So here's the follow up mirror to setting. I know the last one had a lot of errors hopefully this one isn't as bad :P I may not be updating as fast now, finals are coming up (what?!? o.O) haha, hope you enjoy. Happy Reading!
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It’s weird that the art wing of Hartford Public has the left over classes thrown in here too. There’s European History with Mr. Causey and Spanish with Senoria Stark (who isn’t really Hispanic but insists that her students call her by “Senora”) and Agriculture with Miss Bangerhimer (what an awful name). The only classes in the art wing that make since are the art classes. Theater, band, art, sculpting, and choir thrive in this hallway. There’s always noise thumping down the hall that spills out towards the cafeteria. Some teachers are surprised that anyone ever got anything done, especially in the unfortunate classes that teach practical things and not frivolous tricks like how to draw or act or sing. None of those things are practical.
Hunter and Georgie live in this wing. If Stacy and Rosalyn need either one of them this is the first place to look. They’re always doing something, Hunter wildling away on his latest sculpture and Georgie shuffling between after school sketching and the theater and choral department. It’s the only way Hunter has been able to reconnect with Georgie after middle school—their love for art allows him to redeem himself from being the jerk he had been in their past.
Sometimes Stacy and Rosalyn would be witness to Hunter and Georgie’s flirting. The way they become so involved with painting and each other was intense. Stacy always thinks of the scene from "Benny and Joon" where Joon and Sam finger-paint with oils, mixing the colors along the canvas and their hands, only going as far as touching one another’s fingers. But even with such a simple and un-provocative gesture the chemistry would rise to almost an uncomfortable level for outside viewers. Stacy and Rosalyn would feel intrusive sometimes during late afternoons in the art wing with the two younger teens because of the intimate connection they share for the other but refuse to admit.
When you first enter the wing there’s paint splashed against the wall from an angry student teacher (that’s what Hunter says), the mauve blemish seeps onto the floor leading away from it is the trail of an angry left shoe. The right must have not stepped into the pigment. The school board wanted to repaint the hall to have it back in the uniform white and blue of Hartford Public High School but the art students got a petition together and persuaded the board to leave it as is. Art is expression and emotion; you shouldn’t try to keep it silent. The students won and have been adding their own mark on the splash. Theater and music students have written their musings in black sharpie each using the language that they have learned over the years. Other colors join it and rough sketches bleed across the colors of blues, greens, and yellows. It seems to have been a rule not to add any colors similar to the original stain. It’s as if the hazy pink is the statement that others build off of and don’t want to remove from the original. It’s the art wings own torch, always kept lit.
Stacy likes coming down here, to see all the different people. She isn’t talented like the students that thrive and grow here but she loves the way they view life. Knee-jerk reactions and impulsive decisions. The art wing makes Rosalyn’s skin crawl; she likes an order to everything and the art wing, even with the thrown away classes meeting here, is far from that. Rosalyn is always a bundle of nerves down this wing. There are too many people being too impulsive, she can handle Stacy and Georgie just fine but sometimes it’s too much when surrounded by the spontaneous.
It smells of spit and primer all the time, the spit students could do without but the primer gives off different kinds of highs. There’s creation here—people’s ideas are allowed to run amuck down the hall and in-between the classrooms. Creatures inhabit the theater students changing life while notes and melody charge out of the mouths of the choral and band kids while the others capture it in their own type of firefly jar.
It’s quiet now as Stacy walks by the mauve badge of honor surrounded by the markings that pay homage. There are no flutes piping or potter wheels turning. There is a boy standing at the end of the hall, his back is turned as he rummages through his locker by the band room. Theses are the lockers that all of the band students use, some are bigger then others so the students instruments can fit in alongside their books and lunches. His is the biggest because he plays the tuba. Stacy never noticed his appearance before. When they had met both were kind of been past the point of coherent thoughts. He is broad on top, odd for needing a tuba to wrap around oneself during marching season. His right arm reaches into his locker pulling out a cumbersome case. It flexes under the weight, strong arms.
A Spanish book falls out on the ground. The noise being the only thing heard in the hallway. He bends down and notices Stacy. He stops. They stare. “Hi,” Stacy says. Small and timid. Maybe this wasn’t a good idea.
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