People being mad at me is what spurs my mind into doing stuff. He should be mad at me. I’m shit friend. I can’t even be sober for a few days. Why does Jackson care. He never fucking explains it and in my fucked-up mind I can’t fathom any reason other than pity. The tears dry out quickly. It’s not like I have any more to shed. It’s fine, doesn’t matter, nothing does.

I shuffle to my desk, reading over the paper I got back from the teacher. “Good except for the parts where you spoke about the languages.” I mumble. Huh? Isn’t this class about how they changed and affect how people learn? I toss it in the trash, deciding I need to take a shower. I make sure no one is there before showing and cleaning off the dirt on my body.

It’s refreshing to have warm water all over you. Who knew warmth could be so calming. I dry my body off, brushing my teeth quickly. My hair is a mess like always. My fingers run over the dark circles I have underneath my eyes. My skin is pale, the freckles I have showing up despite it being winter. Jackson is nowhere to be seen thankfully. I grab a canvas, painting quickly.

Art is the only thing I can do without being forced. Even in high school I would spend my time in art room painting whatever I wanted if it fit the guidelines our art teacher had. He knew I have issues. Jackson used to tell me I had fetal alcohol syndrome, but I never got enough information from my parents to decisively say yes or no.

I sigh, checking the time. I’ve been painting for almost twelve hours now. It’s almost 9am. I hang it up to dry. A loud knock on the door startles me out of the serene silence that has developed in my room. Light is floating through the thin curtains in my room, my papers flapping a bit on my desk. “Yes?” I ask, confused on who would want to talk to me.

“Hello.” A tall man smiles down at me. I shift a bit, confused. “Your RA told me that he thought you would be good for the art program here.” I narrow my eyes. “No thank you. I’m not good at art.” The guy raises his eyebrows, his gaze traveling to my hair that has paint all in it. “Mmmm… let me be the judge of that. Do you have any?”

“I- erm… yes.” He smiles at me. “Could I see them?” “If you want too.” I pull my door open. His eyes take in the canvases stacked in piles around my room. “You must paint a lot?” He picks one up gently. “I guess.” The guy sets it down just as gently. “I must say, you are quite good. What’s this?” He points to the one drying.

“I normally paint my feelings. The paintings are sorted by color. It’s hard to explain I guess.” “It looks like a deer with broken antlers and another one going to give the smaller one an antler.” My eyes widen. He described it perfectly. “H-how?” “I’m an art teacher. What is this?” he grabs the paper with a big F on it. “A failed paper.”

“About languages.” I cross my arms, the cold air from the hallway floating into my room. “Yes.” “It’s quite an interesting paper. Lot’s of… language.” I sigh. “Yes, I know. It’s bad.” He drops it back into the trash. “Well, I got permission to take you in as a student on two conditions. One, you must complete the coursework on time. Two, respect is key. Your teachers see your doodles and recommended you alongside your RA.”

I shift a bit. “I also want you to take a test.” I look up. “A test?” “Yes. This will help me figure out a very important thing about you.” I narrow my eyes. “What is the test?” “Mmmm… I can’t tell you. I’ll be back to pick you up tomorrow morning for it. See you.” Like that the door closes and he’s gone. What the fuck just happened? He is weird. I sigh, flopping on the bed. He didn’t even give me a time. I curl up, oh so tired and oh so done with weird people for the day.

I jolt upright, hearing loud knocks. “Kid, you need to take your test.” I groan, stumbling around to get on different clothes. “Okay.” I mumble, still shoving my shoe on as I open the door. Jackson is standing there with the teacher. I rub my face. “He is my assistant.” The teacher explains. I shut my eyes, ready to explode.

“What is your name?” I ask through gritted teeth. “Rossie, Mr. Rossie.” “Lovely, go fuck- mmmfff.” Jackson shoves a hand over my mouth. I bite down, hard. He yanks his hand away. “You have a colorful vocabulary.” Mr. Rossie just looks amused. “Why do I have to take a test?” I quip, following them out of the dorms and into the cold.

“You’ll see.” I sigh, trailing behind Jackson and Mr. Rossie as they talk. People wave to both. Just my luck, the most extraverted people on this Earth are together. “We are here!” Mr. Rossie claps his hands after opening the door. I stare in wonder at the building. There are paintings everywhere with big glass windows and kids lounging on the chairs.

They pull me into a smaller but just as fancy room. I shift uncomfortably. I knew this school was rich, but this is beyond that. “Okay, try answering these.” He drops a large test on the table. I narrow my eyes. What the fuck. I look at the first page, feeling my heart plummet to the core of Earth. I try answer the questions, confused and frustrated.

“You have 30 minutes remaining.” Mr. Rossie calls. I let my head fall onto the table. I haven’t even finished the first page. I flip through the rest of the pages, my eyes widening. I know nothing. One is a question about France. What?? I throw the test across the room, hearing it smack to the floor. Jackson chuckles. “That’s long than he normally does.”

I look up, my eyes narrowed. Mr. Rossie picks up the test, his eyes skimming over my answers to the first page. “Well, considering it was a hundred question test and you answered none of these correctly, you failed.” “Okay. I’ll leave now.” I stand up, going to leave. “Proves my suspicions.” Jackson grumbles. “Yeah, this points to all the signs. He also couldn’t focus for more than two seconds.”

I sit back in the seat, my foot tapping the ground at an extreme pace. “Has anyone tried to help?” Mr. Rossie asks. They are acting like I’m not here! “No. Most people got fed up with his terrible grades and hyperactivity.” I lean back, spotting a bar I could climb on top of. I walk over, hoisting myself up. They are still talking.

I stand on the metal bar. It’s roundish. I look up when Jackson says my name. “Kid you are gonna be an art student now.” I blink. “I failed the test though?” “Oh no, that was a test to see if you could focus and retain information. Most of that was simple stuff.” I narrow my eyes. “No, it wasn’t. I would have remembered if it was easy.” Jackson shifts a bit.

“Remember when I said you had fetal alcohol syndrome?” He mumbles. I nod. “Well, you being unable to control your feelings, showing signs of hyperactivity-“ “I don’t have it.” I growl. “Your mother drank while you were in her stomach.” Jackson mutters. “I’m alive, aren’t I?” “Look I have taken care of you since preschool.”

“I don’t care how long you have taken care of me. I’m fine.” Mr. Rossie sighs. “Kid, you can paint really well. Like extremely well. To the point of being better than some famous artists although it does depend on tastes. What I’m saying is, you would be great for the art program. You could get a scholarship and the tests we have are hands on.”

I cross my arms. “I don’t want to be treated special.” Jackson bites his lip. “You are special though.” Mr. Rossie pushes. “Uncle stop. He doesn’t like being called that.” Jackson mumbles. “Does special mean I have to force my parents to sleep? To have to throw away broken beer bottles and glass shards because my parents are to incompetent to do it? I don’t want to be special.”

Mr. Rossie’s eyes widen. “I’ll talk to him.” Jackson murmurs as I storm off. “Connor wait.” He begs, chasing after me. “Why?” I deadpan, not slowing my pace. “Look I know you love art-“ “I like being alone and I love you not caring what I do.” I interrupt. “JUST LISTEN TO ME.” Jackson shouts, grabbing my shoulder.

I push him away. “No. You don’t give a fuck.” I growl. Jackson stares at me with sadness in his eyes. “You told me you weren’t gonna give up.” I stop. “I said I wasn’t going to give up art. I never said I wasn’t going to give up college.” Jackson is quiet as I walk away, back to the dorms.