Prodigy
at around 6 AM, forcing me out of my slumber. It went without saying, that slumber had been of much peace to me lately, considering my mind had been flooded with the most peculiar dreams I’d ever had. I never dreamt so vividly back in Jacksonville. It was always just enough to keep my creativity flowing. But now that I was in Paris, it was almost as if my brain was overflowing with ideas. I found a note on my bedside table from Keomi, telling me that she’d gone to class early, which answered the question that swarmed my mind as to where she was.
I sighed, kicking my sheets off and heading straight for the shower in the hopes that it’d wake me up. I put on a pair of black jeans with a single rip on my thigh and a long-sleeved red top I’d gotten from a beachside boutique the last summer I spent in Malibu. I made sure that I had all my stuff for my first day of school, my backpack, my art supplies, and some snacks that I could sneak into class. Gummy bears are always a necessity.
I knitted two braids in my hair and tied tiny red bows at their ends. I looked in the mirror and realized just how nervous I was. I was going to be in a class for an hour surrounded by people I didn’t know. It was absolutely terrifying. I had to convince myself that I was a big girl, I was braver than I thought, and that I could do this. I wasn’t going to lose my shit over the slightest social inconvenience.
I slung my satchel over my shoulder, made my way out of my room, and down the hall to the main campus. I looked around, and everyone was busy; between reconnecting with their friends after the break and figuring out their new schedules, I was practically invisible, and I’m not going to lie when I admit I loved it. It almost felt like a superpower to blend in amongst the world’s elite art students and be the punch they’d never see coming. It felt…powerful almost. However, some people did give me the whole, ‘I’ve never seen you around here before‘ glare, and I simply looked down. Trying my best not to draw any unwanted attention to myself.
The first class I had that morning was English language which was taught by a petite blonde American lady, Madame Stacy. She stuck out like a sore thumb in this school. Her classroom was outlandishly decorated with posters on the walls with dad jokes about punctuation and colourful paper aeroplanes dangling from the ceiling. She talked to her students like they were her equals. The second I walked in, she gave me a welcoming hug; she knew I was new and wanted me to feel welcome. This school had to be one of the nicest places I’d ever been. It was heaven on earth compared to the cliquey privileged disaster that was Clearwater high.
‘Okay, students, take your assigned seats. As for you, Armani, you can sit on the empty chair by the window.’ She smiled, her perfect white teeth contrasting with the flirty red of her lips.
I was seated next to a chatty but stunning Sri Lankan girl named Anika. She talked my ear off almost the entire lesson and even asked to accompany me to my next class, my favourite class– Art. I politely declined her offer only because I wasn’t one for idle conversation, and she seemed a tad bit more extroverted than I was. Once English was over, I proceeded to grab some of my personal art supplies from my locker before heading to class.
My art teacher was an older man with wise, dark eyes and a crooked smile. He hadn’t had a ring on his finger, so I assumed he wasn’t in a relationship– which many artists were not. What can I say? We are a rather pretentious bunch and often find it difficult to build long-lasting relationships with others. Most artists believe in the Latin saying ars vita est, which simply means that art is life itself. I couldn’t possibly imagine dedicating my entire life to my artwork. I believe that there’s a difference between merely being alive and living. Being alive is a feeling; it simply means that you have a pulse and that you’re breathing, and living, however, is pursuing things that make you a better human.
I believe that every human being must leave something of value behind, be it a painting, a life or a building made of stone. Something to outlive them, something to prove that they have indeed lived. For what is the point of having your feet brush the earth if there is no footprint– no memory of your existence left behind?
Just as I was beginning to get swept away by my thoughts, I heard the classroom door creek open.
And then In walked a boy who carried himself like a man. He had thick wispy curls of dark hair that looped gently around his ears, cascading delicately onto his forehead. He is significantly tall and lean. So much so that one could see his build from the tightness of his black Rolling Stones T-shirt, monsieur Etienne shook his hand firmly with a smile– but the boy didn’t smile back. He didn’t look like he smiled often. He merely shrugged and gave him an acknowledging nod. His body language was very French, incredibly nonchalant as he strode across the room to his seat, like it didn’t even occur to him that there were people around him.
