Cry baby

With a heavy gruff, and a frustrated grunt, Jackson toppled his mahogany writing desk sideways and let the stacks of paper flutter to the ground. He'd underestimated the ear rangling scrapes of the metal legs on his bedroom floors because his mother barrelled in, skirts fisted in her small palms and eyes wide with fear.

"What in God's earth are you doing!" Mother shrieked, sending a wave of pain to his already stirring headache. He'd personally admit himself into Mrs Howells inn after this blasted week. But firstz he has to finished helping Amelia.

Ignoring his mother's demands for explanation, Jackson bent on all fours, scouring the dozens of papers etched with pencil lines and neatly scuffed eraser scrubs. As he searched, the sketches rose to life on the floor; baby rabbits running in the distant fields of his small village, an ink smothered picture of Mr Connel caressing a baby goat, a rumpled image of a tiny frog sitting idly on a floating tree bark— he liked that one, personally because he'd been the one to show her the hidden creek behind the bushes of Mrs Deborah's farm. He'd stared at her as she sketched while she stared at that ugly frog for two hours. Jackson shook the thoughts away. He had a mission.

Trust Amelia to forget the centre piece of her own portfolio. How it somehow landed in his desk drawer was something he'd drill out of her later. Right now, he needed to find the drawing she'd begged him to find and deliver. He glanced at the small clock above his door. Six minutes since he dashed out the town hall on her order. If his calculations were right—and they always were— she'd start sobbing in twelve.

Which meant he had barely eleven minutes to find the stupid drawing of a horse licking a drop of Mary Jane's ice-cream cup, wave his shrieking mother goodbye and materialise at the Hockney town art exhibition before all hell broke loose.

"Is this about Amelia?" he heard his mother say and he gave a short nod. He frowned as he pushed passed a sketch of a flock of birds resting on Mr Conners carrots. As a third generation farmer, Jackson hated birds, especially the ones that pecked at carrots.

"Is it her drawing? The horse one?"

Jackson's head snapped back, his frantic eyes focusing on his petite mother for the first time that morning. She had her apron tied tightly around her bulging waist , dusts of white flour coated on her toes and fingertips and her dark hair matted into a loose braid on her shoulder. On a normal day, he'd have cleaned the smudge of coal on her left cheek, but today was not a normal day. Today was Amelia's special day and he had only nine minutes left to save it.

"Where is it?" he asked ,already standing to his feet. It still baffled him how he towered over the woman that once cradled him in her arms.

"On the kitchen counter."

"How?" He'd made the journey in five steps. It lay on the kitchen counter alright, in-between one of his agriculture books.

"You fell asleep with the book and paper on your chest. I had to put them in the cupboard before it got ruined."

How could he forget that? "Why didn't you tell me?"

"And how do you suppose I did that?" Mother snapped. "I woke up and realised you'd already left before the cocks crowed dawn!"

He ran a palm down his face. "I had to carry her art buckets to the centre." And then set up the easels, and calm her down when a screw went missing. Then, they had to frame the drawings and find her lucky paint brush, and make sure the pencils were all sharpened at 30 degree angles and reassure her Mrs Howell did infact have a mole above her lip, and other things his brain hadn't the time nor energy to remember right now.

He glanced at the living room clock and groaned. All this hassle and it wasn't even 8am yet. It was also only six minutes before hell broke loose.

"Well, there's your answer."

He could feel the sermon hitched on his mother's tongue.

"Mother, I don't have the time." He straightened the edges of the paper and safely tucked it in the book. If he ran —like really ran—he'd make it before her first tear dried.

"Well, if you two plan on running off about town at the crack of dawn, atleast do us all a favour and get married."

"Mother—"

"I know her poor mother has heart palpitations anytime that girl has the slightest chill or fever. You're a good boy, Jackson. I know because I raised you right. Do the right thing and stop frolicking without wedding that girl."

Jackson did not frolick. And he certainly did not wed. Amelia was his friend. One he held very dearly yes, but she was still just that; His friend. He had a book full of points to debate the fact against his mother, but he also only had four minutes left and the journey to town hall took five if he didn't stop for breath.

So, he held his book firmly in both hands, kissed his mother on her right cheek and ran like his pants caught fire.

---

Amelia clutched her notepad tightly to her chest, the metal cool on her trembling fingers and the morning's wispy air sending chills to her weakening spine. Maybe...just maybe, if she held the sharp edges of the metal hard enough, she could induce blood and blame the threatening tears on the injury and not her breaking heart.

She'd known applying to the town exhibition was ambitious. Mother had cautioned time without number to be meek ,to have her stubborn head down and detest all forms of attention. But here she was, at the centre of a town she hardly visited, a whole easle covered with meager sketches of moments she was too stubborn to let time erase.

