His eyes were the color of beer, but were barely visible behind the rim of his TAP OUT hat. A smirk was plastered on his face as his footsteps fell heavily onto the floor boards. They screamed anxiously with every stride he took. He leaned into my face and murmured, “Sorry it had to be like this, Colt.” Alcohol mingled in the air, even after he left. Ray Whissler sneezed as he sat at the table adjacent to me. Either he smelled himself, or some unknown force in the universe caused him to pop a few Ice Breakers into his mouth. He skewed his hat over his eyes a little more, and then leaned back in his seat. Ray was the leader of the underground beer drinkers of Lake Rise. As his roommate, I covered for him time after time, thinking it would be a bonus in the long run. Clearly, it was all for nothing.

I sat staring at the ceiling. There were 32 ceiling tiles and twelve lights. Sitting here, left to your own thoughts and anxieties, is like being a murderer. You stand up and plead your innocence, exclaiming you’re not guilty. That you’re a man of good character… Yet, you’re bombarded with evidence, whether it’s true or not. However, judgmental glances, worrying murmurs, and harsh fingers pointing out that your bluff has been called. The game is over. The deed is done.

Before the headmaster arrives to hear my appeals, I believe a few introductions are in order. My name is Colton Montgomery and I’m being charged with breaking and entering the old shake that was the Art room on Lake Rise Boarding School’s property. Lake Rise is a school for juniors and seniors who aim at getting an athletic or academic scholarship. I leave art out because the school dedicated all their funds to sports and books. They forgot about the art program entirely. Which is why I’m here, wasting a perfectly good Saturday evening inside the cement walls of the History room.

Mr. Scubbi darted into the room, closing the door with his oversized suede shoe. His American flag tie whipped around into his face, getting caught underneath his glasses a few times, until he managed to swat it out. “My apologies gentlemen!” he chuckled as he sat in the computer chair behind the teacher’s desk. “Shall we get started then?” he rubbed his hands together and looked at the three of us.

Ray sat up, flicking the rim of his hat, letting his blood-shot eyes be seen. “Whenever you’re ready, sir.”

“Ray, refreshing as always.” Mr. Scubbi nodded in his direction. This court session was rigged from the start. The headmaster spared me a glance. “Colton, you actually look awake today.”

I shrugged him off, letting my words slur together. “I suppose.”

“I’ll just review the rules so we won’t get into dinner time. Sound good?” We nodded. “Alright, so, welcome to court. Lake Rise uses court to avoid unwanted publicity and to give your parents a peace of mind. Colton Montgomery, you were caught in the act of carrying a monstrosity out of the old art shed by Ray Whissler as he was coming back up to your dorm after calling home. Now, I would like to hear the prosecution’s case first. Ray, you’re up.” Mr. Scubbi picked up one of the highlighters from the pencil holder and started twirling it in his hand.

Ray stood up. “Thank you, sir. See, Colt was acting weird since the start of the school year…”

Repulsed by the act Ray was putting on, I tuned him out. How can he go from a bum who drinks and plays cards all day with his group of delinquents to someone with seemingly good intentions and morals? Even though I questioned it, I knew the answer: practice. Besides, why should I listen to an inaccurate representation of what really happened?

I let a sigh escape my lips as Ray pushed on. It started back in September. The leaves were still falling but barely any of them littered the grass. It was surprisingly warm weather, but I still wore my favorite band hoodie, Good Charlotte. It was me, Gilbert, and Ivan; just a few best friends wandering around the outskirts of campus. Maybe that was our first mistake?










* * *
“Hey guys! Ivan! Colt! Hurry up—you have to see this!” Gil was at least a half a mile ahead of Ivan and I, running through the wooded area like a little kid. Gil was like a little kid. He entered every new activity with childish gusto and heart. At times, it could be refreshing, but other times it was plain annoying. Like right now.

