My Favourite Muse

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  "I heard you're dating a girl; a weird girl." Mr Glasgow’s hairy arms rested on his desk; his large eyeballs bore straight into mine.

  I got a note from him, that he wanted to talk to me about something important. I felt the air stilled the moment I stepped into his office that afternoon.

  "I..." He rose up a finger; I shut up.

  "I have no problems with that as long as you two are not into something indecent. What interests me however, is that you broke up with your best friend because of her."

  I opened my mouth to talk again but no word came out; the reaction gave me away and he shook his head, sat back in his creaky seat and sighed.

  "Bradley; why? You may have your reasons but believe me; I don't think that's wise." a pause. "It's not a good idea at all." Another pause, "It's not."

  I tried to explain what actually happened but he said he didn't want to know. He kept talking about how unwise, unkind, not clever, unthoughtful and uncompromising I was; he wanted me to rethink, reconsider and correct it.

  In the end, he said to me, "If you want to keep your girl, fine; but you should know there are times when love fails; and when that happens, you will find yourself in the solace of friendship." a pause. "Love fails easily, my boy; friendship doesn't;" pause, "you know why? Because friendship thrives better than love." then a long pause. "Think about it."

  I spent a while thinking about it. My thoughts dwelt on how Mr Glasgow came to know about my feud with Phil, my relationship with Pam as well as the connection between the two.

  Was it so obvious that everyone in school knows? This is crazy; it made me walked around looking at people's faces to see if they would look at me weird. A few did, but I guess they thought I was a freak; I knew I gave them a freaky look too.

  "What have you been doing with your life yesterday? I heard you were not well; though that goes contrary to how you are now looking." Henry was looking at me with a straight face.

  We were at the cafeteria having chips and juice. "You know mate, I saw her yesterday looking all disturbed." He nodded to the left. Pam was sitting alone writing something on a green book. She looked up at our direction, smiled at me and waved. I waved back. "If she were not in school, I would’ve thought you were both in some hospital." He said

  "The important thing is I'm well now and back; screw what happened yesterday." I said. "I'm very well now." My gaze went back to Pam's direction again.

  Henry looked at me, then at Pam, then at me again. "I get it mate, you've been having sex."

  "What? No."

  "You've been kissing then."

  "Yes, no, yes; hey look, it's none of your business."

  "I told you to kiss her, so it is my business." He paused. "So did you?"

  He was right about that; I gave up and told him what happened the previous day. And when I'm done talking, he said; "I got to get me a girlfriend. I'm jealous." I laughed.

  I came back home after school and got on with painting the last sketch. I never felt this obsessive over a sketch before; it was all over my head that day in school, in the class and in the bus ride home. I was happy throughout that day; well, except maybe after my meeting with Mr Glasgow.

  I intended to make the painting bigger than the others: sort of a museum size. I also intended to capture the scene exactly as it was. I wanted it to be captivating and alive, with a soul. It must have a moving effect on the onlooker. Whoever looks at it should feel the inaudible 'whooshing' of ballet's attitude. I want the subject to have an extra-ordinary air, colour and life.

  So I painted wild. Heavy brushstrokes created with large paintbrushes made the images come alive in no time. I loved the dull sounds made from the brushes as I rubbed vigorously on the canvas. I loved the mixed smell of heavy oil and linseed. My palate, filled with dead colours, felt a little heavier under my fingers than usual. My eyes were keen and my mind alert.

  Pam's movements played fast in my head. The energy, straight face and shadows casted by the night on her all made the picture solid. I didn't want to miss anything. Missing something means missing a part or whole of the soul. Exactness; yes, everything should be exactly as I imagined it.

  I didn't want to take a break from that painting; I had wanted to finish it all before I take a break, but the light of the day faded to give way to the night, and it took away all the colours with it.

  I watched my dead colouring got darker; the lightings in my room couldn't bring out the precise colours out of the work. So in order not to spoil it, I gave up. But I must admit, anxiety was eating through my guts.

