by TJ Rudolph
The night before I had to leave, she and Chris called me into the kitchen.
“I can’t believe you’re leaving tomorrow,” Agatha said for the hundredth time while wiping away her tears. I felt bad that I was leaving them alone, but I needed to do this.
“We have something for you,” Chris said, and he opened the back door in the kitchen, which led into the garage.
I followed him and Agatha. When I walked in, I saw a bright red hatchback Mazda.
Chris handed me the keys. “Agatha and I were planning on buying this for you and Aaron, since we knew you were going to Winchester Roth.” Everyone fell silent for a moment, the heartache hanging thick in the air.
“Thank you,” I whispered guiltily.
“No more tears,” Chris said. “Tomorrow is a good day, a fresh start for Grace. The daughter we never had.” But I could hear the sadness seeping through as if his voice was about to break.
“You really didn’t have to do this,” I said to them with tears burning my eyes.
“You are our family, Grace.” Agatha put her hand on my shoulder.
“I love it,” I said and hugged them both.
Chris patted my hand and followed Agatha out of the room; I knew how hard this was for them because it was unbearable for me.
I stared at the car for a long time, unable to imagine how I was going to get through this.
When I eventually went to my room, I closed the door and fell down onto my bed. I wept loudly into my pillow, trying to muffle the sound. I tossed and turned and when I looked at the oversized brown clock on the wall, I noticed it was almost time to get up. I closed my eyes and tried to get some sleep before the long drive I was taking in a few hours.
Agatha knocked on my door early the next morning. “Grace, honey, breakfast is in the kitchen when you’re ready.”
I looked at my already packed bags and sighed heavily, it was time. I pulled on shorts and a sweater and went to the kitchen. Chris put down the newspaper he was reading when I walked in and smiled. “You ready, Pumpkin?”
I gave him a reassuring smile. “I am,” I lied.
“Well then, you better have something to eat, so you can get going, it’s a long drive.” Agatha placed down a plate of bacon next to the freshly squeezed orange juice.
I forced whatever food I could down my throat and Chris carried my bags to the car. Agatha tried to busy herself with washing the dishes, but it seemed like she was aimlessly scrubbing the same plate. When it was finally time for me to leave, Chris insisted that he drive behind me, but I told him that it was only four hours away and I would call them every hour. I knew that they were anxious about me driving. Aaron’s accident made them overly cautious when it came to me, almost paranoid. But we all agreed that it was not healthy, and they eased up as much as they could.
We said our last goodbyes, and then we all burst into tears. A few minutes later, my legs were shaking as I climbed into the car and drove away. I looked in my review mirror as I took the corner and saw Agatha falling into Chris’s arms and my heart broke. This was going to be hard for all of us, in a strange way we had been the glue holding each other together over the past few months.
I drove on the deserted highway, when another painful memory filled my mind, about Aaron stealing Chris’s car keys so we could learn how to drive. He was a much faster learner than I was, so when he claimed to be a self-proclaimed pro, he taught me. We could both drive easily by the time we turned seventeen. When Chris took us on the road, we pretended not to know what we were doing, and three weeks later we were driving. We always laughed at how impressed Chris and my dad were that we learned so fast.
I stopped at a gas station every hour and called as promised. Still, the drive was quick and before I knew it, I turned onto the dusty road that led to the college. I drove along the road marveling at the row of tall trees until I finally saw the sign—it was bigger than I pictured it and it was beautiful. The entrance had a large ornate iron gate with WRC embellished near the top. Bare, red brick walls stretched on either side, an imposing structure, rich with age and character.
I parked my car in the parking space allotted to students and climbed out. I looked around and took a deep breath of the unpolluted fresh air. The brochure did WRC no justice; it was way more than I could have ever imagined. It was built in a circular formation, and there were stony pathways leading to different faculties, which had lots of windows decorating it. I was only interested in one—the art building, which I decided to tour after I dropped my bags in my dorm room.
I walked over to the administration building to get my room key. The lady at the front desk peeked at me over a mountain of papers when I walked in. “Name please?” she inquired.
“Grace Delaney.”
She sifted through her seemingly organized chaos and handed me a brown envelope with the room number G1 written on it. “Your room is on the ground floor, second building from this one,” she quipped.
I stepped outside and spotted the building; its brick wall had been masked by dampened moss. I strolled over and swiped the blue tag that was given to me with my room key and it opened a set of glass doors. I walked down a narrow corridor; there were only two rooms on the ground floor. Mine was the first, and I wondered who I would be sharing a room with.
