They still are that way actually. As I stare at him.
And I want to blame the sun for it.
I want to blame too much heat for my body acting so strangely. But the thing is that it’s December and the winter sun is hardly visible through the gray clouds.
So it’s not the elements of nature.
No.
It’s something else. Someone else.
Him.
It’s him.
That tall figure in the middle of the crowd on the soccer field.
He’s making my body go haywire for some reason.
His hair, to be specific.
It’s golden brown. Rich and thick, luscious. But the most important part is that it’s cut close to the scalp. And so the golden brown strands stand up in places, looking all spiky, with absolutely none of them even touching the collar of his t-shirt.
Which is fine.
Why should they?
Only my crazy brain — and my squinty eyes and my stupid slow heart — can’t stop imagining those strands grown out. They can’t stop imagining those strands curling at the ends, hanging over that smooth forehead and grazing the side of that face.
But that’s not all.
I can’t stop imagining those shoulders, which are wide and muscular, draped in a suit jacket instead of in the light blue t-shirt that this man is wearing. And not only that, I can’t help but imagine that suit jacket being a little too small to contain all that tall muscular bulk.
What’s wrong with me?
Why am I imagining these things?
Especially when I’ve never seen this man in my life before.
Right?
Right?
So then how is it possible that I know exactly and to what extent I would have to crane up my neck and stretch my toes if I stood beside him, to be able to look into his eyes.
Eyes which I haven’t seen yet because he’s looking down at something but again, I imagine them to be blue.
Dark, dark blue.
Denim blue.
And then he does look up.
He does, and I find out that I was right. His eyes are blue. Navy blue.
Exactly as I remember them, and I remember them quite vividly.
So vividly as if I’d seen them yesterday. Last night. Only a few hours ago instead of when I actually saw them: eighteen months ago, on a random summer night when he ran into me and escorted me back home.
Not only did I see him that night, I drew him too.
I drew him on my dad’s car.
I drew that face, those eyes, and got sent here to St. Mary’s for it.
Everyone has done something to land at St. Mary’s.
Which means I’ve done something too.
Something bad.
Something that has made my parents hate me.
Before, I merely disappointed them with my strangeness and useless hobbies. But after what I did the summer of last year, they can’t stand the sight of me.
My mother told me that she wished I’d never been born. That she had a different daughter, a normal daughter. A daughter who wouldn’t be so ungrateful and selfish. After all, they’ve done everything in their power to give me a good life. A life of money and prestige.
But in return, I rejected everything, and in the process humiliated them in front of everyone. Not only that, I did it all in an election year. In a year when our family was already under so much scrutiny. When my dad was already under so much pressure.
And if I’d had my way, I would’ve ruined everything and lost him the re-election.
Thankfully though, he — along with his aides and of course my mother — came up with the last-minute idea of sending me to this reform school. They thought that it would resurrect his image in the eyes of the people. My actions were raising questions about our family, about how my father could be the keeper of the justice system when he’d failed to control his own daughter. So if he punished me for my crimes, he’d do what was necessary to bring justice to them as well.
It totally worked and he won the election.
Which I’m really happy for.
Because it wasn’t my intention to ruin things for him.
The reason I did what I did was because of my art.
Because I’m an artist.
Because I love to draw. I live to draw. And so I drew graffiti on my dad’s car, his brand new Lamborghini to be specific.
Maybe I should’ve thought it through though. Maybe I should’ve gone with a different, subtler approach than to vandalize my dad’s car that night. Something that didn’t embarrass my parents later and put my dad’s career in jeopardy.
But I wasn’t thinking about those things in that moment.
I was simply inspired.
By him.
The man whose face I drew on my dad’s Lamborghini.
Who had said that I was an artist not because someone had told me so but because I just was. I would be one even if I gave it up. And so maybe I shouldn’t.