  I had once read it somewhere why Van Gogh hated the evenings. It was said the he fell in love with sunlight when he went to Arles and he started painting it in his works. And whenever the evenings arrived, he becomes a sad man. Because as the sun goes down, it takes all the natural colours with it. I felt the same that day; and coupled with a tormenting anxiety, I felt worse.

  An hour later, I was sitting before the painting with a mug of tea in my hand, looking at the painting. I had calmed down, refreshed by a shower, a bowl of chips; and a mug of warm milk.

  The painting's coming up fine, I noticed. A temptation to continue working itched on my butt.

  Calm brother; I told myself. Too much cook spoils the broth. I smiled.

  "Wow!" Mother strode casually into my room; seemingly impressed by the huge painting in black and white. "That's big." She added.

  "Museum size," I said. "I love big paintings."

  "Is this her?"

  "Yes."

  She walked closer; I felt her presence towering behind me, barring the space between me and the door.

  "It's nice." She moved to the other paintings with the same gait she strode in with, and looked at them. "What do you intend to do with all these paintings? I mean, Pam obviously doesn't like them, but you keep on painting her. How many do you have now? Let's see." She counted, "Twenty three; you're on the twenty fourth."

  It’s true what she said; for the first time in a while, I came to the weird realization that I never thought about what exactly I was to do with the paintings. But then, "That's a lot of hard work; a lot of commitment." She said, an annoying pint of cynicism hung in her voice. I looked at her suspiciously.

  "What do you mean?"

  "Well; your life in the past few months had dwelt in the frenzy experiment on the weirdness of a strange girl who you initially hated but eventually ended up to be your lover. And of course, your interest on it seems to be at its peak at the moment, obviously. You don't think about yourself much these days."

  "Mother please don't start..." I stood up and paced, avoiding her face.

  "When was the last time you studied at home or did your homework? And did you check your grades lately?" I was silent "Answer the question, Bradley."

  "There's nothing wrong with my grades."

  "Miss George thinks otherwise. I do too, especially that I have proof." She fished out a folded paper from her pocked, unfolded it and handed it over to me. "Explain this." I stared from the paper to her face and back at the paper again. "Take a look!" She almost yelled.

  Reluctantly, I took the paper from her and was shocked to see what's in it. My grades in further mathematics, English and geography had fallen considerably.

  "This is... impossible!"

  "If it is, then your paintings impossible too."

  I was dumb for the next few seconds, looking at my grades.

  "Explain!" She demanded in that harsh tone I hated so much. "Explain why this is happening." I didn't say a word. "You go to school every day so I expect a logical explanation why your grades are falling."

  "I didn't go to school yesterday."

  "Yesterday was just a day out of ninety days of the term. You did no test or exam yesterday." Her voice was rising. "Bradley this is not a joke so don't play with me." I said nothing. "The only logical explanation why your grades are falling; is Pamela."

  "Mother please." I walked to another side of
the room. "It's not that I've failed. The grades are still passes."

  "Don't you walk away from me!" She went after me, grabbed my shoulder and spun me round to face her. "Look at this!" She pointed at the paintings on the walls. "If you were as obsessive about your studies as you are on Pam and the paintings, we won't be having this conversation at all. But you are not! You are not, Bradley." She paused. Her chest heaving with anger; she struggled for a moment to stabilise herself. "I work every day to put food on our table, some descent clothes on our bodies and a good education in you. You met a girl and suddenly you are giving me the impression that all my efforts are worthless."

  "Mother I..."

  "Shut up!" A pause, a sigh and then the bombshell, "I'm going to make it this simple for you and as easy as possible. From now on, no more painting until you sort out your academic issues."

  "Mother!"

  She said nothing more. My horrible look fazed her not. Instead, she took few steps away, looking at the paintings. "I used to think these works were beautiful; but considering what they've done to your studies, I don't see the beauty anymore. I see an obsessive demon, killing your real future."

  Now, that hurts, greatly!

  "They are just, demons." And she walked out of my room.

  That was the sort of moments when I get motivated to take long walks away from home. From her!