The blond girl splayed in the chair next to him with crayons in her tied-up hair, Ellie, I think– tried to spark a conversation with him, but that spark died out just as soon as she initiated rubbing the firewood. Instead, he just glared at her. Not in a rude way, more of an ‘I genuinely couldn’t care less about the words that come out of your mouth’ kind of way. He wore a single silver earring on his left ear, and as he took his bottom lip between his teeth, he was entirely consumed by focus. Watching him estimate what to draw made him look ten times more attractive than he already was. I could almost see an x-ray vision of the gears of his fantastical mind spinning. He has this silent but deadly beauty. It crept up on you and led you to the slaughter when you least expected it.
‘Who is he?’ I asked the rather alternative-looking girl beside me,
‘Who?’ She asked bluntly in a thick British accent from behind her dark makeup,
‘Him, the one who just came in.’ I clarified,
‘Oh, that’s River. He’s Monsieur Etienne’s prodigy.’ She spat bitterly as if she had some hidden agenda against him. ‘You know you’d think that he’d at least give someone else a chance, but no, it’s always been fucking River.’
‘Oh, um, okay, I see, that must suck,’ I replied awkwardly, trying not to laugh at her frustration, not knowing what to say.
‘It sucks ass, new girl. What’s your name?’
‘Armani,’ I replied, realizing she wasn’t as intimidating as she seemed.
‘It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, despite it being under the guise of you salivating over my classmate. I’m Victoria King.’ She said with a slight smile. Unfortunately, she didn’t look like she smiled much.
‘Tori,’ I concluded.
‘What did you just call me?’
‘Tori, that’s your new nickname.’ I teased.
‘No, it isn’t.’ She protested with a laugh of disbelief, but clearly, she didn’t know how persistent I could be.
Monsieur Étienne gave us a lecture on the importance of letting our personas reflect through our artwork, saying that it’d be a worthless mess of paint if it hadn’t any character. I was a good artist. But I also wanted to learn how to be a great artist, but Tori’s words rang in my ears. I saw her work beside me. She was a good artist, too using greys and whites to create the perfect gloomy landscape, if an artist like her was intimidated by River then how talented could he really be?
I glared at him. He was my competition. I made it my mission to know what was so good about him and his work. After all, he was just a human boy, like everyone else in this class. But it was becoming more and more difficult to deny that It was as if God had carved him differently and paid more attention to detail while creating him. His cheekbones were sharp, his eyes the palest shade of blue in existence, his hair the darkest brown….almost black. His lips, however, validated his humanity. They were full, tinted rose and vulnerable.
‘Miss Nnandi!’ Monsieur Étienne called, pulling me out of my trance. ‘Why don’t you show everyone a piece of yours so we can properly welcome you to our class?’ He suggested.
‘Of course.’ I agreed confidently, reminding myself that confidence is always crucial.
I took out my painting, the one that earned me a place at this academy, in the hopes that it would speak for itself. I stood up and made my way to the front of the class, unveiling my painting for everyone to see. It stirred an uneasy feeling inside of me. I felt as though I were standing here naked in front of everyone to make judgments on my bare body— because my art was an extension of my very being.
Monsieur Étienne took a long, contemplative look at my piece. The ambrosias I’d painted began to reflect in the stormy grey of his eyes.
‘What is the name of this piece, Miss Nnandi?’ He asked as his expression varied from shock to wonder.
‘Lost Girl,’ I replied bluntly, not making eye contact with anyone in the class just in case they didn’t like what they saw.
‘Are you the girl in this painting?’ He asked with a contemplative finger on his chin.
‘I was, once.’ I replied honestly, clearing my throat, ‘Not anymore.’
‘Ahh, I see, tres bien ma fille!’ He clapped, and the class did so as well, almost mechanically. I looked up and took notice of River’s usually expressionless face. His jaw tightened, and he looked intrigued yet slightly bothered. And just as quickly as the signs of emotion flashed through his eyes, they also faded away, and he went back to his usual unbothered expression.
‘Merci Monsieur, it means a lot to me,’ I assured him. He placed a hand on my shoulder and whispered something only meant for me to hear.
‘You’re very talented. I expect nothing less of perfection from you.’