When I stepped inside, I was surprised at how big the room was, it was more like a miniature apartment. I strode into the lounge area. It had a brown leather sofa against a white wall and a wicker table by a glass sliding door with two chairs. The bedroom, to my surprise had only one single bed, a white sheet and no bedding. There was a brown wooden night stand next to it with a card on top of it.
I picked up the card and scanned it.
Hello Grace, welcome to Winchester Roth College. Your assigned dorm room partner has decided not to study at WRC this year, which means you have the dorm all to yourself. We hope you will enjoy all that WRC has to offer. Please contact the dorm administrator if you have any queries.
“Oh, that’s just great,” I groaned. “This is high school all over again. I couldn’t even get a dorm room partner.”
You’re being silly, I heard a voice in my head.
“Great! Now I’m hearing voices, too.”
I walked outside and sauntered through a row of weeping cherry trees to get to the art studio. The map showed that it was a distance away from all the other buildings.
I finally saw the colossal white wooden doors of the art studio and rushed inside. The room was enormous, with high white walls and a shiny white and grey marble floor. I looked around wide eyed; some of the paintings were bigger than any artworks I had ever seen. I walked around in childlike wonder at the skillful pieces on the wall. They were done by present and past students and only the best was exhibited. It was like sports plaques, but instead of gold trophies, it was the most amazing paintings I have ever laid my eyes on.
I heard about this room and dreamed of having my own art displayed there one day. I looked up at the high ceiling and saw that someone copied a replica of Michael Angelo’s Creation of Adam in the Sistine Chapel. There were large glass windows all around the room which was placed closed to the ceiling and the leaves of the tall trees were dancing in the wind, making it look like a moving photograph.
I walked around the studio for hours, hypnotized by every detail in each painting. I thought of how much I wanted to share this moment with Aaron. When I described this place to him, he laughed and pulled me into his arms, telling me he was glad that I was so excited. At that memory my knees gave way, and I fell to the floor and wept.
I wasn’t sure how long I had been sitting with my knees pulled up to my chest when I heard a deep voice behind me.
“Hey, are you okay?”
I looked up as I felt him coming closer and I briefly stared into a set of dark brown eyes.
I wiped my eyes and looked down at my feet. “I’m fine,” I grumbled.
“Don’t I know you?” His gentle voice was raspy.
&n
bsp; I was embarrassed. I needed to get out of there. I stood up quickly and ran back to my dormitory. I heard his voice trailing behind me but I didn’t stop.
When I got back to my room, I climbed into my bed and continued crying. I had no idea how I was going to get through this year, or the rest of my life, without Aaron.
***
I woke up at 4am, thanks to my internal alarm clock which was broken ever since the funeral. I couldn’t go back to sleep and started packing my clothes into the wooden cupboards, and then I packed my books into my purple leather backpack.
Today would be more orientation than actual classes, but I was still looking forward to it. I needed to focus my mind on something else. The only thing that had me anxious was the fact that classes started at the end of the week, and since it was Friday, I had no idea what I was going to do for the weekend.
I walked into my first class and stood in the doorway. I decided to get there early so that I could get a good seat for the year, which naturally was at the back of the class. The room was built in an auditorium style, divided into three sections with black leather seats.
I sat down in the middle row at the back with a cup of coffee I brought from my room and tried to ignore the ache in my chest.
The class was completely full before the professor was there and I wasn’t surprised. WRC had one of the best art programs in the world.
When the professor walked in, everyone went quiet. He looked like a very polished art professor; not like the harebrained ones back home. He was tall, with a full head of wavy black hair which he combed to the back. With a slight British accent, he took us through the subject matter, for the year, and told us where to find the art studio, which I of course already knew.
The rest of the day was pretty much the same in all the classes, we went through the material for the year and received a few reading assignments. The final class of the day was one I was loathing, Math 101. Since it was our first year all art students were required to do science and math, although it made no sense to me that an art major would need to. This was Aaron’s favorite subject, definitely not mine, and he often explained to me that the reason all students had to do it was because perhaps in their second year they wanted to change majors. I of course disagreed with him, telling him that I had never heard of an art student willing to give it up for numbers.
When I walked into the room, there was only one other person. It was the same guy from yesterday. He turned to look at me, but I looked away and quickly sat down.
