RYLIE

"IT'LL TAKE ME forever to save up for Kylie's new eyeshadow palette," Nora groaned, sharpening her pencil with her personal, hand-held sharpener.

For the past ten minutes, Nora has been blabbing on and on about make-up, perfume, and anything that can possibly be related to that. It's enough to distract me from focusing on my work, but that's fine. I'm practically struggling, anyway. Art class has been challenging so far, even after a few weeks of practicing various pencil strokes for our still art assignment we have to complete.

I've been drawing a flower vase—something basic—and it's been nothing but a challenge. It's been a struggle to even sketch out simple pencil strokes. It seems like everyone else at this table is doing better at their assignment than me. Nora seems to be doing pretty well, even while chattering about make-up.

"Don't you have a job or something that'll help you gather enough money to buy the palette?" I questioned, turning away from my paper to her.

"Well, yeah," her neutral expression faded into a grimace, "but I spent most of my money on clothes last month."

"Yeah, but if you save your money, you'll be able to get it. It can't be hard, right?" I assured her.

"It won't be, I hope," Nora stated with ambition. "I'm dying to try out the colors on Kylie's palette."

"The colors on her palette are truly to die for!" A lively voice sang. It was the guy who sat across from her, the one with the lemonade pink hair that was shaggy and done in a hair style similar to Harry Styles'. I think his name is Cannon or something. An energetic smile danced across his lips. It was probably the biggest smile I've seen in ages.

"I know right!" Nora nodded in agreement before blabbing about make-up with Cannon.

It looks like the two have something in common.

I turned back to my paper, grimacing at the mess that was on it. Eraser smudges invaded the paper, along with inferior pencil strokes. Everything seemed . . . inadequate. Maybe I'm just an amateur at this, but I'm sure if Ms. Edwards looked at my work, she'd give me less than a fifty. At this point, there is no way to get rid of the eraser smudges on my paper, or the faint lines that my eraser couldn't get rid of.

I have no choice but to get a new paper and trash this one. I groaned as I picked up my paper and balled it up. I rose up from my seat and strutted to the teacher's desk to request for a new one. My eyes couldn't stay off the porcelain, tiled ground that had hints of various paints splattered across it.

"Ms. Edwards . . . can you give me a new p-paper?" I muttered, tossing my old one into the waste bin beside her desk.

"Of course," she beamed, looking up from her laptop. She reached into a drawer under her desk and grabbed a piece of paper, extending her arm to hand it to me. "Here you go!"

"Thank you," I accepted it.

She nodded in acknowledgement as I turned back, strutting towards my seat. I practically collapsed into my stool. Cannon and Nora were still in deep conversation, while Elias and the guy next to Nora were diligently working on their assignment. I took a peek at Elias' paper. His drawing was nothing but perfection. It was a million times better than anything I can draw—if not, a billion more.

If I could learn a trick or two from him, I'd be a lot better at this.

I picked up my pencil from my paper, but dropped it again. It rolled to the edge of the table and made a clatter sound when it landed on the tiled floor. Before I could bend down and grab it, Elias reached to the ground to retrieve it—mainly because it landed next to his shoe.

"Here," he proclaimed, holding my pencil in his hand.

I accepted it from him with a nod of acknowledgement—which allowed me to sneak another peek at his work. It's like I'm gazing at a masterpiece right now. Seriously, how is he so good?

Nearly every ounce of me wants to compliment him, but once part of me is holding me back. He's working so diligently and has all his focus on his work. I don't want to interrupt him. I probably already did when my pencil fell. He probably thinks I'm a klutz or something, or maybe I'm overthinking. I should probably just compliment him and focus on my work.

"Wow, you're r-really good at this," I praised while clutching my fingers together anxiously. "How do you draw so well?"

His head shot up from his paper as a beam formed on his face. "Thank you. I've been drawing since I was little, and have been practicing ever since. Do you need any help?"

