Noah looks at her like he has no idea why she would share that specific information with a complete stranger. She just shrugs.

The boy next to me, whose name I’m pretty sure is Austin, asks me about sports in my old school. I tell him about our always winning basketball team and our absolutely rubbish lacrosse team. In exchange, he chats about the teams here and how baseball is the main sport in this school. Go Eagles, I guess.

Throughout this entire conversation, part of my brain stays acutely aware of piercing eyes that I can’t seem to shake off.

After lunch is art, my favorite subject. Although I am uninterested in becoming an artist or pursuing any kind of career to do with art, creating is still my happy place.

For the first time today, I don’t feel like I’m desperately trying to catch a train that already left the station. Yes, the other students already started their projects, but it’s just drafts, research, and sketches at this point. I can tell that some people still have no idea what they’re going to do.

The assignment is “mise en abyme” and Lena is already working on cool designs that incorporate mirrors.

I get my equipment out and Leah looks surprised. “Charcoal?”

“Yeah… what about it?”

“I don’t know, people tend to use pencils for their first sketches. It’s less messy.”

“Art is messy,” I answer. It makes her laugh.

“Okay, Mr. Tortured Artist.”

It sounded deeper than what I had meant. To be honest, I don’t mind getting my hands dirty from drawing. I even feel like the dirtier my hands get, the harder I’ve worked.

Since I like drawing hands, I decide to sketch a hand drawing something for the assignment. I work hard on the hand and the pencil. The shades, the reliefs, the details. Then, less than 10 minutes before the end of the period, I start to doodle whatever the hand would have been drawing when Lena compliments me on how realistic the hand and pencil look.

“To be fair, I just stayed in my comfort zone. Your idea is way better,” I respond.

“You could do something a bit similar. You know, a hand that draws a hand that draws a hand. It would work on the assessment on two different levels. That could be cool. And a bit deeper than geometrical shapes.”

I look down and realize that I have indeed doodled geometrical shapes. It’s not just any shape; they’re the same ones that Noah drew earlier in English.

I decide not to read anything into it other than the fact that it is a cool pattern.

On my way home – I should really say on my way back because this doesn’t feel like home – I have to pay close attention to the streets. At some point, I make a turn too soon and almost got lost. The only thing I like better about the suburbs, compared to the big city we used to live in, is that I can now cycle home. While everyone my age is focused on getting a car, I prefer using my bike even if it takes more time and energy. Even if it makes me weird.

“How was your first day of school?” my mom asks as we sit down for dinner. I do understand that school is pretty much my entire life, but I also hate when adults ask me about school. It’s the default question to ask teenagers without needing to know anything about them.

“It was fine.”

“Fine?” my dad repeats. “That’s not an answer. You’re evading the question.”

“I met people who I still don’t know. I’m currently taking subjects that I’ve had before, and I ate a crappy lunch,” I elaborate. “It was fine.”

“Watch your language,” my dad says.

Here is the thing with my dad: we love each other, but I can’t remember any of us ever showing it. We’re not in an argument either. He is quite strict, but I’m not a troublemaker, so it’s not about that. I guess he’s pragmatic and likes to place things into boxes, label them, and put a number on them. I’m an artist, so I find his way of seeing the world boring.

I get on better with my mom, who taught me how to draw. But things have been so different lately. For all of us, but especially for her. She hasn’t been speaking to me except for general stuff, hence the “how was school” comment. She definitely doesn’t draw anymore. I know exactly what the last thing she drew is, I know where it is, and I sort of want to burn it.

“You look tired,” my mother comments, looking at me with worried eyes.

“I’m fine.” I’m not really, but I’m not tired either, so it’s not really a lie.

“Have you taken your meds?” my dad asks.

“Yes.” No, I haven’t taken the meds. They turn my brain into cotton and I hate it. I’d rather see the world for what it is, the beautiful and the ugly. Sometimes, I think that I’m doing better than they think. Other times, I think that if they truly thought that I wasn’t doing well, then they’d put me in therapy, not just medicate me.

I go to bed early, not in the mood to endure another family TV night where we’re being careful not to discuss what we’re all thinking about.

I don’t like the kind of atmosphere that has been in my home for the past few weeks. It’s even worse now that I’m just in a random house.

I turn to face the wall. For some reason, the still packed moving boxes creep me out.

As I fall asleep, a few images run through my head. The Eagles logo of the school. Lena’s happy face when I met her. Freckles. The art room. Lena’s mirrors. Amber eyes. Austin’s baseball cap. Geometrical figures. Lena’s purple hair. Lena’s smile…

Lena comes back a lot. She might be the silver lining I need in all of this, so I look forward to seeing her tomorrow.