, I saw Car playfully punching a friend of his, whom I recognized from our lunch table. Car saw me and waved enthusiastically. Every girl in the gym who hadn’t seen me walking aimlessly through the halls definitely noticed me now. They stared me down, as if to say with their eyes, “He is mine.” I walked right over to the boy calling my name, even though the other girls were looking at me that way. Car had his arms behind his back, stretching his joints, when I made my way over. Ignoring the stares, I said, “Be careful, or you’ll rip your arms off.”

He nudged me and smiled at my dry humour. His friend acknowledged me with a nod, and I gave one back.

“Not likely. So do you play baseball?” said Car.

I looked over his shoulder and saw a pile of baseball mitts and bats and a couple of baseballs. I hated baseball. It was one of the most dangerous sports, in my book—hit a ball with a stick or attempt to catch a ball hurtling toward you with a glove too big for your hand?

“Um, not quite. I’m more of a sit-down-and-read-a-book type of girl.”

He laughed and playfully shoved me. “You’re funny.”

I am? I’d never noticed. “Sure.”

Our coach came out of the supply closet, holding another gym bag. His name was Coach Runt; however, his name was the opposite of his appearance. He reminded me of a big tree trunk; there wasn’t any part of him that wasn’t bulging with muscle, which made him look unnaturally, genetically enhanced. It was the kind of muscle that made you wince.

Coach let us choose our partners by having a captain system, which I found useless. What was the point of having a captain system when the teams were pairs? Yet I wasn’t going to take time to correct Coach, mostly because he looked as if he ate trucks for breakfast. Most of the captains were girls, so it wasn’t hard to tell why all of them were arguing over the first pick. Finally, after a few moments of bickering, Coach picked someone to have the first pick, a girl named Cindy. All the girls except me sighed when she picked Car as her partner.

Cindy was about a head shorter than Car, which was still tall for a girl, and she was thin, had blond hair and dark brown eyes, was tan and wore clothes that were a little too tight. Her top was tight and pink and said “Spoiled” on it. The label suited her; she seemed as if she thought she was above everyone else. She wore dangly earrings and loose bracelets, even though she was in gym class. Car would be her partner for any partnered activity for the rest of the year. He looked disappointed when a boy named Dillon picked me last. Dillon seemed to be known as a good baseball player, and I was sure he was upset to be partnered with me. But I didn’t care. I thought that maybe he could give me some pointers on how not to kill myself playing this dumb game.

“All right, Abseyedan, here’s what we are going to do.”

Ugh. “Um, actually, it’s Obsidian. It’s kind of hard to get on the first try.” I smiled at him, but his face remained unchanged and unimpressed. Great, another jerk.

“Okay, Obsidian, here’s what we are going to do. First, we are going to work with the bat. Then we are going to work with catching and throwing, and finally, if you’re good enough, we can try a real at bat.”

I stared at him blankly, not knowing the actions behind the words he was spitting at me. It seemed he had no time to explain it again. He drew in a breath and spoke to me the way one would speak to a 3-year-old

“Okay, so now we are going to take this stick, and I am going to throw—no, toss—the ball at you. You are going to use the big stick to hit the ball. Hopefully you make contact. I am going to use a nice big, soft red ball so you won’t get hurt. Next, we are going to put these really big gloves on one of our hands. Now, don’t get scared. I am going to be tossing a small, hard white ball to you, and you need to move your hand and catch it. Do you understand?”

I glared at him and responded, “Yes, I understand,” using the same tone he’d spoken to me with. He nodded quickly and threw some batting gloves at my face and then walked toward the bat bag.

I looked over on the other side of the gym to see what Car was doing as I put on my gloves. He was standing with the bat, and Cindy was pulling on the corner of his shirt to get him to come with her to get the gloves. He followed her, and she bent down right in front of him. He didn’t even glance her way as she pointed her butt right at him. She picked up the batting gloves, gave one glove to him and put the other one in her mouth, taunting him to take it out. Okay, first of all, ew, that is nasty. Does she not know how dirty those gloves are? And second, she is making a spectacle of herself. What does she think that will accomplish, except giving every guy in the gym who is aware of her the idea that she is easy? She is practically throwing herself at him.

Car stared at her and did something I did not expect; he looked at her and told her something that made her take the glove out of her mouth right away. Then he walked around her, bent over and grabbed another pair of gloves. Good for him. Best not reward something so stupid by giving it attention.

“All right, you’re at bat first. You do know how to hold a bat, right?” Dillon said.

I glared at him. “Of course I do.”

It seemed simple, but apparently, I didn’t. The remainder of the period involved Dillon getting angry at me because I didn’t know how to hold a bat, and he had to teach me how. He also spent most of the time criticizing me on my form and the fact that I had a ballerina swing, as he called it, which apparently meant that I twirled after I hit the ball, which I never did. Car spent the rest of the day ignoring Cindy’s feeble attempts to get his attention, making her look even more desperate. I had to listen to a pair of guys state how easy she was and how they bet five bucks that one could get in bed with her before the other. Poor girl. I almost felt sorry for her, but Dillon kept bringing back my attention by hitting my legs firmly with the bat. Talk about annoying. Finally, the dismissal bell rang, and I could go home. I was exhausted, but then Car politely said, “You’re not skipping on detention, are you? Mrs. Shire wouldn’t like that, especially since you gave her that beautifully put-together apology.” He lightly nudged my shoulder, not like Dillon, who would have probably punched my shoulder. Was every guy in the school other than Car a jerk? I highly doubted that, but it seemed probable.

“Oh yeah, stupid Damian,” I said.

He laughed. Why was he always laughing at what I said? I mean, I knew I was funny—but not that funny. He seemed to understand my confusion and explained his laughter.

“It’s cute how you insult Damian so much. It makes me laugh.”

My heart stuttered at the fact that he’d called me cute. But I was sure it was just something to say; he was being nice.

“Not a lot of girls are that blatantly honest with him. Usually, they are terrified and don’t go near him, which makes him want to hang out with them just to scare them. The twerp doesn’t seem to understand boundaries. Sometimes, however, they fawn all over him, which in that case, he turns them down flat. Again, a jerk. But you were the only one to turn him down flat. You’re not scared of him, and you’re not in love with him. You’re different.” He smiled, and everything he said made me beam in response. As he walked with me to detention, I thought that Car could end up a good friend.