Thank You, Kyle From Art

I sit, staring at the little curser, lips purses in a confused frustration. I sigh, tapping my fingers over the keys randomly, trying for a second to read the alien language I created before deleting what I wrote. I look up at the ceiling, following the moth slowly with my eyes. The front door creaks open. I ignore it and hold down the 'e' key without looking away from the fuzzy, fluttering miller. My brows furrow in contemplation. Why does my family call moth's millers? I shrug at my own question. I lick my lips, tracing my tongue over them slowly. I chuckle, my smile flattening when I glance back at the blank page. This is silly. Why on earth do I have to write a story? All I should have to do to pass ELA is know what words mean and how to use them and punctuation and stuff. My creativity was built for drawing and painting, not writing! I shout in my head. How does one make up a scenario, one that makes sense, and write it in a story format?

"Glaring at the screen isn't gonna save you from the assignment, Callie," my best friend and mom sighs, hand on her hip, from the door. I shrug at her. I don't say a word, but hope my expression portrays my thoughts: glaring at it won't save me, but procrastination is much more fun than being productive. She clicks her tongue at me and sighs again, an amused grin on her face. How dare she find amusement in my pain!? I pout, taking my hands from idly resting on my keyboard to cross my arms over my chest. I lick my lips again and flare my nostrils; I need to find my chap-stick. I purse my lips, looking back at my computer screen.

I close out of my document and stare at my wallpaper. I poke my finger at the obvious milky way in the picture. I trace the highlighted part slowly, nibbling my lips unconsciously. When finished tracing the lighter part of the sky, I trail my pointer finger over the mountainous horizon. I smile, eyes probably reflecting the remnants of the captured sunset. The foreground is black, making the neon green triangular tent pop brightly off the screen.

"Callie, seriously, do your homework," My older brother grunts, passing my open door. Why is my door open? I tilt my head, pressing my ear to my shoulder. I make a silly face, crossing my eyes and sticking out my tongue and making noises, mocking the seventeen-year-old, sleep deprived, green eyed boy who' only trying to motivate me.

I pout like a scolded child and drag the little white arrow, so it sits over the document app thing. I tap my mouse lightly and scrunch my nose at the sudden brightness that takes over my screen at the popping up of my still blank page. I groan, throwing my head back against the back of my black chair. I wince at my neck popping more than I would have liked from the action and bare my teeth to the ceiling. I poke my tongue out, rasberrying the popcorned whiteness above me.

"If I were a good idea, what would I be?" I ask myself, listening to my own voice intently. My bother passes my room again with a bark of laughter.

"A condom!" He shouts. I glare at my doorway as if he were still there. He's such a meanie face.

I scratch my nose, scrunching my whole face as if I just licked a lemon at the feeling of an oncoming sneeze. I whine high in my throat and cover my face with both hands. I duck into my elbow and sneeze, squeaking at the same time. The whole house shouts, 'bless you' and I roll my eyes, shouting in frustration. Sneezing sucks. It sucks so bad. My eyes water and I whine again. And then my nose starts running. What happened to make this sudden on slot of allergies happen!? I grunt, closing my hazel eyes. I rub face with my hands and glance at my nails. The paint, blue with silver sparkle detailing, chipped and I lean back in my chair, picking lazily at the bright varnish.

I spin in my office chair that I stole from my dad's office. Mr. Walker was quite upset to have come back from the bathroom to see someone stole his chair. My dad, Mr. Callahan, had shrugged when Mr. Walker asked for where it went and when he turned away, dad super obviously winked at me with two thumbs up. I smile a sad smile. I miss dad.

"Dinner's ready; if you want it." Danny leans on my door frame, his long arms crossed over his chest. I cross my eyes at him and puff out my cheeks. He chuckles, shaking his head fondly at my antics. "Monkey, I want to eat my mac 'n cheese, do you want me to bring you a bowl?" He asks. I grin, my eyes closing a fraction because of the size of my smile, and nod happily. He gives me a thumbs up before turning on his heel. "I'll bring it to you when I'm finished eating!" He yells from the hall. Or maybe the living room. Or the kitchen. I can't actually tell.

