Westpoint Tales
by Kiwi
Jason and Jordan's tale - 17
Jordan's mother started more trouble. She didn't mean to, it just turned out that way. Jordan was running out the door after his usual breakfast in a hurry. ("I'm going to be late!") She stopped him and held out a sketchpad.
"Jordan, take this with you. This is Jason's sketches; he left it behind the other day. Tell him to be more careful with his sketches, they must be valuable, they're really good stuff."
"Yeah. Thanks Mum. They are good, really good. The kid's a brilliant artist, he's good at everything he does."
"Good at kissing is he?" Sean pushed past him with a cheeky grin.
"Yeah, he is actually. Better than you'll ever be, Snotnose."
"Eww. Shut up Gayboy."
He walked to school, books in the bag on his back, and carrying and studying Jason's sketches. By the time he got there, he'd made a decision and he went straight to the Art Room where he laid the pad on the desk in front of Mr. Jackson, the art teacher.
"What's this?" Mr. Jackson looked up.
"It's - ah, some sketches, Sir. Have a look. What do you think?"
The teacher opened the pad and studied the first drawing - the white rose.
"Fucking hell!" he exclaimed. He looked up again at Jordan. "Oops, sorry. But this is amazing - fantastic! Did you draw this?"
"No Sir. They're Jason's. Jason McDonald."
"Jason McDonald?" He looked back at the pad, slowly turning the pages and studying them. "Who is Jason McDonald? Should I know him? Ohmigod, that's great! This kid's an artist. He is a kid isn't he? Please tell me that he's a student here."
"I think that you should know him but you probably don't. I don't think he takes art and he's never shown these to anyone."
"Why doesn't he do Art? You can't learn talent but you've still got to learn techniques. Is this Jason McDonald a student here at Westpoint High? Please don't say no."
"Yes, Mr. Jackson," Jordan smiled. "He's a student here, in year eleven. Mrs. Lewis knows him, he's in her drama club. She said that he's really good too."
"I'm sure she did. This boy's an artist, a real talent. Amazing. Well - go and get him, Boy. Bring him here to see me, I'd love to meet him. All day, every day, I'm surrounded by talentless mediocrities and all the time there's someone like THIS in our school? Go and bring him here."
"No Sir, I can't. Number one, I don't think he's talking to me, and, number two, he didn't want you to see these."
"But why not? A talent like this shouldn't be hidden away."
"Exactly what I told him. Look, Sir, could you find him sometime and tell him what you think of his work?"
"I certainly will. Year eleven you say? He's been in this school for over two years and no-one told me. Thank you - er?"
"Jordan Taylor, Sir."
"Jordan Taylor. Well thank you, Jordan. You did the right thing. I'll go and find him now. Better yet, you come with me and show me where he is."
Mr. Jackson followed as Jordan led the way outside. He was really pleased that he'd shown the drawings to the teacher and was delighted with his reaction. This guy knew about art and drawings and stuff, that was his job, and he thought that Jason's were good. He'd already thought that they were, but how would he know for sure? He was a bit biased after all.
Jordan would like anything that Jason did. They might be having problems at the moment, but he did love him. That much he knew for sure. His mother really liked the drawings too, but he suspected that she was more than a little in love with the boy anyway.
This guy didn't even know Jason, he knew about art and he liked them. He knew that he would.
Jordan was feeling on top of the world and pleased with what he'd done, but that didn't last long.
Jason, Sandie, Tommy and Brenda were standing talking in the courtyard at the back of the school. Jordan saw them and led Mr. Jackson over to where they were.
Jason looked as they approached and his face hardened when he saw his pad of drawings in the art teacher's hands. "What's this?" He turned on Jordan.
"Good morning to you too," Jordan smiled.
"You've done it, haven't you? You've shown my drawings to the bloody art teacher!"
He snatched the pad from Mr. Jackson's hand and glared at Jordan. "How dare you?"
"Hey! He thought they were great. Fantastic actually. Someone had to show him, you weren't going to."
"No I wasn't and you knew that. These are personal and private and they are mine. You bastard. You low-down, sneaking, interfering, back-stabbing bastard!"
"Hey Jason," said Mr. Jackson. "Let's not get so upset here. I loved your drawings, they are really great. Your friend did the right thing bringing them to me."
"He did not!" Jason yelled at the teacher. "He's not my friend and I don't give a damn what you think. I hate you, Jordan Taylor. I fucking hate you - Arsehole!"
"You don't mean that," Jordan said.
"I fucking do. I meant every word of it. Who do you think you are? What gives you the right to interfere in my life? MY life, not yours. Why don't you show your own drawings to the bloody teacher? You know that they're way better than mine.
