party tattoos, dodie
O5TH SEPTEMBER, 2010
THIRTEEN YEARS.

It was in art class, where Seth and I met. A new year had begun, year nine to be specific, and so commenced a new seating plan. I hadn't known him before that day—he was on the other side of the year, and apart from his brief and rather comical relationship with Manon Bisset, a french girl who'd left at the end of the last academic year, his name was unknown to me. Seth Marken: it was something that I was looking forward to knowing, deciphering, understanding—although I would never admit it aloud.

Apparently he was an artist, and had his own dreams of becoming an illustrator. That's what Jamie told me, anyways, as we walked towards the class—planners in our hands as if we were year sevens again. Artificial lights guided our way as the grey clouds thickened beyond the windows, the torrential rain pounding against them with brute force. Jamie's uniform was soaked: he'd decided to run into the rain and twirl around like a fucking idiot. Now he was sneezing, his nose running and his eyes teary.

"You're a dumb shit." I said, snorting at the look he gave me. "I'm convinced you have the mentality of a five year old."

"Five year olds are cool." He didn't even deny it. I shook my head, suppressing a smile. That was Jamie, for you, the blonde-haired dumb shit who, for many years onwards, had been one of my closest friends. It was only as I jumped on the plane to leave to New York at seventeen years old that I realised the weight of my actions, the weight of the distance, and how nothing would ever be the same. "Like, they're carefree and awesome. They just play with toys all day."

"I think you're thinking of three year olds, mate."

He paused momentarily, his face scrunching in thought. "Huh." Was all he said as we rounded the corner into our art class, the smell of paint ripe in the air. Shitty pictures laced the walls as the rest of the students filed in—all in the same uniforms, all with the same bag and the same coat. The only thing that was possibly different was our face, the one thing that was beyond the control of the school.

I hadn't realised it then, but Seth was standing beside me. He was the first one in, a wide grin painted against his childish face. Curls ruffled the top of his brow, those brown eyes sparking with joy. Art was his favourite class, as I would learn many years after. It was his passion, and the only thing that made him smile towards the end of his life. For art, he'd always be early and punctual. I was convinced, as the years passed on, that he only attended school for art. Soon, he never attended school at all.

"Seth," the teacher, Miss Barkley, said, pointing to the seat at the back, "and then Jasper." She pointed to the seat beside him, at the edge of the table. Ah, I thought, he's my partner. He watched me as I walked towards the seat, as though to examine my reaction—to compare one another's passion. When he thought, I noticed, his eyebrows would scrunch up and his lips would press into a small pout. Back then I paid no attention to it, however. I didn't pay attention to anything at all.

"I'm Seth." He introduced himself, smiling softly. It was one of those rare smiles that weren't often anymore: the honest kind, where all emotions were explicit upon the face. "Seth Marken."

"Jasper, but you can call me Perce or Jasp. My friends call me that."

"Hm, what's something that no-one calls you?"

I thought for a while. "Apart from teachers and my Mum, Jasper."

He snorted. "I'm not calling you that. I want something authentic. What's your surname?"

"Ainsley."

He smiled again—that soft, genuine smile. When he did so, his whole face lit up like he was the sun. And maybe he was the sun, and I'd been blinded to it all this time before. "Ainsley it is."

I only shrugged, smiling tightly. By then everyone was seated, but I'd paid no attention to them. I was engrossed in my newfound friendship with Seth, and his sporadic doodles all across the sketchbook. "Oh wow, you are good at drawing?"

He grinned, staring at me through the corner of his eye. Miss Barkley chattered along, but her voice morphed into the background chatter that filled the room. Soon, all I heard was Seth, and only Seth. "You didn't think I was?"

I cocked my head. "No, no. I'm just impressed, that's all. I've heard people say you're good at drawing but I guess I wasn't sure of how good until I saw you draw just now."

"Glad to live up to beyond your expectations."