I nodded. Expectations of perfection were nothing new to me. I made my way back to my seat. I turned to notice River’s eyes still on me. I turned to him and gave him a slight cocky smile. He narrowed his eyes at me before facing the front. He thought I didn’t notice— but he smiled back, just a little.
Once art was over, I made my way to the cafeteria to get something to eat, I was starving, and I hoped they’d at least have something good. I got two slices of toast and strawberry jam. Just as I was about to take a seat at an empty table, I heard a voice call out to me.
‘Where’re you going Armani? come and join us!’ Keomi beamed, and I smiled, slightly relieved that I didn’t have to sit alone on my first day.
Just as I made my way over to them, I noticed that there was someone else seated with them, the other girl from the photo whose name I couldn’t quite remember. She was gorgeous and there was no denying it. Her thick curls of strawberry blonde hair swept past her shoulders like carefully spun bundles of gold. Her eyes were a fierce forest green and demanded attention, her skin a fair ivory and thin lips rambling on about God knows what. She wore a revealing black top and a denim Calvin Klein jacket that hung just above her jeans. Her confidence was undeniable and radiated through me.
‘Geneviève, I’d like you to meet our new friend, Armani,’ Merilla spoke, and the girl looked me up and down as though she were scanning me for any imperfections.
‘Hey, it’s really nice to meet you,’ I said, taking a seat at one of the two empty chairs beside Fabian.
‘The pleasure is all mine.’ She replied, reaching outwards to shake my hand, her palm was cold to the touch, and it made me want to jerk away for a second. Her voice carried a thick French accent yet was clear like bubbling silver.
I took a look at Fabian, and he gave me a reassuring smile, kicking playfully at my foot underneath the table.
‘Anyways, where was I? Oh yeah, vacationing in Bali with the governor’s son Pierre, I would let him tie me up, but heaven knows he could never tie me down.’ She chirped excitedly,
‘Was he good?’ Merilla asked curiously,
‘Mer!’ She chuckled, ‘Honte à toi à lady never kisses and tells.’
‘How’d you end up on vacation with the governor’s son?’ I asked, and she shot me a slightly irritated glare.
‘Papa and the governor of Gotland county are old friends.’ She clarified, and I nodded.
‘American?’ She asked bitterly,
‘Kenyan,’ I corrected, taking offence to her condescending tone.
‘Oh wow, that’s very far away. How did you end up here?’ She questioned, taking a sip from her flavoured water.
‘I’m here on a scholarship for my art– this is an arts academy isn’t it?’ I said with a slight laugh.
‘No, I meant here, with us.’ She spat, and I could see the resentment in her eyes.
‘Gene!’ Keomi gasped.
‘What? I was just curious as to how she’s already taken his place.’ Geneviève defended.
‘I didn’t know I was ‘taking’ anyone’s place.’ I scoffed,
‘No, you’re not Armani, don’t worry,’ Merilla said, placing her hand over mine.
‘I don’t think River would be happy about this.’ Geneviève retorted, folding her arms in disapproval.
‘Well, River isn’t here, is he?”Fabian retaliated, “You know he doesn’t have lunch with us in the cafeteria.’
‘Wow, you’re already throwing me under the bus for her, and you’ve known her for five minutes.’
‘Gene, I know you’re hurting, okay. We all are. But there’s no reason for you to take all your anger out on Armani.’ Keomi warned just as Geneviève stood up abruptly.
‘Listen…Armani is it? I have nothing against you. Personally, it’s just strange to have someone else here unexpectedly.’ she muttered, heading for the door. “I’m going to go find River.”
‘Listen, if I’m causing too much trouble by being here, it’s okay. I can leave,’ I assured them, not knowing what the fuck was going on.
‘No, it isn’t like that, don’t mind, Gene, she’s just upset about something,’ Keomi told me, her eyes worried.
‘About what?’ I asked, and Merilla immediately shoots her a don’t you dare stare.
‘Listen, Armani, just trust us, okay—’ Fabian begun, but I cut him short.
‘Okay, I get it,’ I sighed as frustration bubbled inside of me. “There’s a lot I don’t know here at St Kathrine’s, and I’m still very new here. I’ll let you guys talk. I’ll go eat lunch somewhere else. It’s alright.”
“We’re so sorry, Armani. I promise it’s not always like this,” Keomi explained, looking down.
