Spoiler! :
Red
Rowan glanced into the mirror in the dark, cramped hallway, just in passing, as she left the house. Her gold-brown shoulder-length hair was reasonably neat, for her; apart from the longer strands of a forgotten fringe which fell over her hazel coloured eyes and were simply hopeless to try and tame. She tucked them behind her hairband and gave her reflection another nervous glance now her sight was not so obscured.
Not that she was vain, but she thought she looked all right. She didn't look scared, at least. It was always best not to look scared.
“You're not really worried, are you, darling? Do you want me to come with you? I will if you want me to,” said her mother, Isabelle Murray, coming into the hallway with Rowan's lucky red satchel dangling on her arm. She managed to say it with conviction, though Rowan saw her glancing out at the beach, right on her doorstep, with some longing.
“Who are you kidding?” Rowan teased, allowing her mother to slip the bag across her back and turning around to grin at her. “You can't wait to put paintbrush to canvas. Besides, what have I got to be worried about? Why get fussed about another school?”
“Do I detect a note of sarcasm?” Isabelle asked, squatting down so she and Rowan were face-to-face, “Are you angry at me for doing this to you again?”
“There's the bus,” said Rowan abruptly. Isabelle looked a little sad, but not surprised as she stood up. She smiled and ruffled Rowan's hair. “We can talk later. Have fun- play nice with the other kids.”
“I will if they will,” Rowan replied, giving her reflection in the mirror a small smile as Isabelle hustled her out of the front door. A little yellow bus was waiting at the end of the road. She could see some other children scrambling on, shoving at each other and giggling. A lump rose in her throat.
“Coward,” she whispered, and after giving her mother a small smile, she ran towards the bus. The doors were just closing as she stopped.
“Wait!” she called, and they edged apart again. An old man wearing a small moss-coloured cap squinted out at the road ahead. His hands trembled so much on the wheel that Rowan couldn't help feeling he and the little stuttering bus were a good match.
“Er... hi.”
He gave a small nod, still staring straight ahead. Rowan sighed and began to walk down the aisle of the crowded little bus. Kids were chatting, some still eating, some scribbling down last-minute homework. There was nobody sitting alone.
Rowan flopped into her seat, feeling tears pricking in her eyes. It was all Mum's fault, she thought savagely. Her and her stupid painting.
Isabelle Murray was an artist. In Rowan's own words, she could draw and paint in a way that would suck you in, make you feel like you were living the story behind the masterpiece. And there was always a story.
Many people thought Isabelle Murray strange. Though clever, kind, and talented her habit for spontaneous action -and then thinking things through- was, to most people, who considered that, as a mother all spontaneous behaviour was out of the question, quite alarming. By way of explanation Rowan had always told herself that her mother was different from everyone else; exotic, interesting. Isabelle saw the world in pictures and bright colours- words only made sense to her if she could picture what everyone meant.
Because of this, she had always had huge aspirations in a career to be an artist and had only to think of something for a very short time to actually consider doing it; if the reasons stopping her from achieving it cost less than the growing-smaller pile of savings she had in the bank, she would pursue it to the ends of the earth. Often, Rowan thought impatiently, staring out of her window, dragging Rowan along and upsetting Rowan's whole life in her wake.
Rowan pulled out a book from her bag and began to flick through it, not seeing the words before her; it was just something to do so she wouldn't look like too much of an idiot sitting alone. Her thoughts began to stir up again.
It had been for those exact reasons, however, that Rowan had always admired her mother so much. She was headstrong and determined, and Rowan had always liked to think she took after her.
I'm certainly lacking her positive attitude, she thought, looking up from her book as someone came onto the bus. A pretty girl with brown hair pulled up into a high ponytail stood at the front of the bus. Her dark eyes roved around the bus, coming to rest upon Rowan, looking distinctly unimpressed. Rowan felt her cheeks redden, but stared right back. She may have set out to make a good impression, but she sensed some sort of hostility from this dark-haired girl, and naturally felt vulnerable. Rowan was always at her most rash and defensive when she was nervous.
In a few steps, the girl had turned and seated herself next to Rowan; thinking that perhaps she had misjudged her after all because of her nerves, she turned to smile at her, only to find the girl twisting around in her seat to laugh and giggle with her friends sitting behind her. Rowan's smile faltered.
“Hi,” she said hopefully, and the other girl finally faced her. Her dark eyes met Rowan's with a critical look, and Rowan realised her first, unfavourable impression of this girl had been accurate. With that one look, making her feel small and pathetic, she knew that this was not a girl she was going to like.
Rowan gritted her teeth and opened her book with a snap.
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