Tangled

Chapter 2 - Night Changes

~Maeve~

If there is one thing that is the most calming in the world, then it probably is the splatter of paint across a white canvas, the first steps towards a masterpiece. I see my hands glide across the canvas, bringing the vivid colours to life with highlights, shades and contours, my fingers dancing in joy at the mere grip of the ten-year-old paintbrush in my hand. Being an art student is the best thing that I have done for myself so far, and I can never explain the satisfaction of being inspired and make them two dimensional for me and others to enjoy. Not to say, it’s all a bed of roses, art school can be difficult. Coming up with a gallery-worthy piece in the next six months is not a lay man’s task but thinking of being there for about two hundred people to watch your work, will probably be the most satisfying experience. I’ve always wanted to be there, and now that I am getting there, it gives me jitters.

“Take a break, already Mae! You’ve been holed up in the studio for five hours now!” I turn around to come face to face with a very pouty and hungry Noah, my best friend of twenty years. At this point, I don’t know a life without my dark-haired, tall best friend whose guarded chocolate eyes reflect nothing but mischief.

“Two minutes, Noah,” I beg, making cute faces in an attempt to appease him. “I just need to add a little black and then..”

“…a little blue and a speck of pink there. I know. You’ve been saying this for the past two hours. Come on, Maeve. You’re one of the top students in school, I’m sure you’ll do fine!”

“Titles and ranks don’t mean anything, Langford! I need to do a good job for my work to be at the gallery. You know the drill. It needs to be a fine piece of… “

I flap my hands around, looking for a word and Noah just wiggles his eyebrows. “What? A fine piece of…?” he prompts.

 “A fine piece of…art.” I turn away from him, almost annoyed at his insensitivity to my ambition. He knows how much this means to me. “Go eat your ugly burrito or burger alone!” I add, just to let him know that he has effectively annoyed me, like always.

Noah sighs and takes me in his arms, his huge body wrapping over me like a cuddly, fluffy blanket enveloping me in his manly fresh cinnamon fragrance. He smells so familiar and nice and warm. Noah is home.

“I know how important this is, Mae! I know, alright? But I’d rather you be alive and healthy, proudly presenting your work than dead from starving yourself, yeah? So, let’s go! I’m starving!” He pulls the brush off my hand, unties my apron and pulls it off over my head swiftly, grabs my bag, my hand and drags me along with him. I swear, only this tall lanky i***t will get away, pulling tricks like these. We walk along the stretch of our uni that leads us to the cafeteria, Noah taking my hand in his and swinging it back and forth. I take a chance to run my fingers through his unruly, long hair, tugging on it a bit and messing with it.

“This is why nobody wants to date you, Langford.”

This catches him off-guard but he is good at maintaining his composure.  He always is. He watches boring university buildings like it’s something novel. He senses my relentless stare and finally looks down at me questioningly and I add, “How will you snag a date if everybody thinks you’re dating me?”

Noah cheekily waggles his thick, unkempt brows at me and asks, “Maybe that’s what I want people to think!”

I shove him, earning a loud, heinous laugh. “Stop deflecting!” I warn, pushing him further away from me.

“What makes you think I want to go on a date?” He is giving me the ‘I am serious’ look.

I shrug walking ahead of him and skipping a bit, “It’s based on the assumption that you are a healthy twenty-four-year-old male?”

“What about you? What went down with that guy, Kyle? He was so into you… and poof?” He makes circular motions with his hands to make his point more animated. I stop walking, trying not to think about that horrible, horrible date. “He was glaring at you today at the entrance of the studio before he saw me walk in!”

I almost cringe and shiver at all the jokes this guy Kyle made during the date, rush back into my mind.

“Will you draw me like one of your French men? Haha!”

“Don’t even get me started, Noah! He just… he was so pleased with his jokes that… He didn’t even have to courtesy to look embarrassed for himself. I simply could not! It is a surprise I didn’t hit him somewhere dangerous, with something dangerous, okay?” Saying that I resume walking, my best friend hot at my heels. I know how these conversations always go and let me tell you, it’s never in my favour.

