Same Difference. Siobhan Vivian

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СКАЧАТЬ until I sit that I realize I’ve been holding my breath.

      I unload a few supplies, like a big drawing pad and the red plastic art box that holds my pencils and brushes. Glancing around the room, I notice I’m the only one with brand-new, untouched materials — paintbrushes wrapped in plastic, tubes of paint that need to be peeled open, unsharpened pencils. I’m a screaming newbie. I decide not to put on my smock, since no one else is wearing one.

      Five more minutes and the classroom is practically full. Pixie Girl with the red scarf enters the room huffing and puffing, I guess because she had to take the stairs. She climbs onto a stool right next to Shadow Girl. Their eyes scan each other briefly before they nod and roll their eyes, as if they’ve just shared a silent joke. They are the only ones in class not wearing their IDs on the provided lanyards. They seem like they should be friends.

      I’m sad that there doesn’t seem to be the person like me here, the person I am so obviously supposed to hang out with while I’m here. Someone like Meg. But someone like Meg wouldn’t exist in a place like this.

      I grab my phone and pound out a quick text, just to tell Meg hello. I wonder what she’s doing right now. Maybe lying by her pool, working on her tan. Actually, since it’s Tuesday, she’s probably walked to the town farmer’s market to get some of that grilled summer corn we both love. Meg likes plain butter on hers, but I use paprika and garlic salt. Maybe Rick took the afternoon off to go with her. Probably.

      The teacher comes in, a tall, skinny old man wearing frumpy brown linen pants and a raggedy black T-shirt. His head is full of wild white hair, jutting out from all angles like the bristles of an old toothbrush. A tall boy follows him, toting two bags of supplies — and holding a very familiar cup of coffee.

      He spots me right away and stops at my easel.

      “Wow,” he says, shaking his head. “You’re in my class.”

      “Yeah,” I say. The realization makes my eyes go wide.

      I accidentally flirted with my teacher this morning.

      The boy still has toothpaste in the corner of his mouth, but it doesn’t detract from his smile one bit. But when the older teacher glances back at him, the smile drops right off his face.

      Shadow Girl and Pixie Girl both stare at me, shocked. I feel their eyes.

      My phone twitters, a charm of beeps that sounds like glitter. A signal I’ve gotten a text. I’m sure it’s from Meg, probably saying hi back. But it’s not worth it to check, because now everyone’s staring at me. The boy winces, like I’m in for it.

      “Rule number one! No cell phones on in my class!” the old man barks. He’s got a bit of an accent. Maybe Russian. I can’t tell. “Absolutely none!”

      “Sorry,” I whisper and shut off my phone.

      The old man walks in the center of our easels, climbs up on the platform, and stares at us with big dark eyes. He signals for the tall boy to shut the door. He does not smile. “I am Mr. Frank.”

      We murmur hello back to Mr. Frank. He still doesn’t smile. In fact, he looks pained to be here.

      “I will be your drawing teacher for the summer.” His annoyance with us breaks as he gestures to the tall boy, warmly. “This is Yates, my teaching assistant. Yates has just completed his freshman year at this college and will also be giving you instruction and answering questions.” Yates has his back turned to us, unloading Mr. Frank’s supplies. “I would like to start today by going around the room. Tell me a little about yourself and your goals for this class.”

      It’s too much to process at once. His name is Yates. And if Yates just finished his freshman year, he’s probably only nineteen. I’ll turn seventeen in September. Two years older than me isn’t much of an age difference at all. But the fact that he’s my teacher is a big difference. Huge, even.

      Mr. Frank looks in my general direction and snaps me back to attention. “Who would like to go first?” he asks.

      My stomach flips. I hate speaking in public. I’m way better with images than I am with words.

      Shadow Girl raises her hand, the only volunteer. Everyone in the room sits up and pays attention. I know I do.

      “My name’s Fiona Crawford, and I’m from the glamorously named Fish Town.” Her voice is drowsy and raspy, but it projects like she’s used to addressing a crowd. “I’ll be a senior next year and I need some traditional pieces for portfolio reviews so I can apply to art school.”

      Mr. Frank takes a sip of coffee from a Styrofoam cup. “Traditional as opposed to what?”

      Fiona smirks. I can’t exactly tell if she’s annoyed that she has to explain herself, or happy that she gets to keep talking. “My work is mainly guerrilla meets performance, so it’s impossible to document.”

      “You can take pictures. That’s entirely acceptable for a portfolio.” Mr. Frank looks for the next person to speak.

      “Pictures?” Fiona’s face curdles. “A picture can never be as meaningful as the actual experience.” She arches her back into a stretch. It’s almost flirtatious. “I’d rather not show the piece at all, if it’s going to be some weak, half-assed version. So yeah, just set me up with some fruit in a bowl and maybe a ceramic pitcher, or whatever. A couple of still lifes and I’ll be good to go.”

      Mr. Frank raises his coffee to his mouth and considers this. We all stay quiet. I don’t know about anyone else here, but I’ve never heard a person say assed before in a class. When he lowers the cup, he reveals the smallest smile.

      The class collectively shifts its weight. Fiona’s answer is a lot to live up to.

      Mr. Frank continues. “How many of you are going into your senior year of high school?” About half of our class raise their hands, including me and Pixie Girl. “Well, by the end of our six weeks together, you should all have more than a few portfolio-quality pieces. And the rest of you will have quite a jump on putting together something for admissions.”

      I haven’t ever considered going to college for art. Meg and I are looking at Trenton State. Her grades are much better than mine, but hopefully we’ll both get in. I worry that maybe this drawing class is going to be more advanced or serious than someone like me, someone with no experience, is ready for.

      Pixie Girl goes next. “I’m Robyn, and I’m from northern New Jersey. But it’s practically New York City,” she adds quickly, “because I can see the Empire State Building from my bedroom window. My parents own a gallery in Chelsea.” Robyn’s eyes stop on Mr. Frank, probably to see if he is impressed. If he is, he doesn’t show it. “They travel through Europe most of the summer and I get shipped off to Fine Art day care.” I’m surprised to hear Robyn talk in such a blasé way, like she’s already over this place. I guess when your parents actually own a real art gallery, these programs seem a lot like Ms. Kay’s class. “Anyhow, I’d like to work on developing a more critical eye, so I can express my opinions about art better. I plan on running my own gallery one day.”

      “Well, we will be doing a lot of discussions and critiques. All of you will be expected to articulate an opinion on what your peers are producing.”

      Great. I imagine myself hanging up a bad drawing and standing there, blindfolded, like I’m in front of a firing squad. Ms. Kay was СКАЧАТЬ