I mixed black and white until I got many shades of gray. So far in Painting, we never used a drop of color. Despite that, the paint always looked red or blue when it dried. Was I doing something wrong? We had to make an underpainting of a set of white cubes and cones on a paint-splattered cart in the middle of the room. They glowed from the tall studio lamp right above it, which kinda made the cones look like snow-covered mountains.

Mrs. Paton, our professor, sat beside me on a stool, watching me paint. She didn’t say anything for a minute or so, until she pointed to a part of my picture.

“When you look at the cube over there, does it look darker or lighter than the background?” she asked.

I squinted my eyes at the still life. “Darker.”

“Yep! So mix in some more black and darken the page. It should feel like I can actually touch it.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

When we were done, we all turned our easels into the center of the room so all ten of us could see each other’s paintings. No matter how much Paton told us that they didn’t have to look real—that they were just paintings—I felt like a failure. I mean, no one had a perfect replica of the still life, but they all had mass. The lighting was perfect. They had cameras for eyes and printers for hands.

In the lobby of Navarro, the art building, a pottery sale was set up. On different plastic tables were a display of student ceramics—vases, mugs, bowls. One of them caught my eye: a teal and black marbled mug, with a sandy gradient on the rim. It was gorgeous! Sadly, I didn’t bring my wallet with me, and felt horrible for not buying anything. I knew the organizers saw me leave empty-handed and collectively sighed. I would buy something next time, I just would.

In History, we did the usual. I took out my notebook and waited for the other students to arrive.

When Mr. Reno walked in, he didn’t pull down the projector screen or even open his laptop.

“We’re going to the library today,” he said. “If you went there before, or saw online, you probably know about the little exhibit with the different artifacts. Most of them are from around the time we’re discussing in class already. We're gonna be there all class, so bring your belongings with you.”

Everyone stood up, zipping up their bags.

“But before that…”

Everyone murmured and hastily sat back down.

“I want to talk about the upcoming field trip. Guess I need the SmartBoard now.”

Mr. Reno pulled the projector screen down, yada yada, and pulled up the online information about the field trip.

“Trying to bring up the poster…” he muttered, staring into the digital abyss of his whirring laptop. “Anyway, we're having a trip soon. It's on November 4th on a Friday, so it's far away as of now. We'll be going to a museum in—Ah! We're we go…”

… a pit grew in my stomach. I gulped to keep the throw up down.

But I didn't know why.

The poster showed a majestic, snowy mountain amidst a stormy night. I felt the blizzard pricking my face. At the top read “Belmont Museum of American History” in golden text.

“Where’s the trip?” The guy in front of me asked. “Alaska?”

“Actually, it's in Annapolis,” Mr. Reno clarified. “I don't know why the poster is different… It's definitely not in the mountains.”

“Cool picture, though.”

“Yeah. There's more info on Canvas. I'll have to find the original picture and post it again. Don’t know what happened.”

I wanted to squirm from the mountain gripping me by the skin. My eyes dried from staring at it for so long.

Mr. Reno turned off the projector. “Now we can go.”

The class strolled out of the room as I cupped my mouth to smother the sickness. My throat cleared. Everything did. Phew… that was a lot better. Physically, at least.

The guy in front of me quickly chugged the rest of his Red Bull and almost tripped out of his chair. So did I. Well, minus the Red Bull.

••••

The outside reminded me of the still life painting; just grays and darker grays. We hiked behind the professor across the campus. This was the only time I really heard everyone talking to each other.

The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

My weird nausea cleared up even more from the fresh air. It felt like nothing ever happened. In fact, I felt better than before.

The library building looked like a mini Greek colosseum, but made of smooth brick with giant glass windows. People filled the courtyard out front, eating and reading at the picnic tables. A large fountain sat in the dead center, majestically overlooking anyone who passed by. I stared at the water as we walked, but I didn't want to look too interested.

Now the inside of the library… Imagine a Heaven made of stained glass and oak wood, with a chandelier as the sun. That's the best way to describe it. Maybe coming back to Bluewater for a second year was worth it.

There were floors and floors of people reading in comfy sofas and looking through tall, stuffed bookshelves. Dozens of computers riddled the area. It was bustled with laughter and conversation. If only the entire school was that way. Or maybe I just needed to grow up.