“Tylan farts. Brody paired a red shirt with brown pants. Timothy tried to get you to share a straw for Coke and Kyle made jokes! Do you even hear yourself, you snob?” he asks, mockingly, pushing me a little in the process and messing my hair.

“Tylan actually farted okay? It was loud and embarrassing. The entire café looked at us and he just sheepishly smiled and said ‘the person who farted raise your hand’ loudly, like an i***t and smiled. The f*****g audacity! Brody wore...”

“You just… being picky is one thing Maeve. This is just you, being a snob. You’ll be that spinster with forty cats.” Noah quips as he opens the cafeteria door for me.

“At least cats don’t pair red shirts with brown pants and black shoes.”

~

“Hey, you!” Freya plops down next to me, messing with her long straight blonde hair, as I paint the shadows that I thought would fit my painting. I give a quick glance and a smile, before resuming my work.

“You really have to help me, Maeve! Noah simply doesn’t understand!” She whines. While I have been giving her advice on what would help her lure the Noah Langford, she seems to botch the plan somehow. Either she is messing things up for real or Noah is unpredictable even though I like to think, I know him well enough. I really cannot decipher which one of them is true, due to the likelihood of both the events being equal.

“What did you do now?” I ask, my eyes still trailing the red paint that I just brushed across the blue. Her hands unconsciously start twirling my shorter chestnut brown mane and she’s looking all dreamy when talking about Noah.

“I asked him out for dinner and he said you eat!” Now, that makes no sense to me. The question and the answer… it’s off. She is eager and persistent, I should give her that. And I low-key feel guilty for helping her behind my best friend’s back because, from everything that has happened so far, I can only draw one conclusion.

Noah is not interested in Freya.

“No, Frey! What exactly did you ask him?” I inquire anyway because I adore her commitment towards him and I think she might be good for him, although she’s, unfortunately, a little too dull-witted when it comes to him.

“I told him, I am hungry.”

I sigh because this doesn’t exactly pass of ‘asking him out’ now, does it?

“Freya, I don’t think I can help you more than I already have. You should just tell him you like him instead of trying to hint at it, okay?”

It’s like I only ever attract weird people. From the men who want to date me to my friends. While I have known Noah forever, I had met Freya at SVA. We belong to the same class, although our visions for ourselves might as well be black and white. She simply wants to be educated enough, major be damned, to get herself a rich man while I want to make something out of my passion for art. This is not to say she’s bad at it. In fact, Freya is really good at what she’s pursuing, although she’ll never agree.

“I can’t. He’s so…ugh! I can’t say it okay? He doesn’t even pay attention to me. He only talks to me because you and I are friends, alright?”

My phone rings to warn me that I need to leave. to catch the last subway for the day. I quickly gather my things and my canvas, throwing my coat around myself as I say, “Listen, I would love to talk to you but I should leave to catch the subway. I’ll see you, whenever and we can discuss this.”

I rush out of my college and walk toward the subway. It always is tricky to carry the canvas in the subway, but I have no choice because I had refused a car. So, I carefully carry my drying art and when I reach the subway station, I take the least occupied carriage and rest my easel against one of the tube walls while I stand guard for it. The day had been one of the most productive in terms of creativity and I smile to myself. Three stops later, I get off and walk up the stairs towards the pathway that leads me towards my own apartment. I trudge down the busy sidewalk, trying to avoid bumping people as much as I can and apologizing if I accidentally do.

