THREE

Timothy woke up the next morning, miserable and frustrated. Another day in hell. He thought. If he could, he would just  move out. He  was eighteen after all. He could just run away  and find a job.  He could  leave, abandon  his  unsatisfying life, and start a new one all  on his own.  But he  couldn’t. He didn’t know he couldn’t, he felt like he couldn’t. No.  He  thought. I  can’t  leave  now.  Something’s  coming. I  just have  to  wait.  It  was tempting,  knowing that he could, but he held firm. He didn’t know what was coming. He just knew  it would  change his  life. The  house was  quiet,  so he  knew  his parents were gone.  He didn’t bother to look in the mirror to fix his hair. He didn’t want to see his face. Not ever. Not unless he really had to. But he didn’t most of the time. My face, he thought, is a ghost.

 

Stephanie  was quietly seated in her assigned seat. It was already the middle of the day,  after  their lunch  break,  and it was  their art period,  her favorite  subject  out of all. Timothy  was seated beside her,  his hands clutching his shiny gold and brown hair. Their art teacher came in. Her clothes were tie-dyed, making her look like a hippie.

“Class.” Mrs. Aylmer said.

The class stood noisily and greeted her. “Good morning Mrs. Aylmer.”

“Today,” she said as the whole class sat down. “I will leave you with a project.”

The class groaned. And Mrs. Aylmer laughed.

“This is a piece of cake.” She said. “I want you to portray…” she made a dramatic pause. “Love.”

The room filled with groans, and “ohh’s” and “ahh’s”.

“Okay.” She said, clapping her hands to get everyone’s attention. “Everyone go to your partners. Stephanie Cross and Timothy Adams please step outside.”

Great. She thought. What now?

 

Timothy followed close behind Stephanie out the classroom. What is it now?

“Okay.”  Mrs. Aylmer said.  “I want  you two  to become  partners.  There were thirty-one of you. Now that Timothy is here the class is evened up.”

“What?” Stephanie said. “But… I thought you permitted me not to have one.”

“That was because the class was  an odd.  You said it  was okay  for you  to be the only one with no partner. But now that the class is an even  I’m afraid  to say you have  to be partners with him.”

Timothy stood quietly aside.

“Okay.” Stephanie said, giving up the fight.

They  all went  in, and   their  ears  filled  with  the  excited chatter of the students. But  as  they  both  sat  down,  he knew  she  wasn’t  filled  with the  same  enthusiasm  as the others. But then, neither was he.

“What are your talents?” Stephanie asked.

“Sculpting.”  He said.

“I paint. So what can we do?”

They were quiet, thinking.

“What… what if I sculpt something. And you paint it and a base for it.”

She nodded. “Okay.”

 

School  was over and Timothy invited Stephanie over to his house. His house was big and grand.  White  walls, hanging chandeliers, big staircase, the whole package. They were in his room. Stephanie glanced uneasily around. It was the first time she had been in someone’s  room; especially  in another  person’s house.  His  room was almost as similar as  hers.  It  was  cluttered  with  art  materials;  plaster  and  c l a y,  wooden  blocks.  His sculptures were in one corner.  Dozens were on the table  and more  under it. She saw one she  really  liked.  It was  made of  wood, and  a lily was  carved on it. The crevices of the petals  cast shadows;  the petals  were  thin.  It looked  difficult to do, but he really was an expert. Then she saw his bookshelves. There were three of them,  already full. She looked at the spines and saw the  titles  of different  classics:  Phantom of  the Opera, Romeo and Juliet, Pride  and Prejudice,  Much Ado  about Nothing,  and almost everything. The third bookshelf was full of the recent published books, but she went back to the first two. Then she spotted one that got her attention.

“May I?” she said.

“Help yourself.” Timothy said, getting some materials.

She took the book by the spine and slid it out. TRISTAN AND ISOLDE. It said in golden embossed  calligraphy.  She opened  it and it  was  filled  with  different  paintings of the story and explaining the happenings.

“What’s this one about?” she asked.

Timothy looked over and saw what she was holding. “You should read it. A summary doesn’t quite put it right.”

“Okay.” She said, putting it back. “I’ll borrow one from the library.”

“There’s none.”

“How do you know?”

“I spend some time in the classics section. I scanned every bookshelf looking for something new to read. I didn’t see that on the shelf.”

“Oh. Maybe I’ll buy it someday.”

“Do you want to borrow mine?” he said. “I think you treat books okay.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

“Okay, I got everything we need. We still have to decide what to do.”

They were both quiet, standing awkwardly in front of each other.

“What is the image of love?” she said.

“I don’t know. Have you ever been in love?” he said.

“No. You?”

“No. But what do you think is the strongest portrayal of love?”

“I don’t know. Lot’s of things: loyalty, truth, etcetera, etcetera.”