I shrugged. "It's not hard to exceed them, if I'm being honest."

Seth laughed, sighing contently. He placed his pencil down, letting his head rest against his hand. His eyes met my own, brown against green, Earth beneath the grass, and it was the first time they merged to create their own melancholic hazel. "Wanna know something about me?" His glasses sat on the crook of his curved nose, freckled cheeks dulled by the storm that brewed beyond the windows.

I dropped my pencil without care. I didn't like art that much, anyways. English and writing—that was more of my thing. "Sure."

"I hate slow walkers. They annoy me. I like things to move fast, so sometimes drawing frustrates the hell out of me."

"You're gonna hate me then, when I admit I'm a slow walker. I like to take my time to look around, you know?"

He rolled his eyes playfully, staring at the board. Work had been displayed on it—an easy task for Seth, a difficult one for me. "Such a writer you are."

"How'd you know?" I feigned shock. "Are you like ... some sort of spy or something?"

Laughing, he picked up his pencil again and continued to draw. "Maybe I am. Scared?"

"Quaking in my boots."

Silence resumed thereafter, although it was one of mutual agreement. No awkwardness brewed from it, but a content in which we both settled into nicely. It was new, rough, but welcoming all the same. It was our little bubble.

"You hands are really nice, you know."

"My ... hands?" I repeated, making a face.

"I have an artists eye, what can I say." He stared at them longer, cocking his head to the side. When he did so, his glasses shifted as did his hair, his curls messing up the straightness of his brow. "Can I draw them?"

"I mean, sure." I laid them before him, watching him draw and fill an empty page with doodles of my hands: the veins, the nails and its cuticles, the faint hair that had sprung on the very end as puberty slowly became apparent. "Do you draw people often?"

"Only pretty people."

"That's vague."

"How so?"

"Just ... is."

"Then vague I shall be." He resumed, smiling at me from the corner of his eye. He did that a lot—avoiding direct eye contact, as though he couldn't bare to look at me. I didn't blame him though. Year nine wasn't my finest year in terms of appearances. "You gonna come up with a nickname for me?"

I raised my brows. I hadn't thought of one—I usually didn't make up nicknames for anyone. Jamie was Jamie, Mum was Mum. "Um, I don't know. Your name is pretty short anyways—is it short for something?"

"Nope. Just Seth."

"Then Just Seth you shall be."

He laughed at that—and throughout the years before I left, he laughed a lot too. Whether it was real or fake was the real question, and to that I never found an answer.

"There!" Seth exclaimed, finishing the sketch—and once he did, class ended. The scraping of chairs against the floor filled the room, alongside the chaos of chatter that erupted from the mouths of gossiping girls and bustling boys. Miss Barkley left promptly, not wanting to be late for her next class. Jamie waited for me, staring at Seth's drawing. He whistled.

"Wow-wee! Holy shit, ain't that good."

A smile—soft, genuine, but not touching the corner of his eye. It seemed more strained. "Thanks."

Jamie looked up, his eyes meeting Seth's. Blue against brown, sky against the Earth. The distance couldn't be more apparent. He grinned, nonetheless. Jamie was always grinning. "Alrighty, Perce!" He exclaimed, rubbing his head together. "We off?"

"Yeah, just let me grab my bag." I replied, exhaling. Jamie left the class, waiting outside—attempting to sneak on his phone for a while. I shoved my stuff carelessly into it. It wasn't like I'd done much anyways.

I looked over to Seth's work, his eyes scanning it with an unknown emotion. "It's really good, you know." I smiled. "You're gonna be a great illustrator. I know it."

"How do you know?" He whispered, lips barely moving.

"I just do."

He smiled. "Goodbye, Ainsley."

I nodded, leaving him in the room to ponder on his thoughts, gazing at my retreating figure as I left to meet Jamie and go to lunch. Unbeknownst to me, Seth had flipped to start a fresh page—and began to write, inspired my me:

An ode to Ainsley.