Alice loved the rain.
But the sight of a 22 year old woman dancing and giggling in the spring showers was often met with strange looks and whispers, so she rarely danced anymore. Her autism diagnosis, which she had only recently received, was one of the many things she tried to hide from the people around her, albeit not very well. She would mask and hide around her peers and even some members of her family, because she often felt like being herself was in some way being a burden to them. Growing up she was always the “weird girl.” She hated the way they would stare, or even ignore her existence all together, making her feel small and invisible. Sometimes she wished she really was invisible. Since starting college, she preferred to be alone with her thoughts and her feelings which she expressed in her artwork.
But that night, Alice finally went back out in the rain to dance again. She knew there wouldn’t be anyone to stare at her because all the other students would be inside working on their final projects. She knew she should join them, but she needed the fresh air and the sense of joy the rain always brought her. The frustration she had felt back in her room as she stared at the blank canvas made her itch all over. She’d scratched at her skin, pulled at her hair, flapped her hands up and down to shake off the anxiety, but nothing worked. As she paced back and forth by her window, tapping the glass with her knuckles as she passed, she felt relieved when suddenly, she heard the window knock back at her. Softly at first, then gradually louder and louder: the pitter patter of raindrops. Her heart leapt in her chest and she ran down the stairs and right out the front door of the dorm hall.
When she stepped outside with a short squeal of excitement, the cold drops immediately freckled her face and ran down her cheeks, framing her wide smile. It was quiet and dark outside, the way she liked it. There was no light aside from the glowing lamps that lined the paths through the quad, which connected the fine arts buildings to the dorms. Alice knew exactly how many steps each path would take and decided to take the long way, which would be exactly 1,723 steps around the perimeter of the small quad, and back to where she stood.
Alice swayed and skipped and spun through puddles that pooled in between the concrete slabs of the walkway. She pulled her headphones down and hung them around her neck so she could relish each splish and splash as her pink converse were soaked through in squishy rhythmic steps. Sometimes when she danced in the rain her head would be full of music; often they were repetitive tunes with lyrics about the weather. Other times she would pull on her headphones and silence the world completely. But this time, she did neither. The only sounds in her head were the drips and drops and sloshy steps of her shoes.
That was, until she rounded the corner by the music building. It was nearly midnight, and almost all the windows on campus were dark except for a few in the dorms behind her, and one single classroom in the music hall that shined on her as she skipped past. A soft piano melody floated out towards Alice from the one illuminated room. She felt uncomfortable breaking out of her planned walking route, as she might lose count of her steps, but the music was so beautiful and sad sounding that she found herself opening up the door to the music hall, leaving the sound of the rain behind for the sound of the piano’s song.
She wandered down a few carpeted halls, using the music as her guide until she came to a wing with an open door that flooded fluorescent light into the darkness. It was only a few steps away, but as she stepped down from the carpet to the polished tile of this hallway, her ears were stabbed by the sharp squeak of the rubber soles of her shoes. She clenched her jaw, her nervous system going haywire by the sudden assault. She shoved her headphones over her ears, shut her eyes tight, and focused on her breathing. Breathe in, breathe out.
The squeaking had stopped, but so had the music. She finally forced her eyes open and saw a man peeking out from the open door. He was classically handsome with a wild messy mop of blonde curls, and sharp black-framed glasses. For some reason, he was in his pajamas. The man stepped into the hallway, holding his hands up apologetically. His voice was muffled and Alice couldn’t understand a word he said. She slipped her headphones back off and looked at him, waiting for him to continue.
“Oh, you couldn’t hear me,” he grinned sheepishly, running his hand through his hair. “I’m sorry. I hope I didn’t wake you. I was trying to practice for our final tomorrow. The music department has us performing a new piece we have to compose ourselves or with a friend. I’m just so frustrated by it. It feels so soulless. I can’t spark that passion, you know?”
Alice nodded. She knew the feeling.
“Are you in the music department, too?” he asked, “I’ve never seen you around.”
“No. Fine arts.”
“Wow! Cool. So, you’re like Van Gogh?”
“No. I’m Alice. A-L-I-C-E.”
“Sorry,” he chuckled. “I was just joking. Anyway, I’m Eric.”
He reached out a hand, and at first she didn’t take it. Alice didn’t like to be touched, especially by strangers. But after a beat and another deep breath, she reached out and shook his hand. He absentmindedly wiped his hand on his plaid pajama pants, looking her up and down.
“You’re all wet.”
