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Muse |" myo oz"| noun ; a women, or a force personified as a women, who is the source of inspiration for a creative artist. –New Oxford American Dictionary.

Chapter one; muse

Something I will say, and openly admit, about Arthur Kai Baker is that he is both eager and persistent in getting what he desires. Now, I am by no means saying that I can't be a bit pushy, and at times overbearing, when I really want something. But Arthur...Arthur just happens to be better at it, you might say.

What could a paint covered, quirky, and slightly brilliant son of a multimillionaire banker possibly want from me you might ask? Well I'll tell you...in a long and unnecessarily complicated story, of course.

It all started when he asked me to be his muse.

* * * * *

The rare summer breeze sweeps across my skin causing a strand or two of my chestnut hair to move from its spot behind my ear. My head lulls slightly back as I breathe in the overly humid North Carolina air and overlook the community park in my view.

I stare longingly at the favored bench under the oak tree by the concrete drinking fountain currently occupied by a larger pregnant woman and what I'm assuming is her husband or possibly boyfriend. My eyebrow raises slightly at the man's attire; a pair of dark baggy jeans, a white wife beater, an oh-so cliché backwards hat, and of course the cheap Walmart brand bright Hanes boxer briefs that leave little to be imagined seeing as his jeans are practically falling off.

My mother's reprimanding voice nags at the back of my mind, reminding me of my judgmental tendencies and I hastily drag my attention away from the much sought after sweet spot under the oak tree and manage to focus my attention back onto my book.

I've been told that I read far too much several times and that my head is too far in the clouds to be reached. Each comment and snide remark has only fueled my love for reading and proved my hypothesis that mean girls in my so called fictional stories indeed exist in the real world.

My friend, Lila, has told me time and time again how well of an author, or even editor, I could become if I could just get my nose out of other peoples' novels and write my own. Of course I always reply with a laugh or a small scoff but deep down I know I would love nothing more than to have my name and writing in print. Or to smell the pages for the first time and revel in the scent of my hopes and dreams fulfilled on paper.

Everyone has a dream so big and amazing that they can't even imagine doing it or believe that the world would take a break from torturing you long enough to allow you to enjoy one small victory. When you do get that chance all you can think of is why it can't happen. And all the times you were too braindead to solve that algebra equation so how could you possibly write a book let alone write a good book.

That's how I feel. This is my unreachable dream. My unsolvable equation. Sometimes I think about how good it would feel to hand write a novel...to feel the pen and paper beneath my fingertips and write and write until each thought and idea has been taken captive and I'm one step - one chapter, closer to my dream.

Maybe someday I'll have the courage to not care when an editor sends my manuscript back with no reason whatsoever and no indication of a second chance. Hopefully I'll wake up one morning and be confident enough in myself to bare my soul in a story and relive moments I swore I never would.

No not today. Or yesterday. Most definitely not tomorrow. So that's why I'm thinking...probably never. And never is a long time to not live out your dream.

Now realizing that my wandering mind is making getting any reading done impossible, I close the book with a sigh and shove it back into my knitted bag, pulling the straps to close it tightly.

"Wait." I jump about two feet in the air at the sound of a vibrato voice and my head whips to the side, my hand flying up to my chest to feel my heart palpitating wildly in my chest.

My eyes lock onto a slightly thin boy with strong looking shoulders, no taller than five foot and eleven inches, hands up in surrender and an apologetic look on his face. Whether it's genuine or not, I can't tell.

"Mother of all things, you scared me half to death." I scold, my tone a bit sharper than I intended and his brown eyes widen in surprised dismay.

I sigh, "Look, I'm sorry. It's just that I get pretty jumpy when random strangers sneak up behind me."

His tight lipped smile brings my attention to his chin where, what looks like, a splotch of black charcoal lies smudged in a sharp line. I cough but don't mention it, my lips itching to bring it to his attention.

"Sorry but, if it's any consolation to you, I snuck up from the side...not from behind. Also, I'd hardly call it sneaking up on you considering I've been sitting about ten feet away from you for the past two hours." His voice is deeper than I expected and my eyebrows rise at his tone.

"Has anyone ever told you that you give off a really, I don't know, annoying vibe?" I ask, bringing the straps of my backpack over my shoulders, my bangs falling over my eyes, shielding half of his face from my vision. I push the hair away.

He steps from foot to foot, studying me and never once taking his eyes off of mine. Soon enough, I can't take the awkwardness of the situation and quickly avert my gaze elsewhere, finding a place under the oak tree where the large women and her boyfriend - and/or husband - have seemed to disperse into thin air.

"Yes, actually. And has anyone ever told you that you come off too blunt and in their face? Because, if not, you've been lied to your whole life." He hisses mockingly through his teeth and my glare sets itself on him.

I️ gasp, laughing incredulously at the situation, the whole thing already seeming unbelievable and irrelevant. Yet extremely aggravating.

"So, what, you've come over here and told me to quote/un-quote 'wait' just to insult me?" I deadpan, licking my lips as if suddenly remembering how hot it is outside.

His head moves from side to side as he objects to the notion, "No. No, of course not, I'm sorry I️ reacted the way I️ did it's just that -well you see - it's just that you're quite annoying." My mouth opens to reply but he interrupts me, "Oh, sorry, I did it again. I guess certain people bring out the worst in me."

"I guess so." I grit through my teeth, turning on my heels to leave. I hear him rush up beside me and I fight back an eye roll.

"Please, I'm sorry, just let me explain." He says, speed walking next to me in order to keep up.

I choose to ignore him, silently hoping that he'll get the hint and go back to whence he came or whatever but he sticks to my side.