“Let’s keep it simple. Something we can portray.”

“How about marriage?”

“Okay. That’s good. How can we make a sculpture of that?”

“How about hands?”

“Hands?”

“Well,  marriage  is mostly  about bonding, unity.  What about  two hands holding each other?”

He nodded. “Okay, but I don’t have a mould that looks like that. It seems we have to make one.”

“Okay. How?”

He took a bag and poured something in a big container bucket. Then he mixed it with water till it became a thick mixture.

“Give me your hand.” He said holding his out.

“Why?” she said nervously.

“If we’re going to make a mould, we need a model.”

She gave him her hand and he inspected it.

“You have nice hands.” He said, and then slipped a gold ring on both  of their ring fingers.  “Okay.”  Then he weaved  his  fingers  around  hers  and  dipped  their  hands  in the mixture. “This will take about half an hour to harden.” He explained.

“Okay.” She whispered.

“Uh, about yesterday…”he said. “I just wanted to say… I’m sorry for taking out my frustration on you.”

She nodded.  “And  I want… to thank  you. For  that…  thing you  did yesterday.”

They  stood  there,  about a  foot away  from each other. They  both went  quiet,  a thick,  uncomfortable  atmosphere  hanging  over their  heads. They hardly looked at each other.  They just  stared down at their  hands in  the mixture,  all thirty  minutes.  When  it passed,  Timothy  wriggled  his  hand  a  bit,  to  test if  it was  hard  enough. It took a few minutes for them to take their hands out.

“The bathroom’s down the hall.” He said, pointing to the door.

“Okay.”  She  whispered,  and  then  she  headed  out  the  door.  She  went  in the restroom  and washed  off her  hand  which was covered with a fine powder. She took the gold ring off and headed back to the room. “Here.” She said, handing him back the ring.

“Oh.” He said and took it. “Thanks. It’s going to take a while for the sculpture to dry.”

“I can wait.” She said. She saw that he had already poured something in the mould.

“Here,”  he  said,  handing  her  the book  of  Tristan  and  Isolde. “You can read it while you’re waiting.”

She  smiled  slightly,  took it,  and shook  her head. “Why are you so nice to me?” she  asked.  It wasn’t  easy to  ask it;  it took  all her guts to do it. But he treated her better that all  of the  people  she had  ever  met,  even if  she pushed him away. “You didn’t get angry  when I  didn’t  want to  be your  partner.  I tried  to  avoid  you,  but  it  seems  like you won’t go away.”

“I don’t judge people.”

“Don’t you? I heard about what you did to Sophie the other day.”

“She was flirting. And I don’t like people like that.”

“But why did you talk to me of all people? During class you were silent.”

“I like only your type.”

“What type am I?”

“You’re  quiet.  I know  you think  about  the  world.  I think people  like us  don’t worry about what others think. We think deeply about things before doing it.”

“You’re right.” She said. They were quiet for a bit. “Can I  look at your sculptures again?”

Timothy nodded.

She stood up  and walked  to the  table.  She  scanned the tabletop and spotted one that was at the far corner. It was a bust that looked like Timothy.

“You made that?” she asked.

He stood up from the bed and looked at what she was pointing at. He froze.

“It looks like you, but it’s different.”

“How?” he whispered.

“He’s smiling.”

“That’s  my twin  brother.”  He said. “He died a few months ago. The very reason why we  moved here.”  Timothy  stepped  back,  and with shaking hands, took out a small bottle and  opened  it. He  shook it,  and a  small pill  fell  on his hand. He popped it in his mouth and thrust his head back, swallowing the pill.

“Are you okay?” Stephanie asked.

“Yeah.” He  said, breathing  heavily.  “My heart’s just acting up again. I need this medication to calm me down.”

“Oh. Do you need me to get you something?”

“No. I’m okay.”

 

           . . .

 

Stephanie waved  goodbye at  Timothy who had  politely walked her home. It was late, and  she heard  her father  in the  kitchen.  She was  holding  the  plaster  sculpture in her hands. It was white and smooth. Timothy lightly sanded it a while back.

“Dad?” she said.

“In the kitchen.” He called.

She  ran up  the stairs  and  carefully  set the  sculpture  on her  painting table. She tossed her  bag on her  bed and ran  back down. Her father was there, and the moment she set her  eyes on  his face,  she felt  a strong  impact  on her  whole body, like she slammed herself on the wall. She fell down and she heard her father yell her name. She didn’t want to move  because when she did,  she felt like  her whole body was bruised, but worse. Her bones were aching and she gasped in pain. Soon enough, she blacked out.

Reviews

[MickeyM]

Love the ending! and i love the charectarization or timothy and Stephany

[clairvoyantmars]

thus is the start of the development of steph and tim's friendship.