Page 5 of Art for the Anarchist (Rejected 2)

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Rissa

Ilook up right as Dean pulls his fist back and lets it go flying toward Eric’s ugly face. When they started in on me this morning, I knew it would be a long day. I’ve been going to school with those guys since kindergarten, and they’ve always picked on me. I’ve been taunted and ridiculed way too many times to count, and honestly, I should be used to it. You think that after all these years, they would tire of doing the same thing over and over again.

I shouldn’t care one bit, and usually, I wouldn’t, but it shows me yet again how I’m different from everyone else. I’ll never fit in, and the only person who has ever had enough patience to deal with me is Lexi. Or so I thought. Dean’s looking down at me in concern, and all I can do is stare at him in shock.

“Are you okay, Rissa?” he asks me in a low, husky voice.

“I’m fine,” I tell him honestly while trying to keep eye contact. It’s hard for me, but with him, I find I really want to try. Like yesterday, the longer we stare into each other’s eyes, the more that same calm washes over me.

“Are you sure, baby?” he asks, raising a brow.

“I’m used to it.” I shrug as I hear a growl rumble from his chest.

“Next time, I’ll kill him,” Dean says under his breath, and I know he means every word.

“Well, guys, as much fun as all this has been, I’m gonna head on out. You two have fun and don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” Lexi says with a wink, grabbing her bag and heading out the cafeteria doors.

I want to ask where she’s going since we always walk to class together. It’s part of our morning routine, but she’s gone before I can question her.

“Is it okay if I sit down and join you?” Dean asks me, looking at the vacant seat Lexi left across from me.

“You can sit,” I tell him, trying to keep my voice calm.

I don’t like change. I’m better with routines and schedules, and Lexi knows that. Logic is not in my favor this morning when I cannot come up with a reason why she would leave. Maybe she’s mad at me? I just don’t understand why. What stupid Eric did this morning wasn’t my fault. I need to find her and ask or tell her sorry, so my mind can stop racing. Dean is still standing, looking like he has his own questions he’s working out in his mind. I guess he comes to his conclusions quicker than me since he’s getting ready to finally sit down. I thought he was going to sit where Lexi was this morning, but instead, he sits right beside me.

“Thanks, baby. Sorry for overstepping, but did you need help filling that paperwork out? I heard Eric say you were having issues,” Dean says, and I don’t think he’s saying it to make fun of me, but I’m still a bit embarrassed about the situation.

“No, I got it,” I say as I feel heat rise in my cheeks and shove the papers into my bag. I don’t even really care about the paper, or stupid prom for that matter. I’ll probably just end up throwing it away when I get home, but no need to further embarrass myself in front of Dean.

“So, Rissa, how…” he starts slowly, but I decide to just go ahead and get the awkward conversation over with.

“I’m autistic. It’s hard for me to converse with people. I don’t understand social cues very well. Although you seem to be easier to read for me than most people,” I blurt out quickly. I see his facial features change ever so slightly. The average person probably wouldn’t notice, but to me, reading Dean is as clear as night and day. I might not be able to make eye contact with others, but for some reason, with Dean, it’s like breathing. I stay silent most of the time and gauge others’ body language and reactions, which tells the whole story truthfully. It’s human nature and easier to tell lies when you speak words. Still, the truth is always clearly expressed in a person’s movements and expressions. The easiest way to explain it is how people can hear the difference in voice tones, whereas I can see and feel the difference in people’s muscle movements. With Dean, it's like he’s smiling with his eyes, but his mouth stays in that hard line. He expresses so much with his eyes; I wonder if anyone else has ever noticed or if he’s just open with me.

“Well, I don’t do well with social niceties either, but mine is mostly out of not giving a shit what other people have to say,” he tells me honestly with a shrug. I’m still looking around, not meeting his eyes, trying to make sure no more trouble follows me. Dean must think I look crazy, but some impulses I just can’t help. As I turn back his way, our eyes lock, and I notice he's holding a permanent marker out to me.

“That seems to be a pretty simple way to live,” I state, taking the marker, confused but feeling my racing heart instantly calm at having Dean close.

“I am a pretty simple guy, baby,” he says, rolling up his sleeve. His actions strike me as natural movement while his eyes hold me captivated. It seems like Dean is reading my soul the same as I’m reading his.

“You like to draw, don't you, Rissa?” he asks and points to his arm where he rolled up his sleeve. I start to draw aimlessly, and we fall into a somewhat comfortable silence. I get so lost in my own drawings I don’t notice until he taps my hand that the morning bell has rung.

That calmed me down faster than anything ever has in the past. I cap the marker, handing it back to him, and grab my bag, preparing to stand. My gaze lingers on his arm as disappointment fills my chest as I realize I didn’t want to stop. I could only get half of the drawing done, but the detail is some of my best work. It’s a lion, well only half of his face, and under his eye is a scar. I know he’ll have to wash it off, but I wish I could finish it so badly.

“Can I walk you to class?” he asks me.

“I actually don’t have to take any more classes this year. I finished the last of my required credits during the first semester. Instead, I was given permission to work in the art room on my senior project for the rest of the year,” I tell him.

“What are you doing for your senior project?” he asks, following me out of the cafeteria.

“I was actually booked to do an art show. I’ll be presenting my artwork for a full-on gallery. I needed to complete over two dozen paintings and sculptures. I was working on the last one when it got destroyed. Luckily, all my other work is locked away,” I tell him, walking toward the empty art room.

Fortunately, I've had the whole room to myself all semester. The art teacher had to take some time off due to a high-risk pregnancy, and the school decided they couldn’t afford a replacement. With no art courses this year, they just set the students up in different home economics classes.

“When does the rest of the class show up?” Dean asks, walking around looking at the different paintings and drawings on the wall.

“Actually, I have the room all to myself the rest of the year,” I reply, heading for my workstation.

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