The flights of stairs crossed the entire library like Xs, weaving up to the dome ceiling.

The professor led us up the insanely wide, terrifying stairs to the fourth floor. My legs were aching by the time we got up. I couldn't help but cower at the sight of the first floor below. What if I fell?

The entire floor was sectioned into the different little museums, with only a blue light illuminating the items and plaques.

Most of them were about Native American tribes, Black history, and uncovered cultural artifacts and clothes from before the 20th century.

Everyone spread out to different exhibits, including me.

One of the sections was unmarked. Just miscellaneous stuff. I went to see what it was about.

There were four glass cases around the small room. I whisked through all of them.

In one case were a teddy bear from 1876, a weird black chain rope, a typewriter, and a wall phone. After that visit, I looked over another with giant silver feathers, old abolitionist newspaper clippings, an ax, and anything you could find by flipping through an encyclopedia. I took out my phone to take some washed out pictures. On the wall beside the cage was a small TV screen playing a slideshow of the different items, with explanations next to them. The presentation must’ve been over twenty years old, with its gaudy colors and strangely whimsical text.

Silver Feathers:

The feathers of an unknown bird, discovered in 1900.

John’s Ax:

An ax allegedly owned by a farmer simply known as John of Ipswich.

Abolitionist Newspapers:

Did you know that the Civil War lasted from April 12th, 1861 to April 9th, 1865?

I think I knew why this section was unmarked.

As I turned around, I noticed someone else looking through the exhibit. I thought I was alone. I probably looked like a greedy crab taking those photos.

It was the Red Bull guy. He didn’t have a bookbag with him. His hazel curls fell to his shoulders, and his black Bluewater University T-shirt draped his athletic frame. He tucked his hands in his jean pockets.

He stared solemnly at the glass casing around a device—the typewriter I just passed.

It was bronze with exposed silver gears, preserved in its original, shiny form. A rotary phone wheel sat on the side. The other side held a mesh basket full of keys to other fonts. It even had a small monitor on top. Not a digital screen, but a matte, e-paper screen, like a Kindle tablet or an ATM. Which wouldn’t be possible. No way. Computers didn’t exist in 1910, at least not the one I’m using to type with.

Sapphire-colored glass topped each key, making them look like they were floating in water.

“It uses electronic ink, one of the earliest examples of the technology,” he muttered, reading from his phone. Wouldn’t blame him, since the accompanying slideshow was nothing more than a caption:

Typewriter:

Unique 1910’s typewriter; obsolete.

I guess he found a picture of it online with some more solid information.

I walked off to another part of the room to observe a butter churner from 1917. “To observe’ is the key phrase, because even though I meant to, I couldn’t. What was that weird typewriter doing in our university library on the fourth floor and not a prestigious university in New York or Washington D.C. in a big display case?

“It’s almost one o’clock, everybody!” Mr. Reno announced. “You can leave if you want, but I wanna check attendance.”

We all walked down a flight of stairs to regroup away from the exhibit.

As I met back with the class, Mr. Reno clapped his hands and said, “All right! Is everyone here? This class flew right by.”

Everyone nodded their heads. I wanted to say that that guy wasn’t down yet but—

“Is anyone still upstairs?” he asked.

“Yeah, one guy is still up there,” I muttered as loud as I could.

“Wyatt?” he confirmed.

“His name is Wyatt?” another guy asked. “I thought his name was Matt? Or maybe not. I dunno. Why does everyone here look the damn same?”

In the midst of uncomfortable silence, soft footsteps came down the stairs.

“Hey! He’s back! My best friend!” The same guy laughed, pointing to the staircase. Everyone pretended to applaud his arrival. I couldn’t stop laughing.

Wyatt’s face dulled, along with his posture. His “friend” leaned on his shoulder. “Whatcha doing up there, man?”

Wyatt chuckled to himself, hiding his face with his hair. He put a fist in his hand. “Just interesting. Cool history stuff.”

“I’m more of a recent history person. Like the time you owed me twenty bucks just now.”

“No cash right now.”

“I saw your wallet this morning.”

“You know what. My bad.”

Wyatt pulled a few dollar bills from his pocket and started counting. They didn’t even know each other.