I think the first stop is a photography floor, because the chemicals make my eyes water as soon as the doors open. That, and one of the kids who steps off the elevator turns around and, with his camera dangling mid-chest, takes a picture of us.
“Idiot,” a boy next to me mutters as the doors close. His long hair is split in two pigtails. Fake white plastic flowers are tucked into each elastic.
I try not to stare. Maybe he’s sweet or secretly good at sports, but I can’t help but wonder how exactly a boy like that survives in high school.
By the time we stop on the seventh floor, there are three kids left in the elevator beside me. I smile at one freckly girl with thick tentacles of auburn dreadlocks. She nods her head at me, not exactly in a friendly way, but not meanly either.
It’s slightly encouraging.
Room 713 is a large studio that smells of turpentine. There are twelve sets of easels and stools arranged in a circle, surrounding a tall pedestal made out of stacked white plywood boxes in the very center. The long tables across the back of the room are covered with half-finished assignments from the undergrad students — heads carved out of clay, wooden sculptures, plaster casings.
Shadow Girl is near the window, sitting on a stool. She scrapes her purple nail polish off with her teeth. Her shorts are dusted in chalk powder of all different colors, like the clouds in a summer sunset.
I wonder if Shadow Girl knows how many people were looking at her tracings in the courtyard. But I’m not going to tell her. I don’t want her to remember that I was staring, so I put my head down and walk quickly past her.
She grabs my arm and pulls me to stop.
“I love your shoes,” she tells me. “They’re like . . . princess slippers or something.”
“They’re not mine,” I admit. Though as soon as the words leave my mouth, I regret it. I should have said they were. After all, I do have practically the same pair.
She presses her lips together. “Umm, all right then,” she says, followed by an awkward laugh, because I didn’t leave much room to expand the conversation. “Well . . . make sure you pass along my compliment to their rightful owner.”
“Okay.” I stand there for a second, in case Shadow Girl says something else. Only, she doesn’t, and neither do I, so we just kind of stare at each other. Then I head toward a seat on the other side of the room. It isn’t 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