"My name is Arthur Kai Baker and I'm a first year, almost second year, student at the North Carolina Institution of Arts, I've been having really, really, bad artist block lately and-"

"Yeah that's great and all but I didn't ask for your life story." I smile in fake politeness causing him to groan and run a hand through his dirty blonde locks and down his face in frustration.

"Please, Lovely, just listen for two seconds. Just two." He presses, holding up his index and middle finger.

I give him a side glance, his brown eyes looking annoyingly huge and I sigh before coming to a stop.

"First of all, how do you know my name and two, if this gets even the slightest bit a) stalker-like or b) boring, I'm out, got it?"

He sneers slightly in annoyance but nods nonetheless, "Got it. And if you don't want people knowing your name then you should probably quit wearing it on a bracelet." He gestures to my wrist where a gold watch sits, my name engraved on the leather strap.

"It's a watch, not a bracelet." I state.

"No this is a watch," he shows me his wrist, a black and complicated looking device bound around it, "that, my dear, is a silly schoolgirl's excuse for a watch."

I scoff, offended, and cross my hands over my chest, "I'm leaving in three, two, one-"

"Okay, okay. I'll get right to the point," he starts, rubbing his hands on his khaki shorts, "as I told you, I've been having some serious artist block and I just failed my second summer assignment yesterday. Lately it's been like I can't concentrate, I can't focus-"

"Redundant much?" I snicker. He sends me a harsh glare before continuing.

"Anyway, basically I sucked on both assignments and I've been asked to redo both. I came to the park to find some inspiration. I'd been here since eleven in the morning and had no luck...until you showed up." He states, pausing to gauge my reaction to his oh-so-important story so far. I give him a blank stare so he goes on.

"Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying I drew you or anything. It's just that as soon as you took your book out and started to read I just – well I could draw again. I even got one of the assignments finished which is saying a lot considering you were only sitting there for a couple hours. Usually it takes me at least a week to perfect a piece." He explains, gesturing with his hands and adjusting the strap of his bag every once in a while.

"What's the point of all this? I have to get home before dinner and it's already five thirty. Unfortunately, I have to walk too so could you possibly hurry this along?" I ask, trying hard not to let my agitation seep into my voice but failing epically.

He sighs, licking his lips. "Don't you get it? It was you that made me draw better. For some reason, being in your presence seemed to give me...inspiration." His expression lightens, the lines around his eyebrows and eyes relaxing as a light flashes across his eyes.

Even though the statement came from a total stranger and a total jerk, a smile slightly, "How flattering." I muse.

I don't miss the slight blush on his cheeks before he quickly shakes it off, clearing his throat.

"Yeah, well, don't be. I was only stating a fact, not dishing out a compliment."

"Of course." I nod teasingly and he scoffs as if disgusted.

"As if I'd ever compliment you...I don't even know you."

I roll my eyes, "Glad you feel the need to point out the obvious."

His jaw ticks, bringing my attention, once again, to the charcoal smudge on his chin. I snicker under my breath, thanking karma with all my heart.

"What?" He asks, clearly suspicious.

I quickly shake my head and clear my throat, disguising the laugh for a cough. "What? Nothing."

"There's charcoal on my face isn't there?" He asks dryly. I only nod slowly, cursing myself for ever bringing it to his attention. He brings the bottom of his shirt up to his mouth and I watch in slight disgust as he licks the fabric and pauses.

"Where?"

"Hmm?" I hum, confused.

"Where on my face?"

"Oh! Uh, right there...on your chin." I tell him.

He casually wipes his face and looks at me when he's done. "Don't worry, I'm not embarrassed. It happens several times a day."

I nod in understanding before an awkward pause settles between us and he clears his throat into his fist. "So, uh, anyway...I'd like to make you a proposition if you stay long enough to listen."

My right brow rises, "What kind of proposition?" I inquire.

  "Well, you see I'm not completely certain that you were the cause of my renewed burst of artistic ability so here's what I propose; tomorrow afternoon I will be given a new assignment. I will then test the waters and try to paint without you because, come on, this could all be in my head, right?"

"Right." I drawl out, trying to follow along.

"Right, so then if I succeed, I will never have to speak to you again. But if I fail...well, then I call you up and I sit in your aggravating presence to see if it's really you or if all of this was just a one-time thing. But, sadly, if it's the latter then I shall give up my dreams of becoming a world renowned artist and work in the family business alongside my father and two older brothers."

"Wow...that's pretty dramatic." I say with a slow nod.

"Yeah so...are you in?' He asks with a hopeful glint in his eye.

"Let me get this straight," I start, "you want me to be your art servant chick who comes and releases her peaceful aura just so you paint well?"

"That's not exactly the way I'd put it. I'd say you'd be more like a...I don't know, a muse I guess would be the proper term for it. All the greatest artists had one one way or another I️ suppose."

"A muse. You want me to be your muse."

He bites down slightly on his bottom lip as he awaits my answer. "What do you say?"

I blink once, twice, three times,

"No."

He looks slightly taken aback and it takes a few moments for him to recover, "No?"

"NO." I say harshly before turning on my heels and walking away.

   "Wait!" He calls after me a few seconds later and I stop so he can catch up.

   "What?" I snap.

   He glares at me and holds his hand out, "Here, you forgot you phone."

   My eyebrows furrow and I take the cellphone out of his charcoal covered hands, "That's weird...I don't remember hearing it fall out of my pocket."

   He clears his throat, "Well, those things happen. Goodbye."

   I don't answer, looking down at my phone suspiciously before shrugging it off and heading for home.

   My mom's going to kill me.

*  * *

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