Maybrook Prep

Tara: I never skipped. My parents would kill me if they ever found out. I looked down at his notebook. "What're you drawing?" I'd try to be nice.

Quinn: My baby. "My sister's having a baby soon... I'm drawing a portrait of her as a congrats." I said, holding the notebook up to reveal a drawing of a little bundle, a baby face coming out of it. The shading was perfect.

Tara: My brow furrowed. "You're drawing a portrait of the baby...before the baby's born?" I was all for art, but I was also logical. How could he know what the baby would look like before he saw its face?

Quinn: I stared at her. "Babies don't look very different when they're born, do they? I just gave her similar features as the mom and dad." My nose, Skylar's eyes, Skylar's ears, my mouth... "Anyway if she does look different, I can always change it."

Tara: "I guess so, if you can...bear that." I hated changing my work, especially my artwork, after I had decided it was completed. I was a perfectionist that way, and didn't like criticism or being forced to change. ((hypocrite, kinda, haha))

haha

Quinn: "I can't. I can't stand changing any sketches I do. That's why most of my pencils don't have erasers." I held up the one that I was using. "But my sister's a perfectionist, so it's best to make her happy and now feel her wrath," I laughed. That's skylar for you...

Tara: I smiled slightly. "I just use pen. That way no one can erase it, even if they have an eraser. And I know how you feel..." I thought of my stepmother, who nitpicked at everything I did, and a child ran through me. Bleh, she was terrible. Luckily, I didn't have to see her or my father any longer. Just my mom, who never yelled or hit.

Quinn: "Pens don't give you different shades, though. One, solid color doesn't really create much of an effect, right?"

Tara:"No, I've noticed that, too. But you get use to it. And pencils don't have that same kind of a flow as pens, you know? I always use pens, but especially if I'm writing a story or drawing. Then I can keep up with my thoughts." I realized I had admitted to writing stories. Was there a geekier hobby on Earth?


((Teehee, were all writers here. Ouch.))

((well then Tara.... Maybe you can just LEAVE! Heehee))

Quinn: I stard at her, eyebrows raised. "You write? I do too... What's your genre? I'm mostly Fantasy, sometimes paranormal... I'm a dreamer, see." I felt so gay saying all that. But it was what I was. I dream a lot of fantasy worlds, paranormal activity and stuff like that. Plus it's so easy to create a world you wish existed...

((Yeah Tara, GO HOME!!))

Tara: "Uh, yeah I do. But I can't tell if you're being sarcastic or not. I mean, you did just call yourself a dreamer." I hated when I couldn't detect sarcasm. i felt like a dork for asking for clarification, but if I acted as though Quinn were serious he'd probably go into a hysterical fit of laughter at my stupidity. It had happened before - many times.

Quinn: I shook my head, eyes wide. "No I'm dead serious. If I didn't write I'd probably be a mess right." I'd probably be emo for real....

Tara: "Oh," I said somewhat surprised. "Well, in that case - I write mostly general fiction and romance. I use to be into fantasy, but I think it's kind of stupid now..." Wow, that would come off as rude, big time. But I had realized how fantasy was so unrealistic a few years ago, and had eventually switched to writing general fiction. But there was always a message in my stories, none of this useless fluff that had surprisingly been published.

Quinn: "I write fantasy to escape from this twisted and unfair world," I rolled my eyes. I could tell she didn't want to sound mean, so I didn't act offended. And that was all true. When reality crashed down on me and I realized my whole life wasover because I would be taking care of a baby, I just wrote about different people either dealing with it, or where it's all just a dream.

Tara: I nodded slowly, that was a bit dramatic. Then again, I was very dramatic, so who was I to talk? "That's...cool." Cool was the ultimate adjective these days, it could mean anything. I began to walk away, remembering I needed to scrub the paint out of my jeans. "See ya." I called over my shoulder.

Quinn: As she walked away, I didn't say anything, but merely looked down at my sketch and continued perfecting the small shadow that was casted by the baby's nose. "Five more months..." I muttered quietly.

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