  "Demons." Henry repeated for the third time. We were sitting on a bench outside, facing each other. "Demons."

  "Will you stop repeating that? I hate it."

  "I'm trying to get the connections between paintings and demons; and between you, Pam, the paintings and. the demons."

  "There are no connections whatsoever, so just shut it." I said.

  "If there's a demon, it'd be Pam."

  "What?"

  "Face it Brad; you were good; perhaps a little too good; but that was before Pam came. You maintain high grades at the same time did well on your paintings. Now you do well on only your paintings and not on the grades. Although your mother was wrong about calling your paintings demons, but she's right about the grades."

  "Again, must you say that?"

  "You usually get A plus, now you are back to Cs. You should be sad for yourself mate, not your mom to be sad for you."

  "Mother had been angry with me for the past few days, and when this grade stuff surfaced, she got haywire."

  "You're lucky you're not grounded. It'd a very simple and welcome thing for my dad. He grounded my big sis last year, Tara. Now she waits tables and helps out in a nursing home to get through university. It's horrible mate. Very horrible."

  "I get it Henry." I snapped to stop him from complicating my problem with his horrible story. "May be mother is right. I was too obsessive of Pam."

  "Your obsession wasn't only on Pam, but also on the paintings you produced from her story. She's your muse; her story you find interesting. She burnt your sketch; that single action provoked the chain of the other happenings that followed." He paused. "Phil is the first, then your mom's dissatisfaction with some of your actions; then the grades, and now, you are banned from doing what you love doing until further notice." He chuckled and shook his head. "Pam is the cause of everything. Everything!" He paused and studied me for three seconds then said. "Your mom, she's kind to you. If I were you, I would do everything I can to fix it."

  I didn't speak. What can I say? I hate it whenever I searching for a shoulder to cry on only for the shoulder to show me how wrong I am, especially if I'm wrong. I mean, it's not about the guilt; it's about the severity of the guilt. In such moments, guilt turns to anger which in turn provokes some physical reaction.

  I looked away from his face to the surrounding vicinity, took a long sigh and then looked back at him again. He didn't move his face away so I met the same expression: serious. I looked away again into the crowd; and my eyes fell on Phil, thirty yards away.

  "You can fix this, mate. You know." I heard Henry say. "It's not hard. All you have to do is make amends."

  My eyes were then fully focused on Phil. Henry said something again which I didn't hear. My mind started speaking to me; whispering things in different voices. I heard my mothers’ voice, Mr Glasgow’s, Henrys', mine and Henry's again. I heard things like demons... unwise... fix it... Pam is the cause... best friend... friendship... thrive...

  I felt an overwhelming urge to do something; whatsoever; just something! I stood up and began walking way from Henry, and into the school compound where students were all over the place.

  "Where are you up to? Brad! Brad!!" Henry called. "What did I say wrong?"

  But I kept going; like someone possessed by a demon. The voices kept whispering. Louder this time. I kept moving with steady and agile paces towards Phil.

  Phil saw me coming, obviousely startled by the way I advanced towards him; the grim expression on my face probably gave him a wrong signal. I saw him preparing a step, parting his legs; ready for action.

  "Are you enjoying this, Phil?" Our faces were just an inch apart when I asked him that. "Do you want us to continue this way?" He didn't answer. "Yeah, I can see you want that. But let me tell you this; I don't! I hate it when someone tells me I killed my friendship with you because of a girl."

  "It's your fault, Brad." He retorted. "You chose Pam over me; over our friendship."

  "You left me with no choice."

  "Choice; does it have to be a matter of choice for you? Had what happened back then worse enough to make you contemplate over who to choose between me and Pam?"

  "Yes; you know why? Because you didn't listen to me when I tried to talk to you. You made me a laughing stock instead; you embarrassed me before your friends. Give me one good reason why I shouldn't start a fight?"

  "I don't have your time, Brad. I don't..."

  "You will never have my time, but you have the time to crawl to my teachers and tell them what a pig I am for breaking up my friendship with you because of Pam."

