Every New Beginning

The day I saw the beginning of the end of my life was the day they put up that damned painting. Trevor Jordan, a mousy little boy with a Mohawk and a squeaky voice, finished it shortly before some pretentious art school labeled him a prodigy and swept him away to learn from “real” artists. They set the picture apart from the many other overachieving artists’ works by framing it in gold and giving it its own plaque. I couldn’t possibly tell you what made them love this particular painting more than the other ones, but they tell me that’s why I’m not an artist. Or an art lover. Or even creative—my fifth-grade art teacher once said she’d met field mice more imaginative than me. Not that any of that matters here. All I can say is that had Trevor Jordan never painted that stupid picture … things would have been different.

But no one cares about what could have been, right? What matters is what actually happened; the day of the painting signifies the day something actually happened in my otherwise dull life. I watched the art people hoist Trevor’s “masterpiece” onto the wall and felt my stomach lurch. Trevor had painted a lush forest valley, complete with its own stream and a mountain range in the background. Somewhere over the mountains, a lone bird flew toward a setting sun. While everyone else argued whether or not it was hung straight, my eyes were glued to that little bird. I kept waiting for it to flap its wings, or at least soar with the current, but it remained stationary. Forever trapped by the few colored dots holding its existence together.

I glanced around. No one else appeared bothered by it. And why should they? It’s not like it was anything out of the ordinary. I shivered involuntarily and continued on my way, trying to push the image of the painting out of my mind. Even if someone had been annoyed by the bird, they would never have told me. People didn’t tell me things. They didn’t say much to me at all. In fact, if school were like a wedding reception, I would be the guy in the corner that everyone was sure they knew, but no one could place.

I stopped briefly at my locker to drop off my books, then walked the fifty-seven steps across the hall to my first-period class. A thirty-something man with prematurely graying hair, corduroys and a sweater vest stood outside the doorway to the class, discussing some topic of little importance with a fellow teacher.  He abruptly stopped talking when he noticed me approach them, and he made a point of scowling as I shuffled past.  It was the same scowl he'd given me every day for the last two weeks, ever since the first day of school when he read my name during attendance and realized who I was.  Ever since Mr. Morrison discovered that he would look fifty by the time he's forty, he'd grown bitter and resentful.  Who better to resent than the upper elite students that he taught?  Who better to hate than the richest one of them all?  He'd called my name, and I had watched the attempted grin on his face vanish.  He looked up from his computer of names and glared at me as if I were the cause of all his woes.  I had since then made a point to avoid him whenever possible.  The fact that he was my teacher made that task rather difficult.

I settled into the desk at the back corner of the room, next to the windows, pulled out my notebook, and continued drawing circles on the back cover.  Even though I had initially begun doing it as a way to look like I had something to do aside from sitting quietly by myself everyday, it had actually become something of a ritual.  Every time I bought a new notebook, I would fill the back cover with little black circles.  My history notebook was almost done, so I only had a little section in the bottom-right corner to work with.  I couldn't have been drawing for more than a few moments when my desk shook violently, and my pen went flying.