“Don’t rush us! Goodness! ” Ivan shouted back with an aggravated tone to his voice. “Can’t he ease up for once?” he sighed.
“No.” I deadpanned. “I’m not sure he knows how to, honestly.” This comment earned a quiet chuckle from Ivan. Ivan Barlovich is the spitting image of a Russian-American teenager. His pale skin seemed to glow in the spotted light of the woods, while his too large nose on his too round face seemed to block his vision, since he tripped a lot. He often squinted his dark, almost black, brown eyes—refusing to get glasses.
He narrowed his eyes, trying to focus in on Gilbert’s bouncing form, then smirked. “I suppose he doesn’t.”
Gil leaned up against a large oak tree with his arms folded across his chest as we arrived at the end of the trail. His amber eyes fixed on a disheveled building that stood a distance back from the forest path. The building was covered in various murals, graffiti, quotes, and hand prints with names next to them. Basically, it looked like something out of an old 90s show.
Stuck in a daze, Gil shook his head, messing up his white-blonde hair more than it normally was. “Oh… hey! You guys are finally here!” he nodded toward the building. “I think that’s what Ms. Opal was talking about.” Ms. Opal was the receptionist for the school’s office. She had greasy black hair, but at the roots it was a mousy brown color. She also had holes all around her ears, nose, and lip where piercings used to be. Behind her thick-rimmed glasses you could see dark circles and faded eyeliner that was reapplied time after time. Honestly, Ms. Opal was a tad bit hard on the eyes, but she seemed pretty cool. Earlier that day we had asked her about the art club, she said it lacked the funds needed to continue, so it was closed. She sounded awfully bitter about the subject, or maybe she always spat when she talked.

“Though…,” Ms. Opal leaned in close. “The building is past the hiking trail.” Her spit landed in my eye; how it got past my glasses is beyond me. “If you’re interested, I mean. You heard nothing from me.” She leaned back and continued rhythmic typing on her laptop.
“More than likely.” Ivan’s voice broke me out of my day dream. “Let’s go, eh?” Ivan led the way to the rainbow-colored building. He jiggled the handle, and when it wouldn’t open, slammed his shoulder against it. This caused the hinges to reluctantly release their grip on the door frame.
“Whoa.” Gil was wide-eyed he had never seen Ivan hurt a fly, let alone a door.

The inside was just as colorful as the outside, though it had been stripped clean of tables and art equipment. A few beer bottles littered the floor, showing that someone has been here before us, locking the door to cover up their tracks. Spray paint cans were left on the window sills, underneath windows with a large “X” on them, or they were just blacked out with what looked like unicorn vomit. The paint was thin, letting rays of sunlight dance through the windows, speckling the ground. Paint dotted the concrete ground along with broken glass from the beer bottles, ashes of cigarettes, and spray paint cans.
“Hey—guys…” Gil shook can. “I have an idea.”
“Not another one,” Ivan murmured. “I don’t think the world is ready for one of Gil’s ‘amazing’ ideas.” He looked at me.
“I don’t think I’m ready, honestly.” I shrugged. “But, let’s hear it.”
“I think we should make a statement. Maybe even an artistic rebellion.” Gil continued to shake the can.
“I have no idea what you’re even trying to describe.” Ivan huffed. “Explain.”
“We have the place, the utensils; all we need is a piece of ply wood or something. We could leave a mark on this school. Maybe even get the art club back!” There was a certain sparkle in Gil’s eyes as he talked, as if he was picturing it. We’d be the heroes of the school, bringing the art classes back to the students with a single piece of art work that would strike the hearts of many.
“Not a chance.” Ivan leaned against a wall that was covered in ocean life, his arm folded. “I’m not going to get kicked out of a school, or get a bad rep this early in the school year, just because you want to play hero.”
Gil pouted, he looking as if he just got kicked. “How about you Colt… you in?”
I shrugged. “Why not?”
Ivan seemed surprised, since I normally sided with him when Gilbert had a reckless idea. But, I needed change; every bone in my body ached for something different. “Really Colton?” I nodded as he released a frustrated sigh. “Maybe I’ll join too… to make sure you don’t drag Colt into too much trouble.”
“Awesome!” Gil bellowed as if he just found out that Hershey’s was making a new candy. “Guys, this is going to be amazing! I can feel it!”














* * *
Ray was still going on as I shook myself out of my own thoughts. He was now explaining to Mr. Scubbi how I was acting weird from day one. He got into my bathroom habits, sleeping habits—the whole thing. None of it was out of the ordinary either. But, naturally, he blew everything out of proportion. Blowing things out of proportion was how our great idea to revive art in the school fell to pieces.
Our downfall took place in early December. Flurries fluttered down from the sky and landed on my Good Charlotte hoodie. It wasn’t cold enough for a trench coat like the one Ivan had brought with him. It was comfortably chilly, I guess. Yet, the grey clouds over head seemed to be an omen of what was to come.