‘It’s okay. I’ll give you some space. Then, when you’re ready to talk, you know where to find me,’ I said, taking my lunch tray with me to find somewhere else to eat.
I wandered through the halls and remembered the old art classroom that Fabian had shown me on our tour. I raced upstairs to the second floor and pushed the door open ever so slowly. The second floor of the school creeped me out. It was much more antique and less modern than the first floor. Even the air up there was heavy, with untold secrets and promises struggling to be kept.
There in the far corner of the room was River with his back turned to me, he was tall, and the contrast of his fair skin to the black of his clothes made him appear almost shadowy. Like he was there, but at the same time, he wasn’t. I got the idea he wanted it to be that way— he wasn’t the kind of guy who craved the attention of others for personal reassurance. He was perfection, and he knew it. He was scratching out the plan for something, something so grand and important that he had to take refuge on the creepy second floor to work on it. The way he worked his hands was enthralling. He had so much skill and precision you’d think he was the love child of Michelangelo and DaVinci themselves. I couldn’t risk taking another step to see exactly what it was that he was working on. He himself was frustrating yet fascinating enough.
‘Les morts ne mordent pas.’ I said, quoting Treasure Island once more, just like the first time we saw each other at the bookstore. The dead don’t bite. He turned around to face me, his eyes flames in water— if you could imagine such a thing.
‘C’est là que vous avez tort, la morsure des morts est la plus venimeuse et la plus douloureuse.’ He spoke in the most fluent French I’d heard by far from the students at this school. That is where you are wrong. It is the bite of the dead that is the most venomous and the most painful. His voice was deep and strangely melodic, luring me closer to him, like what I’d imagined Eve had heard from the serpent in the Garden of Eden. His voice slithered up my spine. I placed my tray on one of the desks by the door as I stepped into the room. I felt like I was penetrating his personal space, puncturing his glass bubble.
‘Do you read a lot?’ I asked, stepping closer towards him but stopping once I felt his discomfort.
‘What’re you doing here?’ He asked. On the other hand, his English wasn’t perfect— just like mine. He still pronounced certain words with a heavy French accent, although he sounded slightly British. It was confusing, and I made a mental note to ask about that.
‘I was looking for somewhere to eat.’ I clarified, and his eyes narrowed in irritation.
‘Have you never heard of the canteen?’ He taunted. There it was again— the canteen instead of the cafeteria.
‘I don’t think people really want me there,’ I said, looking down as the memory of Geneviève lashing out at me replayed in my mind.
‘Well, I don’t want you here.’ He told me with his usual emotionless expression. It was a mask. I knew it was. Therefore, it didn’t scare me or ward me off like everyone else.
I sighed, ignoring his attitude, ‘Are you a painter?’
‘No, a sculptor.’ He clarified, almost as if it was an insult. “However, I do paint when necessary.”
‘Can I see?’ I asked, trying to look past him and see what he was working on, but he immediately mimicked my step and blocked my vision.
He made his way over to me with his charcoal pencil in his hand, I took a step back, and my back hit the door. River was close to me, very close to me— so close that I could make out his earthy scent. He carried the scent of vanilla and petrichor, a café in the pouring rain. He tilted my chin up with the tip of his pencil, so my eyes met his, and like a Parisian winter, they were cold and unforgiving. His rosy bee-stung lips pursed into a straight line as he made out my features. I felt as though he were a god, and I was merely a mortal waiting for him to punish me.
“Why would I let you do that?” He responded,
“Why wouldn’t you?” I retorted, and he seemed perplexed by my forwardness.
“You are—” he begun, but I cut him off,
“Armani Nnandi.”
There was a beat of silence, as we stared at each other, and he looked down into my eyes, and I could almost see the reality that we had met before sinking in, I know you, I want to say, but I don’t. Because his presence was entirely too overwhelming.
‘Leave.’ He instructed sternly, the tip of his pencil sharp and warning against my skin. I spun around and opened the door, racing down the stairs in exasperation. He wasn’t going to actually hurt me, was he? Flashes of the way his eyes like a cold fire had burned into mine, danced behind my closed eyelids.
River Kennedy, he looked at me like I was one of the most beautiful disasters in history.