I keep spinning in my chair, pushing off of the table whenever I start slowing down. I come to a slow stop, picking at the splintering wood of my table. I need to do something about that. I check my watch. It has been two minutes. I sigh, looking back at my computer screen. I poke my tongue out at the blinking curser with my brows furrowed in a glare. I don't know what to write. Why didn't she give me something specific to write? Why do I have to actually come up with the whole thing? This is just ridiculous.

I start just typing words, random words I know. I roll my eyes and delete the seven words I wrote. Writing is so hard! How is Kyle from art always writing and not drawing? I want to know his secret. I lean over, inhaling sharply when my chair tips with my. I just roll over to my nightstand as apposed to leaning towards it and grab my phone. I scroll through my contacts and find him. 'Kyle from art' with a little pencil next to his name. I tap his name and press my thumb into the phone icon to call him. It rings a few times before he answers.

"Heller, this is Kyle, if your name is Eric Cartman, you have the wrong Kyle." We laughs together. This guy's actually hilarious.

"Hi! It's Callie. We have art together and I seriously need your help." I start. He hums. I roll back over to my computer. "Well, I have this thing I have to write for English and you're always writing when I see you, so I thought maybe you could tell me how to have things to write? Please help me," I beg. He laughs lightly and my brows furrow.

"Alright, here's what you do," He pauses and I lean forward as if to hear him better. "You write." I pout. What? I must have said it out loud because he starts cackling like a loon. I cross my arms, lean back in my chair, and pout at my lavender wall. "What I mean is, just let your fingers go over the keyboard and let your mind run. Or, you can think, make up scenarios in your head. Think of a character you would draw or paint, give them a story, give them family and friends, give them true life, and write it down. If it sucks, it sucks, you can polish it and make it shiny. Boom! That was actually sorta awesome, and I'm proud of myself for that speech." He mumbles to himself at the end. I chuckle.

"Hey, I know we don't talk a lot, but thanks, dude, you've saved my life," I tell him honestly.

"Awe, you're makin' me blush," We laugh together, "Well, email me a copy of what you come up with and I'll help you edit and revise." My brows furrow. What does that even mean? "Good luck, Cal." We exchange goodbye's and I look back at my computer screen for the millionth time. I shrug and close it a little to reach my sketchbook.

I flick through the pages, smiling at some of the images, cringing at others. I land on one, a male with closed eyes and a soft smile. He has a flower crown and large, feathered wings. He sits crisscross with his hands on his knees, thumbs and pointer fingers touching. His cheeks are blotchy and pink, evidence of him crying. The world around him seems to be falling apart, the sky dark and cloudy, the trees behind him dead or fallen, the ground beneath him cracked and crumbling. I drew him on one of the worst days of my life. He looks like my dad did when he was young. I drew him when I was told he had died. He was given wings and left the world crashing down around me.

Seeing him gives me so many good ideas. I grin and imagine a light bulb lighting up my room from above my head.

I set him down next to my computer and set my hands gently on the keyboard. I give him a family, two sisters and his mom, his dad having left them. I give him friends, a loud extroverted girl and a quiet, bookworm of an introverted boy. He's in my grade, has a crush on the girl that has all the same classes as him but still somehow never notices him. His dad just left, a friend he had now dislikes him and he wants to know why. I've given him a life.

"I have your food," Danny announces as he walks in and I don't acknowledge him until he sets down my cheesy pasta. He smiles at me and ruffles my hair. I nip at his hand and smile. "Good job, you're doing the work," He praises almost sarcastically as he leaves my room. Bully.

I email an unfinished copy to Kyle and we chat while he helps me, telling me what he likes and what he thinks need some work. I text him a picture of the boy and he likes it. He thinks he looks sad in a beautiful way and I am not going to lie, I blushed as he praised me. I thank him endlessly for his help with my short story.

"Thank you, Kyle from art," I gush once more before hanging up and going to bed, planning to finish my story the next day. Maybe finish it, maybe just work on it some more.