“I was walking in the rain. I was frustrated, too,” she said looking down at her soaked shoes.
“Ah. Well, a walk sounds perfect. I need to get away from this dreadful song. Mind if I tag along?”
“Okay,” she shrugged, turning on her heel and going back down the carpeted hall from where she’d come.
Eric caught up to her, holding the door, and they both stepped outside. Alice put her hands in her hoodie pocket and started counting where she’d left off before. Eric crossed his arms, shrugging off the cold. Alice had never been good at reading facial expressions, but the way he kept glancing at her made her feel warm all over despite the rain.
“What kind of music were you listening to?” he asked, pointing to her headphones.
“It’s not for music, it’s for quiet.”
“Oh, okay. I get that. Maybe I could try using those sometime. Have you ever been in the music wing when all the different classes are practicing at the same time? It’s a chaotic cacophony.” He flashed her a smile.
She smiled back, and shrugged, “Yeah, I can imagine. Well, this is me,” she said, stopping in front of the door to her dorm. “You look cold.”
“I am.”
“You should go to your dorm, too. Get some sleep before finals. Sleep is good for thinking.”
“I don’t think I could sleep just yet. I still have a lot of work to do.”
“Me, too.”
She didn’t know the social protocol for this situation, so she simply turned around and opened the door to go inside. But then she stopped, turning back to Eric.
“If you aren’t going to sleep yet, could you help me with something? For my painting, I mean.”
Eric’s eyes lit up. “Yeah, sure. What’s up?”
Alice turned again and led him up to her room. Her dorm had found a way to be both messy and organized at the same time. Decorations and trinkets including a quirky rubber duck collection were lined up perfectly on bookshelves in one corner of the room. There were canvases against the far wall, some painted in black and white abstract shapes, others blank, leaning in neat rows from largest to smallest. But there was also an overflowing trash can with food wrappers, empty cups, and crumpled sketch papers in the corner, and the sink in the kitchenette was full of dirty dishes, cups of murky paint water, and paint brushes.
In the middle of the living room was a large blank canvas propped up on an old metal easel. In front of the easel on the floor was a row of paint bottles in different shades of blues and greens. Alice groaned, plopping down on the floor in front of the canvas. Eric joined her, taking in the row of paints.
“So, what’s the project?”
“It’s called ‘Blues.’ We have to paint something emotional that makes us feel strongly about it.,” she sighed heavily, “But it has to be in blue. And…”she trailed off, staring at the paints in front of her, scratching at one of the flaking labels with her fingernail, “And the labels came off some of them, so I can’t tell what color they are.”
Eric scrunched his eyebrows together looking at the paint in her hand. He didn’t know much about painting or color theory, but he wasn’t sure why the name of the paint shade would really matter. “So, how exactly do you want me to help you? I mean, I’m not an artist.”
Alice held up one of the bottles, her eyes still glued to the blank canvas. “Is this blue?”
And Eric understood. It wasn’t blue. It was a bright grass green. He shook his head, “No. That’s green. Here, let me sort them for you.”
Alice’s shoulders relaxed, but she still wouldn’t look at him. After a moment, he had separated them into shades of blue and green, respectively.
“So, you’re…colorblind? Is that right?” he asked hesitantly.
She stared straight ahead. Her voice was robotic. “Tritanopia. Blue-yellow colorblindness. Found only in 1 per 10,000 people. It comes from the root ‘tri’ meaning ‘three.’ Not Triton the sea god. But everyone gets that confused because the ocean is blue.”
His smile returned, “You’re a very interesting person, Alice.”
She sighed again, her gaze shifting to the window and she watched the raindrops slowly streak down the glass, thinking back to the melody she had heard. “Your song was beautiful.”
“My song? Oh, you mean back at the music hall? Nah. That was just noise.”
“What’s it called?”
“No idea. It was just a bunch of notes that I put on a paper to hopefully not fail the final project. It doesn’t sound like me, though. It doesn’t have my sound in it if you know what I mean.”
“What kind of music sounds like you?” she asked, now looking at his face.
“I don’t think I have music anymore,” he said, playing with one of the bottles of paint, turning it over and over in his hands. “Not since my mom died last year. She was a pianist, too. Playing music was our thing, and now that she’s gone, I don’t know. I mean, I can still play other people’s music. But my music feels like it’s just…gone.”
“That’s silly,” Alice said, returning her gaze to the canvas.
He was taken aback. “Silly?”
He felt a twinge of pain in his chest. Her thinking was black and white. So absolute.