  "What are you talking about?" He asked, his face portrayed an unfamiliar shock. "Are you accusing me of bitching behind your back?"

  "You tell me."

  He shook his head in anger. "Now I know what this is all about." He licked his lips. "Listen Brad, I'm going to say this once: I did not do what you accused me of; but for the record, I wish I did; just to see what the hell you can do about it." He paused, shook his head again, "I think you should go find your scapegoat somewhere else. Remember, Brad; I'm a trouble maker. And the next time you stop me for another episode of your madness, you won't be this lucky to go without a fight."

  "I'll find out Phil. I'll find out real soon; and if it turns out your name is on it, I'll bring the fight to you. I don't back down easily, you remember that too."

  "I'll be waiting, Brad. I'll be waiting."

  Sixty seconds later, I was with Henry again. He asked what was that all about. "Fixing things." I said.

  "Okay?" He asked "How did the fixing go?"

  "Still in progress."

  "Okay." A pause. "Hey, let me ask you something; why do you call your mum 'mother', why not 'mum' or 'mommy'?"

  "She prefers that." I said. "I used to call her mum, but she thinks it's too..." I wasn't sure if I could say the next word. But hell; "light."

  "Light."

  "Yeah, 'mother' has more 'weight' than just 'mum'"

  "That's old fashioned. You're making that up." He said.

  Yes it is.

  "Have you seen Pam today?"

  "No, I haven't."

  "Ok."

  Whenever I'm under sanction at home, I take to using the kitchen or the balcony for temporary, personal space. I need a 'new' environment to concentrate on either some work or some thoughts in order to catch up with what I missed or make up for what I did wrong. And it works; I now see the reason why people go away for a while to write, paint or set their issues right. It's about having some time alone, in a strange place and probably with strange faces; nobody wants to know you. Nobody cares.

  M
ine was different though. I can't go away from home; the only issue I was to resolve was purely academic. I had no issues with my girlfriend. I just need a little concentration on the subjects that needed upgrading.

  Alone in the house, I studied. Tea and biscuits kept me warm and energetic. Mother got home later, found me in the kitchen, asked how my day was and took over the kitchen to make supper. I sat in the living room to finish up for the day.

  "How's Phil?" She had asked me during supper.

  "I don't know." I replied point-blankly.

  "You still are not talking." She shot a disapproving glance at me.

  "He doesn't want to be friends anymore. I can't beg him."

  "I'm not saying you should beg to be friends with him. But understand you have been friends for a while now; you shouldn't let a ten minutes feud bring to an end many years of friendship."

  "That depends on the magnitude of the feud and how hurt someone is." I said without looking at her.

  "Is it that big a feud?"

  "No, our problem is smaller than you think, mother. Just let me handle it, okay?"

  "I don't want you to handle it. I want you to fix it."

  "Well, how am I supposed to do that especially that the guy I'm dealing with happens to be Phil?" I had begun to lose appetite. "Mother, please let me handle this my way."

  "These days, I attach little credence to this 'your way' formula."

  "Why?"

  "It got your grades low. Pass the salt."

  The night felt unpleasant. The little face-off with Phil, mother's careless sarcasm and banishment from painting all converged to put a curb to my sleep.

  I had earlier called Pam, but her line was switched off. I didn’t see her at school that day. I left messages and expected her to call back or reply my messages; but got none. I needed to hear her voice and to know if she's ok and well.

  I turned to the painting I was working on. It could have been continued if not for mother's new rule for the moment. The dead colouring looked a masterpiece. I could actually leave it the way it is and still get credit. I recalled the moment the picture had captured; I remembered her face, the elegance and grace.

  "Damn it." I muttered under gritted teeth. I must talk to her.

  I called her phone again. Still the same. I threw away the phone, hit the lights out and remained like that until sleep took me away.

  I woke up in the morning with a slight headache. I had nightmares that brought me back to wakefulness many times that I prayed for morning to come. We'll it did. But it turned out to be the worst day of my life.

  I wished that morning had never come.