Paint Spilled
1033 Words
It was Monday morning, and the hum of chatter filled the art room.
The walls, marked with old paint splashes and pinned-up sketches, buzzed with energy.
Students leaned over their tables, trading guesses and whispers while waiting for their teacher.
Tracy sat quietly in her usual corner by the tall window. The sunlight poured in, casting soft golden lines across her open sketchpad.
Her pencil lay untouched. Though she kept to herself, she couldn’t help overhearing the conversation rippling around her.
“I swear, he said we’re drawing a real person today. Like, live,” a girl whispered.
“Yup. First time No plaster busts or fruit bowls this time,” another added excitedly.
“I hope it’s someone cute Not, like, the janitor,” someone muttered, sparking a round of giggles.
Tracy didn’t react, but she could feel the anticipation crackling in the air like static. Her fingers played with the edge of her sketchpad.
The idea of drawing someone live made her nervous not because she couldn’t do it, but because eyes would be everywhere.
A sharp ding sounded above them as the bell rang, and the classroom door creaked open.
Mr. Langston walked in, clipboard in hand, dressed in his usual slightly-wrinkled black shirt with the sleeves rolled up.
His lean figure and serious face gave off that artsy, brooding vibe students loved to gossip about. He smiled faintly at the sea of expectant faces.
“Morning, everyone,” he said, voice deep and calm. “Hope your weekend was productive or at least peaceful.”
Some students nodded, a few mumbled back half-hearted greetings.
Then his gaze drifted around the room, pausing when it landed on Tracy.
“Tracy,” he said gently, “hope you’re doing alright today.”
She blinked, caught off guard. A small nod was all she could manage, though her cheeks warmed immediately.
A burst of quiet laughter bubbled up from one corner of the class.
“Nerd!” a boy called out teasingly, followed by giggles.
Mr. Langston raised a brow. “Let’s keep it down. You’ll need all your concentration today.”
He moved toward the door again, casting a brief glance over his shoulder. “Our model is about to join us.”
Everyone turned to look.
The door opened.
In walked Matt King.
He stepped in with easy confidence, his black hoodie slung lazily over his shoulder.
A collective gasp swept through the room.
But before the sound could settle, Anthony walked in right behind him.
If the gasp was loud before, now it was an audible shockwave. The room lit up with whispers and hushed squeals.
Girls sat up straighter, brushed imaginary lint off their shirts, and flashed sudden smiles.
Tracy sat still, eyes wide. Her stomach flipped once, then again, and she could already feel the heat rushing to her face.
Matt and Anthony. The most talked-about boys in school.
Two hockey stars, both good-looking enough to have their own fan clubs and both standing just feet away from her.
Mr. Langston didn’t look phased. “As I mentioned last week, we’ll be doing a live figure study today.
Matt has graciously agreed to model for us.”
Matt gave a relaxed nod and smirked at the class. The girls squealed softly.
“And Matt,” Mr. Langston added, turning to him, “shirt on or off? Your choice if you’re comfortable, that is.”
Without a word, Matt reached for the hem of his shirt and peeled it off in one motion, tossing it onto a chair.
Chaos.
A few people clapped. Others gasped. One girl in front nearly choked on her water.
Matt stepped onto the platform in the center of the room, taking a casual pose one leg forward, arms relaxed, eyes focused somewhere ahead.
He was facing toward Tracy’s side of the room, though his attention seemed split between the teacher and… something else.
Tracy picked up her pencil, hands slightly shaky. She could not let her mind wander right now. Focus, she told herself.
She’d barely sketched the outline of Matt’s shoulder when she noticed movement beside her.
Anthony.
He’d silently moved from the far wall to the seat right next to hers.
Tracy’s heart started thumping wildly.
He didn’t say anything at first. Just sat, leaning slightly toward her. His presence was overwhelming. Warm. Electric.
“You okay?” he finally murmured, voice low.
Tracy gave a small nod. She kept her eyes on her paper, but her lines were now completely off. Her hands were trembling more than she realized.
Then everything happened at once.
As she shifted to sit back, her foot nudged the base of the paint tray set on the stool beside her. The tray tilted.
Before she could react, it tumbled.
A splash of cool, sticky paint exploded across her lap, up her shirt, even into her hair. The class gasped.
Tracy froze, her face burning. Mortified. She instinctively stood up, but the paint had soaked her clothes dripping blue and red like a messy watercolor canvas.
She tried to wipe at her shirt, her hands only smearing the mess further.
“Oh my god,” someone whispered.
Before Anthony could even move, Matt had already jumped off the platform.
He reached Tracy in two long strides. “Hey, hey come on,” he said softly, voice calm, already taking off his jacket from the chair.
Without waiting for her protest, he gently wrapped it around her shoulders, lifting her slightly off the floor like she weighed nothing at all.
Her cheeks flamed brighter than ever.
“I’ve got you,” Matt murmured, more to her than to anyone else.
He carried her out of the classroom, the door swinging shut behind them.
Anthony stood there, still frozen beside her paint-splattered seat.
His jaw tightened.
He looked toward the door Matt had just walked through, his hands clenching lightly into fists on his thighs, his expression unreadable.
Anthony are you okay a blonde haired girl walked up to him asking but he just ignored her and walked out but not without Mr Langston noticing something was wrong with his nephew.
And yes Mr Langston is Anthony's uncle.
- Writer