The drawings stared back at her, faces of distant neighbors and unwelcoming townspeople splattered on different papers, all who barely spoke two sentences to her. The townspeople smiled in the drawings, obviously because she'd drawn from far, careful not to spoil their joy with her presence. This meant she didn't have the artistic luxury of proximity, and have access to their minute facial details. She'd improvised, relying on choppy memory to fill in the features distance stole from her vision. It was difficult recalling the smiling features of people who only frowned and scowled her way but alas, she'd thought she'd done a fairly good job giving the circumstances. However now... staring at the drawings with the morning light and realistic eyes, uncertainty crept into her veigns like a disease tasked to kill her.

Amelia chewed on her pencil as she contemplated the drawings. Did Mrs Howell really have a mole on her upper lip or was it just a raisin from the inn's Saturday lunch dash? How many throngs did Mrs Deborah's wicker truly have? She'd drawn three because Jackson had said three.

Jackson.

Anger warmed her icy blood, and she clutched her metal notebook once again.

It was his fault. This was all his fault. She should have never let him peak at her sketchpad. She should have never let him talk her into signing for the exhibition. Believing that her drawings were beyond average. Filing her already stubborn head with stubborn hope.

They'd love it, he had said, right before she'd signed her name on the community board. She believed him. She believed she could do something to make the towns people more tolerant of her presence. She'd poured hours into those drawings. It had taken everything in her to hide them from mother. Now look at her. Alone, cold, and with less than accurate drawings of people that would never accept her.

Stupid Jackson. Stupid Jackson and his stupid smile and his stupid convincing voice.

She shuddered.

No.

She couldn't blame Jackson.

He was nice to her. Her best friend. Her only friend. She would hold on. She would trust him like she always did.

The clock in the hall struck 8 and she bit her bottom lip hard. She glanced at her canvas with the blank space in the middle, waiting for her centre piece to take its place. Then, she stared at the door, praying and pleading for Jackson to rush in, her centre piece in hand. How she'd forgotten it at his house was a mystery. She hadn't the time to solve it right now because people had begun walking into the hall. The five other artists stood by their complete presentations, smiling confidently and animatedly explaining the stories behind their work.

Amelia pressed her lips tightly and looked around. She waited. And waited.

And waited.

Not a soul stood within a five metre distance from her. She was avoided like a plague.

Her work wasn't completed. She should be grateful that no one had seen it. She'd never want them to view her work without the centre piece, the whole thing didn't make sense without it, but... but they didn't know that.

She clung to her metal board. They didn't know the piece was incomplete. They should have checked atleast. They should have come over and looked at her drawing like they did the other five artists in the room. And that's when the thoughts she'd so desperately allowed Jackson bury, roared with life;

She could have the best sketch in the entire room and no one would care.

Not her mother. And especially not the townspeople.

Shame engulfed her like the centre river she once drowned in. She could leave before anyone truly noticed her. Pack up and slip through the back door and forget she ever tried to fit in.

She turned to the easel and sighed.

"I'm here!"

All eyes—including ameila's— snapped to the door. There stood Jackson, heaving and panting and frantically unbuttoning the first line of his neck collars.

"Why in carnation do you look like you've run through seven towns, boy?" Mr Connor said, his farmers hat tilting at an odd angle on his skinny face.

"Is there a fire?" Came Mrs Howell. She called her toddler daughter "Jane dear, come over here."

Slowly, everyone circled Jackson, throwing possible scenarios, and asking impossible questions.

Amelia wanted to get him a glass of water. She wanted to push the crowd away and yell for them to give him space. She wanted to take care of him, but her feet were stuck to the ground. Truly, she'd have moved and been useful, only if Jackson wasn't staring at her so intently through the sea of neighbours. His eyes held a warning that anchored her down to reality. She could tell what he said with that look.

Don't leave.

When his breathing slowed to a manageable pace, he straightened his shirt and masked a smile on his sweaty face.

"I'm here!" He announced again, dragging his feet towards where she stood. "You all must see this."

As the crowd followed his line of sight, the entire hall stared at her, as though noticing her for the first time that morning.

Amelia didn't have the time to bulk under their assessing gazes because Jackson had walked up to her and blocked her vision from the rest of the room. Shielding her. He truly was a tall man.

"I'm here," he said lowly...for her. "And I found your drawing. We'd talk about why it was in my house in the first place later. For now—"he pulled the paper from the book —"complete your presentation. They'd love it."

They'd love it. The lie he'd been telling her all summer long. The lie she'd so desperately wanted to believe. Maybe even believed while she sketched and erased and sketched again. It still remained a lie.

