Pictureboy by Bailey Huser

Adam wiped his palms against his shirt. He had to do it now. The bell would   ring any minute, signaling the end of recess – and his chance to make his move. He took a deep breath, wiped the sweat from his palms once more, and set off across the playground, a sheet of paper clutched to his chest.

Two girls tapped their friend on the shoulder and pointed at Adam, giggling with glee. The friend turned around, looking at him all too soon. The corner of her mouth curled up, then was gone just as quickly.

“What do you want, Pictureboy?” she demanded, towering over the trembling boy. Adam opened his mouth. No sound came out. He clamped it shut again and thrust his paper toward her, his face burning as shrieks of laughter streamed from behind the girl. After an agonizing moment, she reached out and took it from him as one might a dirty sock.

Slowly, she stretched the paper out before her, relishing the poor boy’s discomfort. “What is it, Amanda? What is it?” the other girls pleaded. A cruel grin spread across her face, the begging of her friends inflating the pleasure of the moment. Adam wiped his palms again.

“Why,” Amanda said silkily, “it’s a picture of a field of flowers. How sweet.” She held up the paper so the other girls could see the magnificent congregation of a myriad of colors, working together to spread a splendid field of flowers beneath a setting sun. Then, she slowly and deliberately tore it right down the middle. “Oops. It ripped.”

A strangled gasp escaped from Adam’s throat, and his face reddened as he turned and ran for the door of the school, more shrieks of laughter chasing him all the way.

The next day at recess, the shame was still boiling in Adam’s ear as he sat watching Amanda play at the hopscotch squares in the distance. How he longed to draw her, to color in her soft, brown curls, her rosy cheeks. But he dared not. He feared no crayon could capture the beauty of her deep, chocolate eyes, nor could even the most gifted artist in the world capture the expression of her smile.

He loved her no less for her treatment of him the day before. He simply feared that she would never grow to love him in return. A small, love-sick boy, he naturally thought on this matter a great deal, and finally, the notion made it into his head that if he could just draw the perfect picture, she would have to fall in love with him.

Hereon, Adam drew a picture every day, presenting it to her wherever he could reach her. In his desperation to find what might please her, he attempted a vast variety of subjects for his drawings, wonders from mountains to palaces; though never the one he truly wished to create. Yet, not matter what marvels he managed to form, her reaction remained always the same.

“What do you have today, Pictureboy?” she’d say with a sneer. Then she would look upon the lovely product of his toils with disdain and, staring hard into his terrified eyes, destroy the picture with a cold smile upon her lips.

For years, though her snubs wounded his feelings, he remained persistent in his goal to find the perfect picture. However, as they made the transition to middle school, he began to see his mission as not only childish, but futile, and he vowed never to humiliate himself with it again.

Retaining his resolve to avoid Amanda remained simple for many years. He still admired her, but he had not the slightest belief that he could ever win her heart. The closest he came to slipping was starting to outline her jawline on the back of his notes before scribbling it out, still afraid he would botch it.

Then one day senior year, Adam’s resolve failed him. After briefly making eye-contact with her across the classroom, he grabbed a blank sheet and, before he knew it, drew a rose. Ashamed of himself for falling so close to giving in, he hid the sketch in his binder. Nevertheless, as the days passed, temptation grew greater, and the following week he found himself standing in front of her desk, the rose extended to her. She glanced up at him. Adam cleared his throat before doubting himself and fixing his jaw shut.

“What do we have here, Pictureboy? Ooh, a pretty flower.” Smooth and frigid as ice, her voice pierced his ears. She tore the sheet in two and let it fall to the floor. “Thank you, Pictureboy. That was really sweet of you. What’s the matter? Can you still not speak?” Her friends’ snickers morphed into shrieks of laughter. Adam’s face burned crimson, and he fled to his desk, leaving Amanda behind with a satisfied smile.

The remainder of his time in school, he never approached her again, and when graduation came, they went their separate ways, he to a university far away and out of state. She still crossed his mind occasionally, but as the years went by she fell to be more a memory and less a person.

Thus, many more years passed, until Adam was quite grown. He had a modest life in Boston as an architect. One day he was engaging in his favorite pastime of strolling through the park imagining sketches when he suddenly became too chilled to continue. He halted suddenly in his path and turned to go, causing himself to crash into a young lady with brown curls spilling out of her beanie.

I-I am so sorry, ma’am! It was an accident! I-“he stopped short. “Amanda?”  The irritation on the woman’s face quickly gave way to wonder.

“Pictureboy? No way! Is it really you?” She beamed and pulled him to a bench. “I can’t believe I ran into you! How are you? How’ve you been? What’ve you been doing? Are you working as an artist, now? I always did adore your art, Pictureboy.”

She smiled, but a sudden sadness touched her features. “I was always so cruel to you. You probably don’t want to see me. I’m sorry; I just got excited to see a friendly face.” She got up to leave, but Adam gently pulled her back. “You’re too kind. I really am sorry for how I treated you. I was positively dreadful.” She burst into tears and buried her face into his coat where he stared at her in amazement as she recounted to him her copious misfortunes.

“I’m so sorry to trouble you with this. I’ll leave you alone. B-but first, do you think you could draw me one last picture? I know I don’t deserve it. Never mind, I-“

Adam pulled a pencil and blank sheet of paper from his brief case and stared into the distance, lost deep in thought. She watched him wide-eyed as, with quick decisiveness, he began his work. A few minutes later, her elegant features stared back at her as if from a paper mirror.

He peered intently at her in anticipation, but she just gaped at the portrait. “Pictureboy. This is amazing! “Oh, thank you! I’m sorry; I must go, but thank you! She pressed her lips against his cheek and ran away down the path, calling her thanks as she went.

Adam’s eyes expanded, and he pressed his hand to his frozen cheek in astonishment. A broad grin slowly stretched across his face. He actually did it. For a week afterward, he could still feel her lips upon his cheek.  He’d been brave enough to draw what he’d never dared to before, and it had worked out brilliantly. His art grew brighter than it had ever been; he felt nothing could ever cause his spirits to fall again.

Alas, one day on his way home, a commotion drew him across the street. He pushed his way through crowds of people and into brightly lit building. Art of all kinds surrounded him, but only one sight captured his attention: Amanda in a fur coat before her portrait, grinning and accepting a check. She made eye-contact with Adam over the crowd, winked, and then glanced at him no more.

Stuck in shock, Adam stared at his work from across the room until the crowd dispersed, leaving him to numbly approach it. His eyes narrowed. He used to fear his skill could never do her appearance justice.

His eyes narrowed further into a glare. He could see now that he had captured her essence perfectly. Her cold smile gloated. Her eyes, calculating as a snake, scrutinized him from behind the page. Yes, he had done well. It was so simple for him now to see from the portrait how wicked she truly was.

The corners of his mouth fell firmly into a frown, and as he strode into the frigid air and on toward home, he wished only that he had drawn that picture many years before.