Chapter Thirty-Five

 

 

W hat is he trying to do to me?

He teaches an art class? Who is this person?

When a flood of unwashed cherubic faces pushed through the door, my heart stopped. They all looked at Gray with bright smiles and, one by one, held up their large art pads for his approval.

“Hi, Mr. Peters,” squeaked a chubby girl wearing an orange headband and a Justin Beiber shirt.

“Afternoon, Rhia,” he said, putting on a sudden teacherish voice, and I held back from shaking my head in utter astonishment. “That’s Miss Porter’s favorite artist.” He pointed at her T-shirt, and the girl’s eyes crusted over with Beiber Fever.

“What’s your favorite song?” she asked, pulling my arm to the side. I racked my brain as Gray laughed from the doorway.

“Oh, you know, the one about the girl and the heart and the love.” She nodded like I hadn’t just bullshitted my way out of answering. For added effect, I made a heart shape with my hands and pumped it against my chest. Yes, I’d seen the music video. Don’t judge!

“Mine too,” she said on a giggle as she made her way toward an easel. “We’ll talk after class,” she reassured me, and I gave her a slow nod.

Gray remained in the doorway, high-fiving every sweaty, zitty kid that waltzed inside the room. The two skateboarders came rushing in, and Gray whapped them playfully upside the head, and they both chuckled, running over to a set of easels.

Pretty soon, the room was packed, and little gerbil-like squeals from girls and disgusting belches from boys assaulted my ears. Gray took my arm and led me to the stage, motioning for me to sit.

“Afternoon, kids, this is Sydney and—”

“She a new kid?” one of the skater kids asked in a cracked, high-pitched voice. “She must have transferred from Darmer? You a transfer from Darmer?”

Shaking my head, I glanced down at my sweatshirt, jeans, and Converse. I looked like I could’ve fit right in with these unruly punks.

“No, Jude, Sydney will be modeling for you today,” Gray said, holding back a laugh.

Two boys off to the side exchanged a look of excitement, and Gray quickly added, “In her clothes, Patrick and Louis.” He held two fingers to his eyes and turned them back on the boys, as if to say, I’m watching you, and they chuckled from their seats.

“Today is about Patrick’s favorite subject,” Gray began, sending Patrick a smile. “Feelings.”

The kids laughed, and Patrick went red in the face.

“You’ve all studied the Mona Lisa and you’ve seen that smirk on her face, like she’d just let a fart loose.” The kids broke out in howling laughter, and Gray shot me a smile. “But what was more important than her pale face and teasing eyes, something that has been debated throughout history, was what she was thinking. What was lurking behind that smile? Was she annoyed? Was she thinking, I can’t wait until class is over so I can snort Pepsi through my nose to impress girls?”

All the kids laughed and pointed fingers at Patrick and Louis. I couldn’t help but laugh too.

“What was Mona Lisa feeling for hours on end, sitting in that stuffy studio while Leonardo DiCaprio painted her?”

“Leonardo da Vinci,” the class groaned in unison, and Gray opened his arms to the ceiling like a proud symphony conductor.

“So you were listening to last week’s lecture,” Gray teased just as a hand shot up from behind an easel. “Yes, Parker?”

A small boy with thick-rimmed glassed craned his neck to look at me. “How are we supposed to know what she’s feeling? I mean, she looks kind of grumpy, like my mom before her coffee in the morning.” He rubbed his forehead with his greasy little hand. “But she looks older than my mom. My mom’s thirty-eight.”

Parker better watch his back when the bell rings.

“She’s going to tell you,” Gray answered, trying not to laugh. “Sydney’s going to tell you a story, and I want you to fill the page with the feeling it conjures. Use shapes, angles, and any color you want, but this exercise is about capturing emotion on paper.” He turned toward me and nodded. “Go ahead, Sydney.”

I shook my head, but he ignored me and moved to the back of the room, behind his students. I could feel the stares of all the kids on my face, and I was burning up inside.

God, what is he doing?

The thought crossed my mind to grab my phone and call a cab, but when I heard the clearing of small throats and read the excited glances, I broke down.

Tell them a story? Like a bedtime story? A scary sitting in front of the campfire story? Looking across their small feet, a pair of trashed tennis shoes caught my eye. The heels were worn out from overuse, the rubber cracking at the sides. Instantly, summer popped into my mind. I’d never said the events out loud, but if they wanted emotion, I was going to give it to them in spades.

“Do you guys like summer?”

A line of bobble-heads whipped up and down as one. Duh, who doesn’t like summer?

“Well, summer was always my favorite time of the year. School was boring, and if I had to hear another lecture on conjugating verbs, I was going to ride my bike off the nearest cliff.”

A couple students laughed, and I stole a quick glance at Gray to make sure I could say things like that. He gave me a thumbs-up and started to pace back and forth as the kids grabbed oil pastels and set to work.

“I would ride my bike every day and do wheelies off the park benches. I’d go through at least two pairs of Converse a summer because I used them as makeshift breaks until the heels were rubbed raw.” I pulled my leg out to show them my shoes.

“But my favorite part of summer was visiting my dad. My parents split up when I was seven, and I’d spend summers at my dad’s. He lived in a small logging town on the coast, and he drove a logging truck to make ends meet.”

I took off my dad’s burgundy trucker hat so they could see it, and a few kids snatched a burgundy pastel from their boxes.

“But Dad’s true passion was music. Mom always thought music was a waste of time, so when Dad gave me a used Casio CT-101 piano keyboard, I thought the heavens had opened up around me.” Peeling off my sweatshirt, I held my piano tattoo out for them to see. “I was eleven years old at the time, and we’d spend hours on that thing, making up songs while my little brother Jack would breakdance behind us.”

Gray laughed and leaned his head toward one of the kids, pointing to something on her paper.

“Jack wasn’t very good,” I added. “He was always better at ballet.”

The kids giggled, and I laughed with them.

“Anyway, Dad would come home from work, sweaty and stinky from long hours in the truck, and he’d sit next to me at the table and we’d create.”

I tapped my fingers over the piano keys.

“He’d make up the verses, and I’d plunk on the keys until they matched. Then Dad would grab his guitar. And Jack would grab pots from the kitchen and bang them together.”

I felt the sting of tears line my eyes, so I looked up at the ceiling, blinking them back. “That’s when I realized you didn’t have to have a lot of money to make something magical.”

These kids knew better than me what life was without money. Mom always had a decent job, but she’d never spend a dime on instruments when designer handbags could be purchased. In fact, she’d never even spend an hour with Jack and me unless it benefitted her in some way.

“Everything is an instrument.” I paused for dramatic effect, honing the skills I learned in my high school theater class. Best French villager #18 in my school’s rendition of Beauty and the Beast.