Teach Me Friendship

The first time I walked into art class, he was there, scribbling on a scrap of paper. Arthur Morris. He didn’t look up at me. During the lesson I couldn’t help but shoot glances at him as often as I dared. It seemed that he was well-respected – no one was jeering that he was the only boy in the class. His nickname, aptly, was Arty. Probably because he was more creative than all of us put together. After the lesson was over he approached me – the first one, other than the office-dwelling secretaries and students who were clearly under instruction. His friendliness loosened the anxious knots compressing my chest on that first day, and every day after it.

It was perhaps two months later that we ran into each other outside school. We were good friends, but somehow never the kind that met up for a coffee after-hours. I was wasting some time before a singing lesson in town, and he was out shopping for his mum’s birthday. He agreed to let me help him (so far, his ideas were gift cards, vouchers, or a packet of blank CD’s) as long as he could come to my singing lesson. I caved when he said his current gift of choice was going to be a plastic-fantastic photo album. We ended up buying his mum a silver charm bracelet, and he listened without cringing while I belted operatic numbers for half an hour.

Some kind of barrier broke that day. We spent more time together in art class; he would give me helpful advice while everyone else looked on jealously. I still didn’t have many friends, but I had unusually good hearing – so the rumours about us being a couple eventually reached my ears. I brushed them off. Arty was nothing like what I’d expected – most boys were obsessed with what was in their pants.

One afternoon, a few people from our art class stayed behind after the final bell to work on their pieces. A couple of hours passed, and I was finishing the final touches on my charcoal sketch of a wrinkled old man when the beehive-topped Art Director waddled in.

“Oh, I didn’t realised you two were still here,” she stuttered, trying to discreetly hide the half-finished block of chocolate in her hand. “I’ve just got to go down to the front office to take a call. Be good,” she waggled her finger at us.

We contained our laughter until she was gone. Arty got up and started waddling around. “Careful dear, the acid in the paint might spoil that lovely complexion!” he tittered, leaning forward to pinch my cheek. I giggled, trying to contain the huge smile threatening to burst out. We stared at each other for a picturesque moment. Then, like we both knew our roles perfectly, we leaned forward and very gently, kissed.

“I’m sorry,” he apologised. “I was out of line.”

I smiled. “Its okay. No one will ever know but you and me, sir.”

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