Mabel

2

The walk to the library, though it's very short in reality, is a monumental crawl marathon for me.

Walking with Professor Kang means being on the receiving end of a lecture on 'inspiration' and 'creativity' and 'trying new things' and really, I just want to curl into a ball and slurp hot chocolate through an extra-long bendy straw (so it could reach me while I'm curled up).

Alas, the only solution I have is texting Talia a frantic message; something along the lines of being held captive by my teacher, forced to erase all artistic integrity, and be so starved of glucose that my smile is nowhere near as dazzling as usual (since sugar is what keeps my body going, obviously).

She'll get the idea.

"Right, Mabel, sit down here and I'll go get you some books to start you off," Kang says easily as I sink into one of the only available seats in the library: a tan little couch (armchair?) at a mediocre-sized table (clearly, all the good ones are gone).

I nod at him, refraining from saluting again and instead shooting the teacher a more socially acceptable smile.

When the man turns away, I groan, thumping my head down on the desk.

Feeling something touching my hair, it's only then that I look up and realize that I'm not the only one sitting at this crappy, two-seater, library table.

No, no. The table is most definitely meeting its people capacity right now and I try not to be surprised—which doesn't register with my mouth apparently—since I immediately let out a small, "Oh fuck, hi."

The 'I'm sorry for putting my head all over your notes' is implied.

I watch as the student opposite me gawks, eyes wide and vaguely resembling the grace and innocence of a deer (these sorts of descriptions are when you know you've been thinking about art for too long), treacle brown hair contrasting with his sweet honey complexion and cherry red lips and—wow, I must really be craving sugar too, huh.

I wait for him to reply, but he doesn't. He just keeps staring.

I'm about to ask him if I have pen ink or something on my face from his notes but then Kang comes back with a mountain of books so high that when he puts them on the table I literally can't see the guy opposite me anymore.

They're portraiture books, I note with a sinking heart.

"Professor Kang, I can not do portraiture. I don't have anyone to draw so—"

"Of course, you do! You have that boy you drew last time, and those two that always mooch about in the studio with you. You know, the ones that broke my stepladder doing... What was it again?"

Sighing rather despondently, I tell him, "A... a re-enactment of Bop to the Top."

I obviously remember it well. Morin had been much, much less enthusiastic than Talia had, outwardly, but it's clear that deep down, he was squealing at dancing with the secret-not-so-secret-still-unconfirmed-but-pretty-likely love of his life, Talia Alpin.

Then, the stepladder gave out and Talia fell movie-style into Morin's arms. It was unbelievably sweet (not to mention gross).

Until of course, they both plummeted to the ground, which resulted in a round of classic bickering between the two, following along the lines of "Oi, Valdez– you can't even hold up someone two years younger than you for half a second?" to "It's not my fault you spend every waking minute either in the gym or at the studio. Muscle weighs more than fat, idiot."

I saw the love in their eyes, though. Trust me. Unconfirmed but pretty likely.

"Yes, those two," Kang says, as usual, with an air of enthusiasm streaming through his smile, but it's not hard to miss the bitterness in his voice.

"I can't base a project off of any of my friends, sir, my creative intentions will be hindered by the fact that it's them."

The kind of 20+ year olds that do High School Musical re-enactments (okay I'd be lying if I say I haven't done 'Fabulous' with Talia in our dorm a few times, though) and cry over the season finales of MasterChef (Luca, however, is just weird).

"Well," Kang says, voice straining further since I really seem to have that effect on him, "There are thousands of people at this university. Surely you've more than three friends."

I do not.

I mean, I have friends of friends like Arla Waters whose Luca's partner for every exercise and practice scene that Theatre Performance and Production Studies throws at them. She likes to come around to our place to practice, loudly, at eight in the morning.

I have Silas Wills who's been Morin's best friend since, almost birth, and who additionally has some serious heart eyes for the handsome, drama major that I practically room with alone since stupid Talia decided to betray us and hang out with her unconfirmed boyfriend at his dorm most of the time instead.

All the people around me are basically in relationships and I am tragically and eternally alone.

Even Arla, queen of not settling down, has her eye on one of the set designers, lately.

Anyways, singleness aside, I don't really have anyone else I could ask to base my entire project around.

Not someone close enough to not earn a restraining order filed against me for asking, but not someone new enough to me so that I could focus on their aesthetic beauty without thinking of them walking around in their underwear, eating some sort of moulding leftover and scratching their bed-matted hair (this applies to all aforementioned candidates.)

Kang seems to notice that I've gone into one of my deep thinking states (usually I'm just thinking of how great I think I look that day or what RomCom I'll watch with Luca that night but nobody knows this, so it's fool-proof) and decides to leave me alone with a not very encouraging "good luck," likely assuming I'm thinking about my project and definitely not my friends' tendencies to be hot-messes.

Picking up one of the books off of the top of the stack, I read the title, 'Portraiture Through the Ages' and suppress a yawn, discarding it onto the floor—gently though, so that the librarian doesn't come and pinch my ear with a lecture (again).

I take another, reading 'The Most Influential Portrait Artists in History' and yawn properly this time, throwing the book slightly less delicately than the last onto the slowly growing pile.

Before I can add to it any more, I hear a sharp whisper of, "Mabel Ortega! If I see you throw one more book onto that floor—" I swivel around in my seat to see a deceptively kind-looking woman scowling at me, hair loose and free around her face, seeming much more like a stereotyped mother than a librarian.

Holding up my hands defensively, I whisper-yell apologies as she walks away, knowing she wouldn't appreciate me making further noise, and breathe a sigh of relief when she throws me a thumbs up.

"It's probably a bad sign that you only come here, like, once every two months and yet she knows you by name."