Paul
I examined my finished product in the empty art room. My painting was of a photo I had taken during a family trip: a field of red poppies.
I remembered the exact moment when my younger sister excitedly pointed at them and was beyond upset when my mother said that she couldn't take them with her.
I glanced at the clock, 5 PM. I had about thirty more minutes before my mother, who was also my art teacher, finished her meeting and I could go home.
I really did enjoy the silence of the art room, with the paintings, finished and unfinished, strewn about to decorate the walls in all different shades of color from the warmest tones to the coldest ones.
The one painting that I didn't like was the cubism one a classmate had drawn. Apparently it was of a person riding a horse but, with how it was drawn, it looked like four pairs of eyes staring directly into your soul, judging you.
Turning away from the stare of the painting, I looked back at my poppies. I was told that I have a talent for art. I don't disagree. I mean, if I'm not good at art, then my life has no purpose. After all, I've dedicated my entire life to this.
Trying not to think about it too much, I got up to grab a drink from the vending machine outside.
Exiting the classroom, I saw the Youth Volunteering Club outside, seemingly having just finished their after school meeting.
The person that immediately popped out was Owen. His cheerful attitude seemed to draw attention to himself. He was the opposite of me, being well-liked and happy-go-lucky.
I quickly turned away from their direction out of fear that my face would give away my jealous disdain for him. I was usually quiet around others since I didn't want to be baggage for them, so when I saw someone so carefree, I could help but feel unwarranted annoyance.
After grabbing my drink from the vending machine, I quickly went back into my classroom and began packing my things. I looked at the clock again, 5:16. I looked through my backpack to find my uneaten lunch. I took out the granola bar from the lunch bag and ate it, not really having anything else to do.
Finally, my mother's meeting ended and I finally got to go home. While leaving the school, I saw Owen again, I guess still waiting for his parents. I was going to turn away but, seeing him by himself this time, he seemed a bit…different, almost joyless.
Owen
As soon as my club meeting finished, I went outside with the people I called my friends, although I'm not sure they reciprocated that.
I kept up my bright persona though, making jokes and talking with them about my interests until they looked disinterested. I didn't want to come off as annoying so that was my cue to shut up.
I was in conversation with my colleagues when I spotted the guy exiting the art room. He was known at our school for his art and apparently isolated personality.
Must be nice actually having talent. I thought to myself.
During my childhood, I had always been one of the "gifted" kids. My parents would always make me do more and more activities for my benefit. I wasn't good enough to keep up though and eventually failed to reach the standard. At that point, I lost the motivation to actually keep trying.
What was the point in trying and failing if not trying produces the same result anyways? At least then you have an excuse.
After exchanging a couple more words with my club members, I watched them all leave before I sat on the stairs outside the parking lot waiting for the parents to finish their work to pick me up.
I was deep in thought about whether I actually had any friends in that club or if they were just too nice to push me away, when I saw the art guy leaving school in my peripheral vision. He seemed to notice me too. Neither of us said a word to each other.
When my father came to pick me up, he asked me about school and I responded how I always did.
"Eh," with a shoulder shrug and a dry voice.