New Girl. Paige Harbison

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СКАЧАТЬ hand. “Like a book report?”

      “No. Not like a book report.” The way she responded made me sure I’d be keeping my hand down as much as possible. “For example, this week, we are reading To Kill a Mockingbird. You may, for instance, choose to theorize on how the main character, Scout, grew through her experiences in the book. Or you might get a little bit more creative, and talk about her relationship with her father or brother. It’s up to you to write something I want to read. It’s up to you to find something about the book that isn’t on the back cover. Now. Let’s talk about basic formatting. Times New Roman, one-inch margins …”

      There was a sudden shuffle as people dug through their backpacks for pens and notebooks. At my school back home we’d pretty much started using laptops, but the brochures had made it perfectly clear that they were not allowed in class. Stupid rule. I have terrible handwriting.

      She switched on the overhead, and it hummed into life.

      She sped through what she expected technically from us, and skipped straight into finding the deeper meaning in the classics. I loved to read, so I wasn’t dreading it.

      “I assume you’ve all read To Kill a Mockingbird, yes?”

      There was an uncomfortable shuffle from the students who I guessed had skimmed through it and used Spark Notes.

      “So as you read it this second time, I want you to start thinking more about the underlying themes. Yes, we know it’s about prejudice and the struggle between right and wrong—but what else is there? What else did Harper Lee bury within her pages?”

      World History demanded a lot more prior knowledge than I had. The teacher started off the class by asking us what we knew about the religious beliefs of the Neanderthals. I sank in my seat and hoped to God I wasn’t called on.

      Math, which was always my worst subject, started off with a quiz. Really? Day One of Algebra II and we’re taking a quiz? Just to see what we know, but still. It’s a quiz. Everyone else around me seemed to know what was going on, making my inability to follow along stick out like a sore thumb.

      And then I walked into the huge concrete studio on the top floor of the main building. The windows went from floor to ceiling, and there were big black filing cabinets with wide, skinny drawers lining the walls. There were about thirty easels standing on the hard, cold floor, which was splattered with the paint of a million masterpieces gone by.

      The room echoed the music that came out of a silver MacBook Air on one of the black cabinets. It wasn’t until then that I realized I’d gone almost three days without hearing music, and thought how unusual that was for me.

      There were a couple of people there already, sitting on stools and talking to each other. I sat down on an empty one and stared at the floor while people filtered in for the next five minutes. I didn’t talk to anyone and they didn’t talk to me. Maybe I was being paranoid, but as their whispers echoed throughout the room, I heard a lot of “she,” and I automatically and self-pityingly felt sure they were talking about me.

      Professor Crawley walked in as the clock struck three, marking the beginning of my last class of the day, and smiled at us. He’d been the first teacher to crack a smile all day long.

      “How’s everyone doin’? Good first day?”

      Silence.

      “Yeah, me, too.” He sat on a stool and looked down at the papers on his clipboard. He ran through attendance, reading our last names and waiting for the small murmur of acknowledgment.

      “… Francis? Gordon? Hanover? Holloway?” He looked up and around. I did, too. Had I not noticed him somehow? “Nope, no Holloway. All right, Langston? Marconi?”

      My stomach dropped. I didn’t know why, but I was disappointed he wasn’t there. Maybe he was just late.

      As Professor Crawley reached the end of attendance, everyone’s heads turned toward the door. I followed the collective gaze to see—

      “Mr. Holloway, there you are. Don’t let your tardiness become a habit. You go by Max?”

      He nodded his head and sat down on the stool next to mine. I looked straight ahead, suddenly unable to feel natural.

      “So on to class, then. Welcome, all of you. Some of you I know, some of you I don’t.” Professor Crawley looked at me. “But I’m absolutely sure we’ll get to know each other in no time. I’m Professor Crawley. You can just call me Crawley while we’re in the classroom. Too many syllables otherwise. So how many of you have any experience in painting? Or art of any kind, really? Drawing, sculpting, maybe just doodles in your biology notes?”

      A few people raised their hands. He smiled at them. “Right after piano lessons and right before tennis, huh?”

      There was a small titter of appreciative laughter.

      Crawley went on. “I’m just going to assume, for the sake of starting on the same foot, that we all have no experience, which is totally fine.”

      I breathed a sigh of relief, and felt Max’s eyes shift to me. I glanced at him, and saw the smallest trace of a smile. I quickly looked away.

      “So here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going to pair you guys up, and you’re just going to start painting, see what comes out. This is your Gamsol.” He held up a glass pot with a lid. “You rinse your brushes in here. It’s like turpentine, except I’m not allergic to it.”

      Another titter from the girls.

      “You’ve got your brushes, your oil paints, your palette, your palette knife and a rag. Make sure you rinse your brushes thoroughly or all of your colors will go muddy. Squeeze out only the smallest amount of paint. I assure you, this stuff goes far.”

      He paired us off. In this kind of situation I usually ended up partnerless and had to work with the teacher. But not this time.

      “All right, so go ahead and grab a canvas and an easel and then stop off with me to get your box of supplies.

      Once we were set up and sitting across from each other, I gave the boy in front of me an awkward and probably very unpretty smile.

      “Max,” he said, holding out a hand. “We met by the boathouse.”

       Oh, did we? I hadn’t recalled …

      “Yes, I remember, I nearly fell to my death on those stairs.”

      With a sickening lurch, I realized what poor taste that had been in. I wanted to say something to make up for it, but before I got the chance, he just nodded as he squeezed out some blue paint and said, “But here you are.”

      “Here I am.”

      I squeezed out a couple of colors and blended them until it resembled Max’s tanned skin tone.

      “So are you any good?” he asked.

      “Good?”

      He nodded at my canvas. “At painting.”

      “Oh.” I laughed nervously. “I doubt it, I’ve never really done it before. I helped paint a mural back at СКАЧАТЬ