Amelia shook her head. "I don't want to do this anymore." She couldn't handle the rejection. She couldn't handle being publicly humiliated infront of him. "Please don't make me do this."

"Shhhh," his fingers ran down her arms in gentle caresses. "You know I'd never make you do anything you didn't want to." Good. So they could leave. She turned to grab her paint brushes but his caressing hand held her wrist. "I know you want to do this, Amelia"

Pursing her lips, she glanced up to look at him —she knew she shouldn't have, she desperately knew she should have stood her ground and avoided his convincing eyes, but how could she ignore his presence when he held her hand so softly? When his thumb made gentle circles in her palm and he looked at her like...like...well like the way he was looking at her now. Like she was the entire world and it didn't matter if no one spared a moments glance to her or her incomplete piece. It didn't matter if they didn't care, because he did. He cared about it. He cared about everything.

He cared to make her pencils sharpened at 30 degree angles, he cared to make sure her favourite paint brushes stood on standby incase she wanted a dash of colour, he cared to strain his lungs and dash home to make her piece complete.

He cared.

This was as much of his exhibition as was hers. And she'd never forgive herself if she took that away from him.

"Fine," she said and forced a mock frown when his victorious smile surfaced. It wasn't fair how easily he could convince her. It just wasn't.

But oh, how she loved it.

He let go of her hand, assuring her with those eyes of his, then placed the paper in her palms.

Amelia glanced over the horse and the little girl so intricately drawn with the ice cream at the middle and smiled , such sweetness. Then, she looked up and froze. She'd forgotten the entire town stood behind him, staring at her, waiting for her to showcase her piece. Jackson only gave a motivating nod and took a step back.

With shaking hands, Amelia uncorked the glue, tapped the edges of the paper, then smoothened it against the wooden board of the easel. The piece was complete. Everything looked in place. She stepped away from the easel, backing the entire crowd and pressing her lips on a thin line. They could see it. They could see everything. And she waited. The room fell deafly silent. The seconds seemed to stretch to minutes. Amelia wanted to cry.

"By word, is that me?" Mr Connor said.

Her glassy eyes found him by her side. "Yes...yes sir." She held her breathe as a smile slipped across his tight features. His wrinkled eyes peered deeper into the drawing and she watched his smile grow.

"Mama look," little Jane said tugging at the edges of Mrs Howlings skirt," it's clunky licking my ice cream."

Mrs Howlings smiled. "You look really beautiful, my sweet."

"Look, Debs,"called Me Connor again ", it's you and that pitchfork you wave about town."

One by one, the townspeople circled the easel, pointing and laughing and cheering as they located owned and familiar faces in the sea of sketches.

Amelia stepped away from the crowd, her heart clenching and unclenching at the sight of everyone happy...at something she did.

A moment later, Jackson pulled away and walked to her.

"I told you —"he began and then his eyes widened. "They love it! Why are you crying?" He stood right infront of her, shielding her from the crowd once again." Oh Amelia ,"he pressed his lips then spoke "I swear I tried not to mess up the edges while running. But it's still perfect. They love it. You don't need to cry."

She so dearly tried to stop but couldn't.

"Please dont cry, Amelia. Tell me what's wrong and I'd fix it."

Another sob, and then she said "I'm so happy, Jackson "

Like a flash of lightning ,she watched as a grin quickly replaced the worried wrinkles across his features. He breathed a sigh, looking at her, then he stood straighter and opened his arms wide. "Come here."

She obeyed. Jackson's arms had always been warm, and strong and comforting and so...everything she needed at that particular moment. Seconds later, her tears seized. She counted her breaths, orchestrating her heartbeats to match his steady rythm.

"My little crybaby," he said, stroking her back. She could feel her spine strengthening with every run of his fingers and she breathed her first easy breath that morning. She could remain in his embrace forever.

She fanned her eyelids closed, savoring the feel of his strong build in her arms. His scent even when mixed with dried sweat, reminded her of pine cones and fresh water. She was transported to the first time they met.

Mother had just scolded her for running away. She'd not known that was called running away, for she only wanted to play with the other kids for a change. But mother had called her selfish and locked her in her room with the key. Jackson had followed her home, he claimed to have simply been curious about the girl who never left her cottage by the rivers edge, but Amelia didn't care what his story was. All she knew was at the time when the world locked her away, there was a boy who defied everybody and made silly faces at her room window to see her smile.

It was little Jane who snapped her out of the trance. The girl, left thumb in her mouth, ever so young and short, barely the height of Jackson's knees, looked up to their embraced positions with as much perplexity a four year old could perplex.

She plopped her thumb out her mouth and asked, "Are you married?"

"We're just friends," they said and tightened their arms around eachother.