The High School Bad Boy
Chapters 10. Lui Et Sa Passion (He and His Passion).

LE MARAIS PARIS.

The painting gallery looks tiny flanked by cafes, souvenir shops and restaurants - small restaurants. His nameplate was also shabby.

Liberte Galerie, as read on the dark green painted board. The owner, an old man named Patrick Gautier. Formerly, he was a street painter who went around the Pont Marie bridge on the Seine river, Paris.

Now, his small gallery he filled with paintings - realist classic paintings that he sold at low prices.

"Bonjour (good morning), Patrick."

Max who had just stepped in greeted the old man with a warm smile.

"Well, Max .. Would you like to take your tools?" ask Patrick with sparkling eyes.

"Yes." Yeah."

"It's a beautiful day, hopefully a lot of people ask to be painted by you" he said, sending his gaze out the window. Today the snow is not falling. The weather was slightly sunny, although the cold air was still so piercing.

This is what Max does every weekend. Become a street painter like Patrick used to be, with the same base.

The passion of Maximilian Guillaume, the ruthless son and troublemaker, whom he hid from anyone. Even from her own best friend, Etienne.

Patrick is the only person who knows about his hidden talent. Their introduction occurred a few years ago, when Max one night was found by police scribbling the walls of the Pont Marie bridge with his graffiti painting. Patrick saved her.

The old man realized the talent Max had. Then with all the techniques he mastered, he taught Max to paint with a realist classic.

Voilais. Here comes Max now. He always left all his tools in Patrick's gallery. Every weekend he makes a living by painting tourists - domestic and foreign tourists, who come to enjoy the atmosphere on the Seine river.

Indeed, the money he got was nothing compared to selling cannabis in Stalingrad. But, he felt, painting was able to fill the emptiness of his heart all this time.

"A tout a l'heure (see you later), Patrick," Max said as he held his large bag and waved at the old man who was busy cleaning the paintings.

"Bonne chance (good luck), Max," Patrick said.

Max makes a circle with his thumb and index finger. Giving a signal okay while blinking one eye.

He walked out of the gallery. Tracing the streets of Le Marais that began to be crowded, to the Pont Marie bridge which is about five kilometers away.

Max put his bag on the corner of the bridge where he used to do his painting activities. He took out his equipment in the form of brushes, pallets, palette knives, easels and mini portable chairs, as well as paint various colors.

While waiting for the flag, Max spread his gaze around. The Eiffel Tower stands across the river. On the right, the Picasso Museum building with its blue roof looks elegant. Several Bateaux Mouches (tourist cruises) pass by the green-water Seine river.

Calm. That's how Max feels. He breathed in the cold air that morning deeply.

"Are you ready to paint (are you ready to paint)?"

Max gasped to hear someone talking to him. He turned his head and found a woman with narrow eyes smiling at him. Japanese tourists, apparently.

"Yes, Mam (yes, Madam)."

"How much (how)?"

"50 euros," Max replied. "You can pay later, Mam (you can pay later, Madam)." He said when he saw the woman reach into his bag to take his wallet.

"Oh, okay. Emm .. I want you to add the Eiffel Tower to the background."

"Okay. Do sit down, Mam (well, please sit down, Madam)." Max prepares a mini wooden chair and lets the woman sit down.

"Give me five minutes to prepare the device, ma'am."

***

Wulan had no intention of doing anything today. It felt like he just wanted to curl up in bed, take shelter under a thick warm blanket. One week of teaching at Jean-Baptiste Say left him exhausted.

But of course not worth the fatigue of forgetting the past.

Hey, you got plans today?

Wulan. Then think for a moment whether to reply to a message from Damien or not.

The guy's pretty good. Pretty handsome. Enough attention. And Wulan can pick up on Damien's signals of attraction to him.

But, Ah, French guy. It might be the same with Pierre. Sweet at the beginning, bitter later. It looks romantic on the surface, but in reality, grouchy, rough. Smart like a philosopher, but empathy for the people closest to him is zero.

Wulan started generalizing everything. Traumatizing. It's probable.

It seems I just want to stay at home. je suis fatigue (i'm tired).

He replied to Damien's message. Then put the phone back on the nightstand. He slipped into his blanket. Covering his face and trying to close his eyes again.

His phone vibrated back. Looks like there's a reply from Damien. But Wulan had no intention of checking it out.

He just wanted to travel with his mind. Stumbling around somewhere. Away from all the grievances that plunge the bottom of his heart.

Traveling without moving.

On a winter weekend that.

***

JEAN BAPTISTE SAY, SURESNES, PARIS.

Wulan glanced at the clock on her wrist. He sat behind his desk with his face bent. Ten minutes of class will be over. The classroom atmosphere, as usual, was rowdy. Either these brats are doing the task he gave them half an hour ago, or they don't touch the paper he shared.

Stupid timing.

Today was enough to drain his emotions. Trying to ask the attention of the entire class to pay attention to the lessons it gives.

He turned his eyes to Max. The young man seemed busy doodling - scribbling the paper with his pencil. Wulan. Is he working on?

Perhaps King Louis XIV's spirit is possessing him. Wulan laughed in her heart.

"Okay, let's get some papers on you!" exclaimed Wulan, after ten minutes had passed.

They did not press Wulan's call, but one by one they collected papers on his desk while queuing out of class.

Wulan patted her head. There are only two people working. Others, still questions without answers.

"Hey, Etienne!" exclaimed Wulan who saw Etienne was about to leave the classroom without handing over the piece of paper she was carrying. "Where are you going? Here collect about you first."

Etienne grimaced as she stroked her nape. "I haven't done it, Miss. It's too hard for me."

Wulan snatched the paper in Etienne's hands. Then he sniffed annoyed. "It's there!" throw it at the young man.

Now it was Max's turn to walk towards him. Handing the paper to Wulan.

"My answer is behind the paper" he said as he passed. At first glance Wulan caught Max's thin smile.

Wulan flipped the paper that Max handed her. His eyes are perfectly round.

A pencil painting of him sitting behind a table with his face bent and arms folded in front of his chest. At the bottom is written a series of words in English that reads, your face is terrible (your face is ugly).

Damn the kid.

Wulan was annoyed, mixed in admiration at the delicate pencil painting and approached the realist. He smiled as he slipped the paper into his book.

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