New York is bright and happening, even with the sun long gone and with the moon shining brightly. Every building in vicinity is lit, adding warmth and light to the busy walkway where people don’t seem to have time for anybody. I try catching eyes of strangers every morning and evening to pass them a smile, only for them to be drowning in their own thoughts or phones and I honestly don’t know which one is worse. New York is busy, but New York is also home. I casually stroll the short distance between the station and my apartment when I see people moving away and mumbling about something. Clueless, I continue walking before someone zooms past me, in the opposite direction of the majority of the crowd on the pavement. Before I could fathom the circumstance, I run into someone. More like bang into someone. My shoulders hurt from the run-in and I drop my canvas in the process of moving away from the force of the collision and then, I hear a resonating tear. I watch the man, trip and then step on my work with his heavy work boots before shaking it off his feet. The shock hits me like a hurricane as I watch him give me a quick look before darting away. From the short look, I had at him, I had seen the bruised face and his bleeding hands. His entire outfit reeked gangster and I recall the other man who had run past me. A mere chase between gangsters just cost me my work. It takes me a couple of minutes to shake the horror off. My work is gone and I just don’t know what to do. More people step on the canvas before I manage to pick it up. It’s completely trashed, different footprints having found their places between the warm blues and cool greys. Ten hours’ worth of work has been completely ruined and I just lose it. I sprint back home, throwing my door open and launching into my studio, beginning my attempts to redeem my work. After two hours of struggling, I realise, there is nothing I can do about it. Never in my life have I ever hated someone whom I don’t know.

The rest of the night is spent recreating what I had done that morning and it doesn’t even look close to the original. The colours are off, the contours are harsh and I f*****g lose it. I break down crying, almost tipping my paint stand and easel in the process. I plop down on my carpeted floor, trying to think of every which way in which I could have saved my painting.

Should I have walked a little more to the left? Should I have held my painting tighter?

The questions run on a loop in my mind and I just don’t know what to do. It’s near sunrise and I am so tired. I find myself drifting off only to be haunted by a lean, tall figure with black hair, a neck tattoo and then a splash of colours.

~

My phone rings incessantly, waking me up from my deep slumber. I feel groggy and my eyes feel swollen from all the crying from the previous night. I almost forget about the events of last night and one look at the replica of my painting, it all comes rushing back. Finding my phone, I quickly attend the call.

“Hello?”

“Maeve, you alive?”

Noah, of course. Wait, what’s the time? I look up to see my clock only for a huge 11:30 to stare at me. Wait. What?

Fuck. f**k. f**k.

“Maeve, you there?”

“Noah, yes. I- I’m there,” I manage to spit, knowing that I’m getting Noah concerned.

“Where are you? I’ve been looking for you. Are you okay? You sick or what?” He shoots question after question and I struggle to answer while pulling my coat on and gathering the things I’ll need for the rest of the day.

“No. Yes. No. I just-I’ll see you in a bit? I just woke up.”

“You woke up now?” There is bemusement lacing his voice as he poses the question because I am a known early bird.

“Yes. And I am exiting my house as we speak,” in a rush, I tell him.

Bewilderment is replaced with unease when Noah asks me, “Mae, you okay? This doesn’t sound like you. I’ll come to pick you up?" He sounds extremely concerned and I feel bad for putting him through it. If he sounds like this, then he for real must be hella worried.

“No, I’m good. Long story! Meet me at the uni cafeteria?”

“Usual latté?”

“Nope! Gonna need something stronger than that. Espresso, triple shot!”

~

“So, you’re telling me you ran into feuding gang members and one of them ruined your piece that you’d started doing for your gallery presentation?”

“Langford, there is absolutely no need to summarize the horrific night I’ve had, okay? But to answer your question, yes! Basically, that asshole ruined my life and I don’t know what I’m gonna do!”

My best friend looks genuinely apologetic even though none of this is his fault and rubs my back in the hopes of raising my spirits. He’s looking his usual self, simple linen shirt with ripped jeans and his hair messily styled. I know it’s new for him to help me feel better because despite our long history as friends there has never been a situation where too many things in my life go wrong. In one night.

“You can’t replicate it?” he queers and I shake my head. It didn’t go too well for me last night after I had tried it. Noah then pulls me into a hug, his warm shirt, smelling like cinnamon and vanilla. I breathe in the familiarity that Noah exudes while he speaks, “You’ll do fine. You’re one of the best novice artists I have seen. One ruined painting cannot and will not ruin your life. You’ll have inspiration back up in no time. Also, the show is six months away and that is a very long time, Mae! You’ll be okay!”

He might not be the best when it comes to consoling someone, but I know he’s trying his best. Sometimes, I wonder what I would do without him and his craziness. I don’t think my life’s gotten any better since last night, but I am feeling better.

“Thank you, lanky!”