The day went by slowly without Dahlia. It was made a bit better because I had my partner from math class with me in one more of my classes. But still. Nothing could take Dahlia’s place. No one could take her place. 

So I ended up going through three of my classes empty of my best friend, but two classes with my math class partner. Oddly enough, the second class that I shared with him was art in the cafeteria for sixth period. I didn’t expect him to be... Artsy. 

Firstly, math class should be explained. It wasn’t that bad, but Dahlia wasn’t there so it wasn’t the best class. And, we had to do our work with partners. 

Of course, I had no Dahlia with me to be my partner, so I courteously asked the new kid if he would like to partner up with me. Except that I didn’t ask courteously and I didn’t ask if he would like to ‘partner up.’ 

“So. Dahlia isn’t here today and everyone else already has their usual partners, so... wanna work together?”

In hindsight, I realize that I might have been a bit rude and blunt as I brought up the fact that I was only partnering with him because my best friend wasn’t there and because he would pretty much have no choice as there was no one else available. 

Also in hindsight, I sounded very shy with my quiet voice, and sounding shy tends to lead to sounding nervous, and sounding nervous tends to imply feelings that aren’t just-friend-feelings, and implying feelings that aren’t just-friend-feelings tend to lead to misunderstandings and awkward conversations. So... Where was I going with this? 

I don’t have any feelings past just-friend-feelings, and frankly, I barely even have those. Also, why do I care? 

But, I seem to remember him smiling as he agreed to work with me, so maybe I didn’t sound as rude as I initially thought? Or maybe that was his polite yet fake smile to please me and make me think that he likes me but he is secretly harboring feelings of hatred towards me. 

Math was a disaster, now that I think about it. Oh, geez, Dahlia! Why’d you leave me! I’m a socially awkward mess without you! 

Anyway, science class was boring. Nothing new, but I did have to tell the teacher, “Oh yeah, Dahlia’s not here today.” We didn’t learn anything special, and class felt even more dull now that I was alone without my other half. 

And gym, ugh. Don’t even get me started on that can of worms. First question, what sort of sadistic torturer invented basketball?

Second question, why is it worse without Dahlia? I swear, with Dahlia, I can grit my teeth and trudge through the sports and the sweating and the perfect athletes that manage to beat you ten to one. I’ll complain, but I’ll still manage to do it. But alone? Nonononono. No. NO. The tripping, the slipping, the terrible missed shots. Everything. NO. 

Anyway, the only class that just barely managed to brighten my day was art. Strangely enough, it might’ve been improved now that my new kind-of-maybe friend joined me. Maybe. I’m not admitting anything yet, but maybe. 

We moved on from sketching to painting. Personally, sketching was easier and much more enjoyable, but painting was also fun. I was also the only person with an empty seat and canvas next to me, so my kind-of friend joined me. 

It was interesting watching him paint. Even though I expected him to be terrible and way out of his comfort zone, he actually seemed to enjoy it. 

At first, we were allowed to just get used to the paints and brushes, painting whatever nonsense we wanted. Then, we were told to go up to the front, one person per pair, and grab a fruit. Then they would come back and place it on the small table in front of each respective pair and begin sketching and painting it. 

I let him choose the fruit since it was his first class and previously, I had been choosing the items that I wanted for myself. 

He chose an apple. He chose a green apple. 

I felt a pang of emotion break free of the carefully locked and sealed box in the pit of my stomach. To cover my slight pain, I turned and looked at him skeptically, but he wasn’t looking at me. He was engrossed in his paints, picking up the different colors and nodding or shaking his head as he passed each color. 

When he finally looked at me, he defensively and confusedly asked, “What?” 

“An apple? Seriously? And a green one at that?” I asked. 

“Do you have a prejudice against green apples?” he asked back. 

“One, I don’t know what a ‘prejudice’ is, and two, green apples are as basic as you can get,” I told him, on the defensive. 

“Well, one, ‘prejudice’ means an often unfair opinion that isn’t based on reason, and two, green apples are not and will never be basic.” 

“One, I admit you know more vocabulary than me, and two, apples are basic because you can always find them no matter the season, and they all taste generically the same.” 

“One, thank you for admitting my higher amount of knowledge, and two, not all apples taste the same. Some are sweet and some are tart, and they aren’t found all the time.” 

“Uh, have you ever walked into a Costco and seen no amount of apples? Ever? They always have apples! They don’t always have strawberries, or cherries, but they always have apples!” 

“I wouldn’t know because I usually don’t go shopping. And aren’t we supposed to be painting?” 

He’s right. 

“Yes. But, next time, I’m picking the fruit, and it won’t be some boring apple,” I said, closing the conversation abruptly. 

I really didn’t feel in the mood to paint an apple. I didn’t really feel in the mood to even look at an apple. The green-ness of this apple was haunting me. The lighting shined on it perfectly, taunting me. 

I turned away and grabbed a random tube of green paint and a decent looking paint brush. I now had to paint an apple. A green apple. 