The professor handed out our course material and told us which chapters to concentrate on for the semester.
“Now, I know that some of you are art majors, and you have a dislike for this subject,” the professor said.
There were a few chuckles in the room.
“But you will all have to pass this subject to progress to your second year, so if anyone, art student, or other, has any difficulty with this course material, please collect a card for the tutor in front.”
I thought that I had better hurry to get one of those cards, because without Aaron here I was definitely going to need some help.
When the professor ended the lesson however, I forgot all about getting the tutor’s card and headed straight for the exit. I felt a firm, yet gentle hand on my wrist as soon as I was about to step outside. When I looked up I saw those encapsulating brown eyes again.
“Hey, are you doing okay today?” he asked.
“I’m fine, just some pre-college jitters,” I said looking down at my feet.
“I think I have something that might help with that. Hey, Shaun,” he called someone over. “Give me one of those flyers. There is a party tonight,” he said as he handed it to me. “You should come and meet a few people.”
I took it quickly and tried not to run away from him as I mumbled thanks.
There was a strange feeling in my stomach; I had felt it many times before with Aaron, but it couldn’t be the same now. I didn’t even know him. I eventually convinced myself that I was perhaps just desperate to fit in, to find a friend like Aaron, or perhaps it was the fact that I was not accustomed to male attention.
I headed over to the library after having a cheese sandwich for dinner. I was glad that they were open so late on the weekend.
The library was large; it had a section upstairs and downstairs and kind of reminded me of a scene from the Breakfast Club. I picked up a few of my favorite Shakespeare plays and strolled back to my room. Ever since I read my first Shakespearean play in the eighth grade which was none other than Romeo and Juliet, I feel in love with it and Aaron joined me in my quest to read all of his books.
It was still early, only six o’ clock. I made myself a bowl of popcorn and picked up Twelfth Night and started reading it. My eyes eventually became heavy and as I was closing them, I heard a voice in my head again.
Why don’t you go to the party?
It was louder than before and I looked around.
I shook my head, I must be really tired. I walked to the kitchen to get a glass of water and when I turned around I saw Aaron! Yes Aaron! Leaning against the counter, staring at me, smiling at me!
I dropped the glass and it shattered to pieces by my feet. I blinked my eyes a few times and he was gone.
I was definitely losing my mind; I needed to get out of this room. But what would I do?
I remembered that there was a building next to the art studio; it had a sign above the door which read Painting Room. Perhaps that was where students went when they were feeling inspired.
I quickly swept up the pieces of glass, grabbed my jacket and walked over to the detached concrete building. When I reached for the bronze door knob, it was locked. I looked through the large wooden framed windows, but they were dusty and I couldn’t see through them.
“Good evening, lassie,” I heard a thick Scottish accent, and when I turned around, I was facing an old man with gray coveralls. His face was full of wrinkles as if he spent too much time in the sun and he had a rounded belly. “Do yer need some help?” he asked me.
“Good evening,” I smiled. “I was just wondering if I could use this room to paint, but it seems like it has been locked for some time.”
“Aye, that room hasn’t been used in a lang time, but yer welcome to use it. A’body is always painting in the empty classrooms.”
I smiled at his Scottish slang that was seeping through. “That’s a shame, I would have loved to paint in here,” I told him.
“I tell yer what, if yer willing to give me a hand to scrub some dirt off the windaes, you can use it as your personal painting studio.”
“Really?” I asked excitedly. “I would love that! My name is Grace by the way.”
“Pleasure to meet yer, lassie, I’m Andrew. Let me get a few things and we can start.”
He brought all the cleaning materials we needed, which included a bucket of water, and separated a silver key from a large bunch and opened the door. The dust assaulted us as soon as we walked in and we coughed while opening the windows. Except for the dust and dirty windows, the room was perfect; there was nothing in it except an antique wooden stool and an easel. The floors were wooden and the walls were bare and white. There was a skylight which allowed just the right amount of light in the room and I imagined how glorious it would be in the day time.
We cleaned the floors and the windows, while Andrew told me about himself. He moved here from Scotland thirty years ago and worked at WRC since then. He met his wife when she came to Scotland on holiday. They exchanged addresses and wrote to each other by mail for ten years, but when he heard that someone else was interested in her he took all his savings and moved here to be close to her. The day he got off the airplane, he had nothing but a suitcase and an engagement ring. It was a beautiful story and I knew that I would never get a happy ending like his.
