I laid awake that night, thinking about my burnt sketch. I thought my move for vengeance conceived through bringing to reality what the girl would hate to see of her picture would efface my anger, but it didn't. It's a disgrace, and I've never been that disgraced in my life. Matter of fact, it was more than just a disgrace; it was a grave insult. I shook my head, sprang to my feet and started to pace up and down within the space between my door and my easel. I had no idea how many rounds I made all together, but I ended up standing before the easel looking at the sketch on the canvas, thinking.
The sketch I made on the canvas was of the strange girl feeding swans from a small boat. Her face was down and grim. I intended painting her in sober colours without actually bringing out her facial contours thereby making her look sober, exactly how she looked when she stopped smiling. I had the picture in my brain, and sadly, I just though the picture is still going to look pretty with the canoe, the swans and the water. I wouldn't want it that way. This means I have to make some changes. I have to think again; I have to re-sketch. That was distressing.
I sat heavily down on my chair and sighed. Bloody hell! I felt more like she's winning; and I'm losing. How can I allow that to happen?
Then there was a knock on my door, and it swung gently opened before I give the permission.
"I heard some little noises so I figured you'd be awake." Mother said as she walked to me, a slight smile on her face; wearing the usual sky blue PJs and sleeping shades fastened on her forehead. "So what's the problem, Bradley?"
"There's no problem." I said.
"Liar. Don't expect me to believe you after you barged into the house like a mad man. Not to mention the 'reaction' we overheard shortly when you got into your room." Her face was now two inches away from mine. She looked at the sketch I made, then back at me. "Is it a girl?"
"I said it's nothing." My pupils went to the right. I turned my face off hers.
"Oh my God; it’s a girl." She giggled. "Tell me about it."
"I'd rather not."
"Then it'll take you a while to figure it out and get yourself out of the mess. I must admit, it won't be pleasant for you if you choose to do this alone without taking some words of advice from a fellow woman which I'm offering to you now, if you'd let me."
"Mother, I'm fine. I can handle this. It's nothing."
She was quiet for a moment. I didn't look at her face but I could feel her disappointment as well as my inept unfairness to let her help me.
"Alright then." She sighed and stood up. "Sometimes I forget you are not a kid anymore. So I guess I'll leave you to it." She turned away from me to my sketch on the easel, took a moment looking at it, sighed and turned sharply back to me. "Bradley, you are bound to remain angry forever if you'll always get upset by women or what they do to you. We are kind of complex. And you will never understand us if you are not the patient type.” Here we go again, I thought.
“Your... father was a patient man." There was a three-second pause, another sigh followed. "You can attest to that by the little memory you have of him. Not only was he a patient man, but a gentleman all together. I know you understood the qualities of an English gentleman; right now, I urge you to one of them: manners. You must adopt a flawless manner, that won't let anger make you do awful things. I’m telling you this because I know."
She turned to my sketch and looked at it. "This looks good; I can't wait to see how it'd look like when it's done." She went to the door, opened it and stood there. "You can free yourself of that anger this minute, you know. You are too good to stay angry for a long time."
I was once again steeped in my dilemma and solitude the moment mother shut the door. That wasn't actually the longest conversation we had about girls, but the deepest. And by the way she paused and sighed severally in the middle of it, I understood the difficulty she had trying to make her points clear to me. I need no second thoughts to know she's afraid of the crazy lifestyles of teenagers especially when it comes to drugs, sex, violence and recklessness. It seemed she had all that in mind for long and was waiting for the right moment to spit it all out on me. Well, she had her moment; it was a little impacting, undeniably.
I starred at my closed door having a mental picture of mother after all; laying on her bed, faced up, thinking about me and drugs, and girls, and sex, and violence; and finally papa. Then my physical sight settled on the British flag pinned on my door from the inside. British gentleman; well, with all those qualities a perfect one possesses, he's still human and could get angry whenever necessary.