|Diamonds are a girls best friend
Author: KMPcool PM
Diamond is an artist with a crush on everybody's favrite pitcher. Forget the rules for once and enjoy the ride. Yeah it's a Kenny story.Rated: Fiction T - English - Romance - DeNunez - Chapters: 4 - Words: 4,129 - Reviews: 9 - Favs: 6 - Follows: 8 - Updated: 01-11-13 - Published: 10-27-12 - id: 8647675
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
I have never owned the Sandlot nor do I plan to.
Now On with the much anticipated update!
I don't think Scotty knew what I meant when I said 'pretend like this didn't happen' but we must have gotten a different message. He got a stare-at-the-tree-while playing-baseball idea, which by the way even I know to be a bad idea. While I got don't come for a week and hope for the best. Yeah Scotty had other plans than that too, not fun I promise.
"Diamond since when have you known the sandlot boys?" Joseph asked standing in the doorway. I got rattled by that, and splattered my new canvas with dull red and gray paints.
"Never," I replied in a huff.
"Get a grip, Diamond, it's only a canvas. They're down stairs," Joseph said. I turned to him as wide eyed as a bug. "Hurry before Damien finds them!" He joked.
"It's not funny!"I said slapping him. I went downstairs.
"Hi," I said unsure of why 9 boys were in my living room. "What do you need?" I questioned as calmly as humanly possible.
"Scotty told us you were a good artist," Benny stated for the group.
"Naturally," I mumbled. "Do you want to see the stuff?" I asked.
"Yeah yeah hopefully it lives up to Scotty's claims," Yeah Yeah proclaimed.
"It's better than he could ever paint it to be," I replied quietly. I took all nine of the boys into my room/studio. My sketch books were piled on my white nightstand. They were all naturally drawn to the one wall where junk wasn't piled up.
"You paint that?" Kenny asked, pointing at the mural of a colorful lush rose garden surrounded by a white picket fence.
"No I'm not that good, yet at least. My Mom painted it when she found out I was going to be a girl," I explained. "I've painted everything on canvas, and I sketch a lot so all of those books are filled," I added pointing around the room.
"You painted this?" Benny asked pointing at my black and white landscape oil painting.
"Yeah, I mainly use black and white sometimes other contrasting colors but not often," I explained. "Sometimes I use only colors of the same hue which is mainly when I paint Damien's baseball cards," I added.
"You paint pictures of baseball cards?" Squints laughed.
"Yeah, and I make twenty dollars apiece for 'em," I stated. That shut him up.
"So you're like, rich?" Bertram asked.
"Not even close, all the money I earn goes through my Dad and he uses half of it before I even know it's in the bank," I replied. By use I mean drink or gamble it away.
"Damien hasn't played baseball in awhile," Benny sighed remembering the days he used to be coached by my brother.
"He's been busy," I shrugged. "With life," I added.
"What's that supposed to be?" Ham asked after opening a sketch book. He was looking at a picture of a mangled, human, skeleton.
"It's a skeleton rearranged into a heart," I stated the obvious.
"Why?" Ham questioned.
"It was a thing I did for a charity," I explained.
"Wow," Scotty said after stealing a glance at the artwork.
"Gruesome," Squints said in minor disgust.
"Who's that supposed to be?" Benny asked nodding towards a slightly tinged painting.
"Um I just forgot her name; anyway she's a lifeguard, I guess. She said she wants to be a model someday," I explained.
"You worked with Wendy Peffercorn?" Squints cried in awe.
"Yeah, I have connections in high places," I replied with a dismissive wave of my hand. It's true; Damien gets me almost any guy in town to cooperate with me, if I ever need it, I also have Phillips who gets a lot of my big jobs in line for me. I heard the distinctive trampling of his footsteps up the stairs. They were almost too steep to be called stairs. Before he could knock I told him to just come in.
"Diamond, the art gallery accepted the rose painting," Phillips panted ignoring his baseball enemies' stares.
"Which rose painting?" I questioned I have more than one.
"The crying rose," Phillips answered puzzled. The crying rose was a bright red rose, on a gray woodland background. There was a drop of red spilling out of the rose. Oddly enough it was originally a mistake.
"Obviously," I shrugged. A lot of art shows and galleries wouldn't accept me for at least one reason, (a) I'm too young, or (b) I don't use bright colors. I just don't like using bright colors they're overwhelming.
"Diamond, how do you know this idiot?" Ham inquired abruptly.
"He used to be coached by Damien, and now he helps me sell and showcase my work," I stated somewhat defensively.
"Sometimes it's a hard job too," Phillips defended.
"I use too many neutrals for a lot of people to want my stuff, mainly I just don't like bright colors, they devastate the image and attack people's eyes. My goal is never an attention craving poster," I explained.
"I'll take the crying rose to the art gallery if you give it to me now," Phillips stated. I nodded and grabbed the painting from the corner. "Be careful around them," He warned under his breath. I glared at him. "Or you can take care of yourself, Goya," He stated in defensive fear.
"Goya? What the Hell is a Goya?" Ham questioned as Phillips left.
"He has odd taste," I said bitterly. "Goya isn't a thing; he's an artist, from the eighteenth century, known for his cruel realism, he never beautified anything. He painted what he saw, not what people wanted to see." I explained halfheartedly. Silence fell across the room like a blanket.
"Some of your stuff is gruesome," Kenny pointed out.
"Yeah but it's not true, that's the difference," I stated still pondering how in the world Phillips knew about Goya.
"You romanticism your paintings?" Scotty questioned. Romanticism isn't a verb but I know what he means.
"No!" I objected quickly. "Romanticism is nature stuff, not a lot of my stuff is nature. Mainly I paint people or city scenes," I explained. Truth be told, maybe I do that a little bit.