She picked up a paint brush, then continued, “Your music comes from you. Not her. You are still alive. So, you can still make music.”
She wasn’t wrong. But Eric had always had a muse. His songs were born from the intense feelings that stirred inside his heart from the world around him. Feelings of love, hate, grief all made it into his songs. But recently he had become numb.
He changed the subject, deflecting away from his irritation. “So, if your teacher knows you’re colorblind, why would they give you this assignment? Seems a little cruel, doesn’t it?”
Her gaze dropped to the paintbrush in her hand, and she started rubbing the course bristles in circles across her palm. “She doesn’t know. I don’t want her to know.”
“You didn’t tell her?”
“No.” Alice squeezed some dark blue paint into the plastic paint palette and swirled her brush in it, soaking up the color.
“An artist who doesn’t want to share the way she sees the world? Well, you know what?”
“What?”
His voice softened sympathetically,“That’s kind of silly, too.”
She paused, glancing over her shoulder at him. For a moment, she thought she might cry. She could feel a well of emotions bubbling up below her skin. But as she looked at his handsome smirk and messy hair, instead of crying, she laughed. There was a moment that passed between them that felt like electric light. Alice let out a short squeal of joy and flapped her hands a few times to shake off the tension, then she returned to her paints, putting more shades of blue onto the palette.
He watched her with fascination as she drew lines of azure paint down the canvas in long sweeping strokes, her body rocking back and forth as she painted, like it was dance. He couldn’t look away. Time passed in silence, with the only sounds being the scratch of the coarse hair paintbrush flowing across the face of the canvas.
Then, suddenly, she stopped. She kept perfectly still with her head cocked to one side, staring intently at the painting. Eric mimicked her, not sure what it was he was supposed to be looking at. It was beautiful with streaks of color layered next to one another. Globs of color clustered at the end of each line like the paint was dripping down the canvas. But there was something off about Alice now. She wasn’t dancing, and instead, seemed to be staring off into some distant place.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Rain.” She stated it so simply, but the piece itself was breathtaking.
He could see it. But more than that, he could feel it. The layered lines dripping of color followed the raindrops across the painting like a melody. He stared in amazement as the drops of paint formed a string of notes in his mind; the canvas became a sheet of music.
“Alice…Oh, my God!” he shouted, louder than he intended to.
She fell to the floor putting her hands over her face. “I know…it looks like shit! It’s just a bunch of streaks, and all the colors are blending together. I can barely even see the stupid thing. I’m going to fail my final!”
Eric knelt beside her, and she peeked at the painting from behind her hands. Her eyes were burning with tears and rage. She suddenly sat up straight, pushing the easel over with an aggressive shove. It toppled to the ground and Eric lunged so fast to pick it up that he put his knee into the paint palette.
He stood up, desperately scanning the image for any signs of smears, but it was perfectly intact. Relieved, he turned his attention to Alice. She was not so lucky, and was coming apart at the seams. She was rocking back and forth, sobbing quietly behind her hands.
“Alice…really, it’s great.” He reached down to touch her shoulder, but just as his fingers met her arm she recoiled away from him.
“Just go away,” she hissed, anger resonating in her words.
He looked down at the painting he was holding in his other hand, then his gaze traveled to the trash can filled with crumpled drawings. He couldn’t let her destroy it. He needed to find a way to show her how beautiful it was; how beautiful she was. But he didn’t know how.
“Please,” she whispered, “Please just go.”
“Can I… I mean, since you don’t want it. Could I have this painting?”
She nodded behind her hands. “Just go.”
“Okay.”
He took a few steps towards the door, spotting a roll of empty trash bags on a table beside a bunch of art supplies. He took one, hoping he could somehow use it to protect the painting from the rain. Then, without another word, he quietly slipped out the door.
Alice laid on the floor for a while longer, staring at the ceiling and counting the tiles. 1…2…3… The room felt darker, colder, emptier now. Like a blank canvas with no one to paint it. Eventually she had calmed herself enough to drift off to sleep. She didn’t dream.
Alice was up with the sun, aching all over from sleeping on the floor. The rain clouds were gone, and the room was bright with sunshine. To Alice, it was almost too bright. She fell into her morning routine: plain oatmeal, vanilla latte, lukewarm shower, and getting dressed. However, her outfit for the say wasn’t her usual soft t-shirt and cozy sweatpants, and instead was a slightly scratchy pink blouse and jeans that felt too tight on her legs. She switched her pink shoes, which were still drying out, for a pair of black flats that pinched her toes. Her outfit matched the rubrics mandatory business casual dress code for the presentation. She knew she wouldn’t be presenting anything, but it’s what the rubric told her to wear that day, so that’s what she would wear. She put her headphones around her neck, just in case.