He looked down to my paper, noticing that it was blank. There wasn't a pencil mark in sight. I guess I can use some help.

"I can use some," I mustered a smile.

He nodded and reached down to his backpack. He hauled out a spiral notebook and pulled two pieces of paper from the back of it. He set one in front of me and the other in front of him. He began to model for me a few basic strokes step-by-step with his pencil. I observed closely, copying whatever he did on my paper when he finished modeling an example, following each step he showed me. It was basically the same thing Ms. Edwards did for us a week or two ago, but I guess I didn't understand.

"I think I'm good now. Thanks for the help," I acknowledged, pushing my example paper aside.

"No problem," he turned back to his work, examining where he left off.

After the end of the school day, I headed straight home to my bedroom and snuggled into my day pajamas. Overall, they weren't pajamas. They were just comfortable clothes I wear when I don't plan on going anywhere. They're plush like pillows. I'd wear them in public, but they don't match and there's a rip on the bottom area of my pants.

My homework is already finished, so all I have left to do is to relax, other than to start studying for a couple of classes. I plopped myself on my bed face-first with a groan, reaching one hand to one of my pillows to stuff it over my head. A few moments later, my phone rang—disturbing the peaceful, yet awkward silence of my bedroom.

I slouched up and reached for my nightstand, snatching my phone off of it. Scam Likely appeared on the screen. I groaned and instantly pressed the decline button, cupping my phone back on the nightstand. I was pretty comfortable before I got up to get my phone, but like usual, there's always something to interrupt a pleasant feeling, unfortunately.

Instead of going back into the position I was in a minute ago, I leapt off my bed and strutted to the door of my room. The door was wide open so I peeked my head out of the door before I sauntered into the vacant hall. I walked to the left towards Mom's bedroom. I haven't seen or heard from her since I came back home an hour and a half ago. She's been pretty quiet since I came back a few hours ago.

The door of her bedroom was slightly open, giving me the opportunity to slide in. She was nowhere in sight. I trudged to the bathroom and peeked my head through the side of the doorframe. Mom was humming to herself while applying scarlet red lipstick to her lips. She wore a cobalt blue dress and a golden necklace that was shaped like a flower, which I knew was fake.

She primped a strand of her hair behind her ear before she noticed me at the door. With caution, she closed her lipstick and smiled.

"Uh . . . are you going somewhere, Mom?" I questioned, gripping my fingers against the featureless, porcelain door frame.

"Yes, I am," she answered, dropping her lipstick into a rose pink, striped make-up bag. "I'm going out to dinner with a couple of friends."

"When will you be back?" I asked, stepping one foot on the tiled floor of the bathroom.

"I should be back by eight or nine," Mom replied, tossing her beige Michael Kors handbag on her shoulder. "I won't stay out too long. It'll only be a couple of hours, Rylie."

I nodded my head as she turned back to the mirror. She took out a make-up compact from her bag and started to do a few touch ups to her forehead. Within a minute, she closed it gently and placed it back into her purse.

"I'm going to get going now. I'll see you later. Love you," Mom strutted to me, reaching her arms out to me for a hug. Her fingers grasped against my bag tightly, along with her arms. The hug felt tight, like a bear hug.

"I love you, too," I wiggled myself free from the hug to breathe.

"Also, don't forget to take out Cookie's litter and wash the dishes," she ordered with a calm expression.

"I won't," I groaned.

"Good," she said, reaching into her handbag to retrieve her phone. She sauntered out of the bathroom and bedroom to walk out into the hall. I followed her and watched her climb down the stairs. I trailed behind her to observe her strut out of the door, heading for the kitchen afterwards.

I squinted my eyes for a moment, the tip of my finger planted on my chin. Normally, my mother almost never went out to dinner with friends. Sure, sometimes she hung out with them, but not to the point where they would stay out for dinner. Maybe she's trying something new. I mean, she's been working a lot just to provide. She deserves a break after all, so I'll give it to her.