Page 55 of Paper Thin Love

“What’s one plus one, Mila?” he retorts without missing a beat.

I roll my eyes.“Five,” I reply, hoping to piss Dash off.

“Wrong. Does that mean you want me to punish you?” He smirks like a demon that finds an angel’s feather and is ready to hunt her down.

“What’s your point?” I stop walking and cross my arms.

He pauses and looks down at me.“We have art class together. Hurry up.” His voice loses its playfulness, walls erect as if there’s an emotional danger lurking.

“Art class?” I try to walk shoulder to shoulder-with him. The warning bell rings, echoing down the hall.

Dash sighs but doesn’t reply. He turns down the hall and leads us into the painting room. The scent of oil and fresh canvas fills the air.Mrs. Jones, one of the art teachers here, looks up and smiles warmly at Dash. I don’t know her personally since I’ve never taken her class, but from what I hear, she is one of the rare teachers here who doesn’t enjoy inflicting pain on her students.

“Dash and Mila, welcome.” Mrs. Jones comes forward and greets us.“They added a table for you both over there,” she points to a table in the far back. I glance around the room. The class hasn’t started yet, but the few students present are already taking out their supplies. I release a much-needed breath. Everyone seems chill, relaxed, and at ease. They have headphones in, and it seems like this room is a safe space.

Mrs. Jones guides us to the table.“Since you’re starting mid-semester, I want to get a feel for your levels.”

Dash doesn’t regard her as he sinks into his chair.

My stomach churns, so I grip my backpack tighter and look at Dash like he’s a lighthouse and not an anchor dragging me down. “I know what you’re doing.” I hiss. This is his way of ensuring I paint, forcing me to use art therapy to stop my self-destructive behavior. My throat tightens, toes curl in.Run! Don't let him see any more of you!

“Sit down, Mila,” Dash states with more authority than a president.

Mrs. Jones looks from him to me before flashing me a friendly, almost motherly smile.

I swallow.“I can’t paint. I mean, I never have,” I whisper in her direction.

She reaches out and touches my shoulder.“That’s okay, honey. We are never too old or young to play with paint.” Her voice is so kind that my knees wobble. I reach for the chair and sink next to Dash.

We sit in silence as Mrs. Jones talks. She sets up a small, still life consisting of simple shapes arranged under a spotlight. Then, she hands us each a brand-new sketch pad.“This is meant to be fun, so don’t worry about a grade for this assignment. I want you to draw what you see.” She points to the shapes and then puts down a variety of drawing tools, from pencils to thick charcoal crayons and even ink pens.“Try different mediums; get a feel for what feels right for you.”

“I’m not good,” I declare.

She touches my shoulder again.“This isn’t for a grade. I just want you to start somewhere. Just try, Mila. You can fill out that entire pad today, or you might only use one sheet. Just let go and feel the lines.” She smiles, then walks away toward another student who is waving for her help.

My eyes remain glued to the pencils.“Why?” I whisper.

Dash reaches forward and shoves the pencils toward me, grabbing one for himself.“You know why.”

“I don’t understand why you’re trying to fix me.”

He snorts happily.“Good. You’re finally admitting you need help. That’s a good start. Now,” he levels me with a cold stare,“start drawing. I expect a picture at the end of class. You owe me.” His eyes linger, searching my face, tracing over my features.

How can eyes hold so much weight?

I reach out and grab a pencil, hoping to pacify his glare. I press the tip to the paper and begin to trace the shapes in front of me.

For the next twenty minutes, we both sit in utter silence and just draw. I look at what I have made. It’s not as bad as I feared, but it still looks childish.

I sigh.“This feels stupid. It’s not going to help me,” I sneer, frustration bubbling under my skin.

Dash looks at my sketch, then at me, his expression unreadable.“You’re not trying,” he growls.

“I drew it!” I flash him my sketch pad.

“Try harder. Try so hard that you stop thinking. Control the pencil; force the lines just like you force the needle into your finger.”

“Shhh!” I scold him, my eyes glancing wildly around the room, but thankfully, everyone is absorbed in their art.

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