My father loved green apples. He loved them in his apple pie, doused in cinnamon and nutmeg and a dozen other spices that I would always remember just from the feel of the small glass bottles. 

The crust of his special pies would be golden and flakey, a true treasure. The bottoms would be slightly soggy as they were soaked in caramelized apples. Everyone always complained about soggy bottoms on pie crusts, but I liked them. They added a nice homemade touch, the feeling you get when you know it came from the heart. 

I haven’t had an apple pie in nearly a year. I shied away from apples. Their glistening and bitter skin, dotted with slight imperfections. The crunchy sweetness inside as they get cut open. The golden apple juice that leaks out and covers your fingers as you hold each slice. 

My dad had a small pot in the corner of his room, the room he shared with our mother. He planted a single seed inside of it. He never told any of us what kind of seed was there, but we all immediately assumed it would be an apple seed. It could be a honeycrisp, a pink lady, or a granny smith. None of us know, and none of us will know. 

It sat in our moms room, hidden from all forms of light. It probably died along with our father. None of us watered it. None of us brought it out into the sun. We could barely look at it. At least, I could barely look at it. I don’t remember the last time I had looked at it. It might have been thrown out with the trash and I would never know. 

I hate apples. But I refuse to fail my favorite, and let's be honest, the easiest class I have. I will paint this apple perfectly. I will paint it perfectly. 

“Are you okay?” 

“Huh?” I turned away from my white empty canvas and the triggering apple to look at my concerned partner. 

“You’re not sketching. You’re holding a paintbrush. We have to sketch first,” he reminded me. He paused before he apologetically added, “I’m sorry about the apple. I didn’t know it would bother you so much.” 

His eyebrows were bunched up, marring his whole face. His eyes stared at me, full of worry. 

“Oh, no. It’s fine. I just...” for some reason, I wanted to tell him. I shouldn’t, though. I barely knew this boy. We just met that morning, in math class. But I had these feelings bottled up since my dad’s death, and I hadn’t been able to talk to anyone about it. 

I turned away from him to stare at the apple again, debating. I didn't know the expression on my face, but it seemed to worry him even more. Maybe I looked... Indifferent? No, probably worse. Troubled? Sad? Hypnotised? Like I lost my father nearly a year ago and I’m still wallowing in grief? 

“You just...?” he encouraged. When I didn’t respond, he said, “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. I know we just met.” 

He moved to turn away, to face his painting, but I abruptly turned to him and interrupted. I had reached my decision. “I want to say it. To tell someone. Even if I’m telling someone I just met.” 

He nodded understandingly, but I bet deep down he was as confused as I was. 

“I feel like I can trust you,” I told him. That was a bit of an exaggeration. I wasn’t sure if I could trust him. We just met, and he was part of a gossiping crowd. But still. I needed this weight off my chest. 

He continued nodding, wanting me to continue. At least, I think he wanted me to continue. 

Instead, I paused. For just a second. I was testing the waters, dipping a single toe in to feel the temperature. To check if there were any sharks nearby that might attack once I jumped in. I felt the waters slowly, eventually immersing my entire foot. Then a second foot through the same process. 

I gathered up my courage and said, “My dad loved apples.” 

There. I’m waist deep. I can still get out, but there’s a chance the wind will blow and I freeze. Wait, what? I mean, there’s still a chance for me to back out of spilling these secrets, but he might spread the few rumors he had like a disease. 

“I want to say ‘that’s nice,’ but I feel like there’s more to that statement,” he responded cautiously. 

I nodded my head slowly in agreement. I could see his patient and slightly expectant while also very weary face from the side of my vision. He seemed to know that this was a delicate topic for me. I wondered if he would understand without me telling him. 

“He loved green apples best. He always put them in his pies,” I said. My vision was starting to blur, but I refused to cry in class in front of people while looking at an apple. 

“I loved his pies,” I said quietly, my voice cracking just a little bit when I said ‘loved,’ but I’m sure he still heard it. 

“Did...” he said hesitantly, trailing off. I finally turned to look at him, my tears blurring up my sight of him. He looked like a worried blob of browns and grays. I blinked my tears away furiously in an attempt to take them back, to keep them from falling. My eyes probably looked huge as they were widened to see past my tears. “Did he... Your father, I mean... Did he... Die?” 

I could tell how cautious and nervous he was as he very gently asked. I sniffled, rubbing the back of my wrist against my nose. I pulled my hand away and nodded emotionally in response. 

“Oh. Um, I’m so sorry, Iris. That... That’s terrible,” he said. I could feel his sympathy... Empathy? Sorrow? Pity? I don’t know, his sad-like feelings. I could feel them emanating off of him. 

“Don’t be sorry. It’s not your fault. It couldn’t be helped.” My voice sounded dejected, almost like I was waving a white flag in surrender with every word I spoke. 

It was true, though. It couldn’t be helped. 

I turned back to my empty canvas and finally started sketching. I will draw and paint this apple perfectly. In memory of my father. 

In loving memory...