* * *
I busted the door of the art building down like I always do. It’s been procedure to lock it when you come in and come out. I closed the door behind me, trying to keep the cold air out even though it wasn’t much warmer inside than it was out. Gil and Ivan sat on the ground, leaning over a piece of ply-wood that we had stuck in Ivan’s car. It was a pain to sneak that out in the middle of the night, through a forest trail with no markers, to a building. But, we did it.
“Hey Colton,” Ivan said without looking up as Gil grunted in greeting.
“Hey.” I walked over to see how the image was coming along. So far, a pastel pink dress with frills along black and white child’s legs with Band-Aids on the knees could be seen. The outline of a young girl’s head with long, wavy hair and an undercut was in the making by Ivan; though you couldn’t tell if the undercut was there or not.
“Go home, Gil.” We had to switch off so no one would notice we were all gone at once.

Gil nodded. “Yeah, I know, I know. “ He got up and stretched. “The legs are done. Do her arms? Don’t forget the wrist bands.” Gil patted my back, then Ivan’s; causing Ivan’s hand to falter and creating a dip in the hair.
“Gilbert!” Ivan shouted, more out of surprise at first, then anger. “Idiot!” As he shouted, I rushed to wipe it off before it dried. Spitting on a rag we kept to wipe our hands off, I dabbed it onto the board.

“Dude—I’m so sorry! I wasn’t thinking!”

“That’s the thing about you, Gilbert! You never think and I’m tired of it!” Ivan tried compressing his anger, but it rippled through his voice.

“What are you trying to say?!” Gil was taken aback,

“I’m saying get out! You’re annoying and clearly don’t know when to leave! And, I’m done. This is the last straw out of many-- So get out of here!”

“I won’t come back—“

“I don’t care!”

Gilbert looked hurt. His expression said it all. He was always an open book. He spared me a glance. Everything seemed frozen in time. What was I supposed to do? In slow motion, Gilbert left the art house for the last time. Ivan left after five minutes, giving Gil some distance so they wouldn’t cross paths. I didn’t know it at the time, but it was the last time.

For the next two weeks I worked on, and finished, what I called “The Young Liberator”. Her face was complete; her ears had multiple piercings lining her cartilage and her lips were black. Her hair had been fixed, and you couldn’t even tell there was a mistake. In her hands was an old fashioned shot gun, and a machine gun strapped onto her back. I propped the board up on the wall and dripped black spray paint down the top of it. It was beautiful.

The night I finished it, I carried it into the dorm rooms and propped it on the wall for everyone to see when they walked passed for classes. As soon as the deed was done and I was about to leave, Ray and Headmaster Scubbi got to me.
* * *

“Mr. Montgomery!” Mr. Scubbi called, clearly annoyed. From the tone in his voice and the look on his face, he’d been calling for a while. He shot a glare at Ray, who was snickering in his seat. “Thank you for rejoining us, son. Now, please give your defense.”

I stood up, but hesitated. I could say anything ranging, from giving up here and now to that Ray Whissler was really the head drunkard of the school. My parents always said that sooner or later I would have to take responsibility for what I did, instead of expecting them to bale me out. Here I am, miles away from home, with no parents to help me out of this one. My parents also said that change is inevitable, yet invisible.
I wanted change when I came to Lake Rise and here I am. Here it is. Change is right in front of me, within my grasp, yet, I’m almost too afraid to take it. While creating “The Young Liberator”, I removed the shell I had been in for years, and grew into myself. But faced with this choice I want to go rebuild my shell, and hide away once again. This is the fatal flaw of humanity. When given what we want, we get scared and shy away; we are constantly inconstant. Not only that, but we go back into old habits because they’re easier. Change and responsibility go hand in hand—so why hold either of them at bay?

Mr. Scubbi coughed. “Mr. Montgomery, we don’t have all day.”

“I have nothing to say.”

“Are you sure, Colton?”

“Yes sir.” I sat back down, with new, unfamiliar energy flowing through me. Change is inescapable so I’m not hiding anymore.