Get your nose out of my business and stay the hell out of my life, Taylor. I really don't want to know you." Clutching his pad to his chest, he fled into the school.
Jordan was embarrassed in front of his friends and Mr. Jackson, and all the other observers. He felt a bit guilty, he knew that Jason didn't want to show his drawings off. Probably he shouldn't have stuck his nose in. But mostly, he was pissed, and he yelled back at him.
"Fuck off then! Run and hide like the frightened little baby you are. I don't want to know you either. I wish I'd never laid eyes on you. You're nothing and you're a nobody and you always will be."
Jason froze and he turned and looked back with utter contempt. "Who do you think you are? Mr. High and Mighty, Jordan the Great. Next time you see someone eating lunch by himself, mind your own fucking business and leave him alone."
"Don't worry, I will. Especially if it's you."
"Fine then!" He disappeared inside.
"Fucking right, fine!"
"That's enough of that language," said Mr. Jackson. "I know you're upset, but there's no need to speak like that."
"What would you know? Oh, all right. Sorry. He gets me so mad."
"I can see that. Jordan, one thing struck me in all that exchange. Jason said that you draw too and that your drawings are better than his. Is that true?"
"No it's not. I do draw but I'm nowhere near as good as he is."
"He seems to think that you are. "Way" better even. How about letting me see what I think? Who knows? Maybe we've got two undiscovered artists in our midst?"
"Doubt it. My stuff is just my own. I just draw for fun, it's not for showing to anyone else. It's not good enough."
"Sounds to me like Jason thought exactly the same way. He was wrong, maybe you are wrong too."
"I don't think so. I can't even finish the simplest sketch. There's always something else needs doing, something that could be improved on."
"Jordan," Mr. Jackson smiled. "No great work of art is ever finished. Every great artist feels the same way. Didn't you know that?"
"Umm. No. I thought it was just me. Well - okay then. I've got nothing here but I'll bring some sketches tomorrow and we'll see what you think. You've got to be honest though, don't just say they're good to be nice about it."
"No problems. When it comes to art I'm always honest and never nice.”
"All right then. Tomorrow, we'll see. Maybe you can help me. I'm having trouble trying to draw a sunset in black and white. I can't seem to get it."
"A sunset in black and white? Why don't you use a red pencil?"
"That's exactly what he - Jason - said."
"Perhaps you should listen to him. The boy's an artist and I suspect that you are as well."
"I'm not, I'm an amateur. I'll show you tomorrow."
"Okay, tomorrow. I’ll look forward to it. 'Bye Jordan and thanks for showing me Jason's work. Sorry that it got you in trouble. I'll find him later."
Mr. Jackson walked away. Brenda grinned and said, "Whoa! You're in trouble this time, Lover-boy. The soap opera just gets better and better."
"Shut it, Brenda. There is no soap opera, we've finished. Jason broke up with me. It was always going to happen, he's way too good for me anyway."
"What?" Sandie grinned. "Say that again Jordan."
"Say what again? Jason's too good for me? It's a fact."
"Sure it is. Do you know, he said the exact same thing to me on the way to school yesterday?
'"
"He said what? That he's too good for me? Well he is."
"No. You Dork. Jason said that you're too good for him. You're a pair of idiots, Jordan. Go and kiss and make up with him."
"That's not going to happen. We're over. See you later, Guys."
He walked into the school, alone.
Over the next few days it really did seem like it was over. Both Jason and Jordan consciously avoided each other but it was a small school, most of their classes were the same and they couldn't help meeting sometimes. Usually not in a good way. Sometimes it was just a glare and a sneer, but sometimes it was more and hurtful, hateful words flew.
Jordan's friends were Jason's friends but whenever one of them saw the other with their friends, they walked away. Sandie, Brenda and the others tried their best to get them to at least talk to each other, but, by Friday they'd given up. It was hopeless.
Even Sean, worried about his big brother, tried to talk to Jason, but to no avail. Jason politely but firmly told him to get lost.
Jason's father left town for work again, but not before his girlfriend had moved in to watch over the boy. Jason hated it, the lazy cow did nothing and she expected him to wait on her, hand and foot. It was worse than being alone.
They both retreated into their own little worlds, but Jordan, with lots of coaxing, finally agreed to go to the dance at the Union Hall on Friday night. Jason didn't, he said that he couldn't anyway.
The girls did their best to get Jordan to let go and enjoy the dancing, but he just wasn't interested. He didn't know why he'd even bothered coming. He didn't belong there.
He stayed for as long as he could, but by midnight he'd had enough and he slipped out when no-one was watching and he walked away. He didn't go home though, he wasn't tired and he was sick of sleepless nights in his lonely bed, so he just walked, alone, through the late-night streets. Midnight in Westpoint.
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