Her morning walk would usually be 2,031 steps to her art class. But instead, she would need to walk 3,355 to the gallery on the other side of the art hall. The change in routine and the scratchy clothes was hard enough for her, but the fact she was making the walk empty handed made her pause at the door. Her feet felt heavy and impossible to move like they had been glued in place. Her hand hovered over the door handle and she took a few deep breaths to release the knot in her stomach. She felt like she might throw up.
Another breath. Ding. Her phone alerted her to a new text message. It was from Professor Swann in the studio art class group chat.
Reminder: You must be here in person this morning to present your piece.
Below is a list of students whose work I have already received:
Maria V.
Antonio M.
Lexi H.
Alice W.
Robert Q.
Alice stared down in silent shock at her name on the screen. She hadn’t turned anything in. And even worse, she wouldn’t have anything to turn in when she got there either. She shoved her phone into her pocket and pulled her headphones on to block out the noise of the campus, then she was out the door. 1-2-3-4…She counted much faster than usual as she jogged to the gallery, but she never lost count. The sun was shining bright and the air was muggy from the moisture in the ground. She wished she brought her sunglasses. 3,353….3,354…3,355…
She stopped in front of the glass doors to the gallery, panting and trying to catch her breath. She started to reach for the handle, but froze again as anxiety tingled all over body and her chest tightened. She took another breath, then started humming the same old tune she’d used for years to calm her overstimulation: Elton John’s “Tiny Dancer.”
She grabbed the handle and pulled, stepping into the gallery. The gallery was a quiet space, so she stopped humming and started scratching her forearms instead. After a few steps into the lobby, she pushed her headphones down around her neck and prepared to face her professor. But when she removed her headphones, she didn’t hear the contemplative quiet that she was accustomed to at the gallery shows. Instead, she heard soft piano music.
There were a few other students in the front room, discussing the painting on the first wall which looked like some sort of landscape piece of a farmhouse and rolling hills. Alice followed the sound of the song like she had the night before, winding deeper and deeper into the labyrinth of gallery rooms. This music was different than last night, though. It sounded like a joyful noise mixed with something longing and distant, like a wish you make in a dandelion.
She rounded the corner into a bright room in the back of the gallery where dozens of students were gathered along with Professor Swann and a few other instructors. They were all looking at the same painting.: It was Alice’s painting from the night before. She pushed through the crowd of people, still drawn by the sound of the piano. The people parted to reveal Eric playing on a keyboard, facing her painting.
When she approached him, he didn’t stop playing. Instead, he flashed her a crooked smile and played more enthusiastically, moving and swaying with the melody; Playing passionately for her. She placed her hand on his shoulder, glancing down at the keys as he played and noticed there were little paint dots of different light and dark shades on each of the keys, but she couldn’t tell if they were different colors or just the same few colors repeated. For another minute his hands danced effortlessly across the keys, then the song faded from the air, the crowd roared with applause.
Alice instinctively pulled her headphones on to reduce the noise, but she wasn’t paying the crowd much attention. She kept looking between the piano and the canvas on the wall. As the crowd dispersed, she removed the headphones again and looked at Eric, still quizzical.
“What was that song?”
“Your song.” Eric walked her up to the painting and started counting the drops of paint from left to right. “1,2,3, and 4.” Then he guided her back to the keyboard and played, “1,2,3, and 4.”
“The painting…is the music?”
He nodded, watching her face for her reaction, but it was blank and unreadable.
Professor Swann joined them by the painting, along with Dr. McKree from the music department. Both of them were beaming.
Professor Swann started the praise, “Amazing work, Alice. The way you were able to blend visual and auditory mediums is genius. Honestly, it’s one of the best works I’ve ever seen in this gallery.”
“Good work, Eric,” McKree added, “What’s it called?”
Eric smiled at Alice with a subtle nod.
“Rain,” she answered in a whisper.
As she looked between her painting, and Eric’s warm countenance, she could feel a glowing light spreading from her chest. A tear slid down her cheek, and Eric stood, wiping it gently with his thumb. She flinched at first, but she didn’t pull away.
“Look,” he smiled, showing her his thumb, “Rain.”
Alice loved the rain.
And in that moment, Eric decided he loved the rain, too.
Cordova Creative Writing 