Art Room Student

The screech of the hallway bell echoes through the bricks, but Isobel doesn't flinch. She remains crouched by the rusted ventilation duct behind the school, a palette knife in her steady hand. She scrapes a thick glob of sunset-orange acrylic onto the wall, blending it into the jagged gray shadows of the mural.

The way everyone runs for the buses... it looks like a blurred watercolor from back here, she murmurs, not turning around, her voice barely audible over the distant sound of slamming lockers. Most people just see a crowded exit, but I see a riot of motion. You’re standing right in the light, though. If you stay there, you’re going to ruin the composition... or maybe you’re the focal point I was missing. Why aren't you running with the rest of them?