A/N: This was written for my creative writing class the summer before freshman year of high school. I'm leaving it the way it was when I submitted it, even though it may be flawed. My writing has improved since then but I'd like to see some feedback on it.
I dipped my brush into the cup and swirled it around, watching the blue paint drift off the brush and dissolve in the water. Drying the brush on a towel, I dipped the tip into a cup of clear water, and let the water wet the green paint. I raised my brush to the canvas and began delicately adding strokes of emerald green. The fresh smell of wet paint reached my nose.
My painting finally began to take shape. I looked out my window at the landscape I was replicating, then back at my unfinished masterpiece, and smiled. I could prove Rose’s statement about watercolors wrong with this painting. Stirring the brush into the cup of blue water, I thought about our argument from a couple of days ago. It didn’t really start out as much of an argument. We were just discussing art, and we somehow disagreed on a certain subject.
“So you’re an artist?” she asked.
“Yep,” I answered, glad that we had something in common.
“What kind of art are you best at?”
“Oh, I don’t know...painting, I guess.”
“Cool! I like to paint as well. I do oil painting. It kinda smells, but it really pays off, because oil painting creates the best works of art.”
“Well, I paint with watercolor. I don’t know why I’ve stuck with it, since there were a lot of cheap watercolor paint sets and I thought that meant watercolor wasn’t that great for experienced artists. Now I’m really good at it, so I dropped that thought.”
“Watercolor? Oh please, a lot of the really famous artists did oil painting, which probably means oil painting is the best kind of painting you can do.”
“Well, that doesn’t mean watercolor sucks!”
“Oh yeah? Where’s your proof?”
“Where’s yours?”
That was how I became determined to prove her wrong. As I selected a darker shade of green to add depth to the bright leaves, I wondered what Rose would be doing right now. Probably trying to prove that she’s right, I thought. I applied gentle strokes to the grass underneath a mighty oak tree, its brown bark still in need of more detail.
The sun had nearly set over the horizon when I finally finished, and I had begun the last third of my painting early this morning, after breakfast. Signing my name in a small corner, I left it on the easel to dry, while I ate dinner. My stomach was growling with hunger. I would go to Rose’s house the next morning to show her what wonders watercolors could do. Tonight, I would get the sleep that I deserved, after a long, hard day of working.
The next morning, I hurriedly ate my breakfast and headed out the door. Rose’s house wasn’t that far away. Blowing gently on my canvas in case it was still wet, I gingerly took it in my hands and held it firmly. The canvas blocked part of my vision, so I couldn’t see the rock that I tripped over. Luckily, my painting didn’t fall out of my hands as I reoriented myself. Quickly brushing the dirt off my jeans, I continued walking, lifting the canvas a little and tilting it so I could see where I was going.
When I spotted Rose’s house, I ran as fast as I could while holding a painting and rang the doorbell with one hand, the other still holding my masterpiece. Her brother, Fred, opened the door. “Hi!” he said. “Are you looking for Rose?”
“Yep. Is she awake yet?” I asked, trying not to bounce around too much..
“I think so. I’ll go get her. Why don’t you come in?”
I entered the house, leaning against the wall. “You can sit down,” said Fred politely, but I shook my head. “I won’t be here long,” I told him. Rose entered the room, and I showed her my painting. “See?” I said triumphantly. “Watercolor can create incredible paintings as well. Who says it has to be an oil painting to be great?”
Rose scowled. She turned around so quickly that her red curls whipped my face. I suppressed my anger, trying to control it while watching her slam the door behind her. Before it closed shut, I caught a glimpse of an unfinished but beautiful oil painting she appeared to be working on. I noticed the brilliant colors of her sunset, and suddenly felt sorry, although not that sorry, since my cheeks were still stinging. I didn’t realize she would take it so hard. Leaving her house without saying goodbye, I sat down under a tree, whose roots were poking out of the earth, and buried my face in my hands. I should’ve known that oil and water don't mix.
