is going on—it’s a dance party. Suddenly, someone touches my arm. I start and spin around. It’s Ms. Calico and she waves me back into the art room.
“Cora, before you jump into the crush, I wonder if I might have a brief word with you?” she asks.
“Um, sure,” I reply. Uh-oh. A brief word never seems like a good thing; it’s what cops and principals always had to ask my parents for when Nate was alive, after he had gotten into one kind of trouble or another.
“Your work in this class is quite impressive, Cora,” Ms. Calico states as more people brush past us to get out of the classroom and into the hall. “I can see so much potential in your line, in your forms. And I’ve seen your maps when you’ve turned in your sketch pad. They are fascinating, Cora.” She looks at me closely as she continues, “You remember I spoke about some summer art programs at the beginning of the semester?” I nod, my gut buzzing like it’s filled with a bee’s nest and the inmates have just escaped. “Good. I’d like to recommend you for one of them. Would you like that?” Ms. Calico’s gaze is piercing, as if she is searching me for some kind of answer or information, and meanwhile my heart might just swell so big it’ll pop out of my chest. She thinks my work is impressive?
“Really?” I ask. “Yeah, I would definitely be interested. That would be incredible!” My mind is whirring so fast. Can this be real? I study Ms. Calico’s face. “You really think I’m good?”
“I wouldn’t stand here and say it if I didn’t mean it. And this particular program has a cartography class that I think you’d really enjoy.”
“Wow,” I say softly.
“Yes, well, I will bring the application forms to you tomorrow. The program is in London, so you’ll have to cover the airfare, but beyond that, all expenses would be covered.”
“London?” I repeat in amazement. For a moment, I feel like I’m taking off, leaping into glorious flight. Finally, I will go somewhere. Then, reality thumps me over the head, as it always seemsto do. My mother is never going to allow me to go to London for a summer. Never. “Oh, I—I don’t know…” I whisper.
“Well, how about you just fill out the application, and let’s see? All right?” Ms. Calico prods.
I can only nod my head mutely.
“Okay, go party with the rest of them,” Ms. Calico says, lightly steering me back through the door. “And remember, the application is due November fifteenth.”
Words are fumbling through my mind. Impressive. Potential. London. I know I’m walking a tightrope. I could let go and allow myself to believe in this fantasy that my art has potential, that I have talent, and that I could go to London to explore it. But, it’s too dangerous. This is something I want so badly, too badly, and I can only crash and fall flat on my disappointed face.
I walk out into the tangle of swaying bodies, my mouth hanging open as I take in the mass of wriggling dancers, the teachers standing silently, smilingly in their classroom doorways. Mr. Halpern, the assistant principal, is wading through the sea of students, helplessly flapping his arms, anxiously tugging at his greasy hair and wiping at his brow, as he tries heedlessly to shepherd everyone back to class. He makes an absurd and lonely picture in the midst of all the jollity. Actually, the whole affair makes a pretty absurd picture—a dance party in the high school hallway at two o’clock in the afternoon. ButI feel lonely and removed from it all. Funny, how I am more in sync with Mr. Halpern than anyone else at this moment. I continue moving through the crowd, feeling gangly and wooden, aware of my arms hanging limply at my sides—they feel too long and stiff.
Suddenly, I walk into something. Hard.
“Ouch.” I look up. “Oh.”
Damian. He is standing in front of me, rubbing his arm. “Hey,” he says.
“Um, hi,” I reply. “Sorry about that. I was distracted.” Was he waiting for me
“Cora, before you jump into the crush, I wonder if I might have a brief word with you?” she asks.
“Um, sure,” I reply. Uh-oh. A brief word never seems like a good thing; it’s what cops and principals always had to ask my parents for when Nate was alive, after he had gotten into one kind of trouble or another.
“Your work in this class is quite impressive, Cora,” Ms. Calico states as more people brush past us to get out of the classroom and into the hall. “I can see so much potential in your line, in your forms. And I’ve seen your maps when you’ve turned in your sketch pad. They are fascinating, Cora.” She looks at me closely as she continues, “You remember I spoke about some summer art programs at the beginning of the semester?” I nod, my gut buzzing like it’s filled with a bee’s nest and the inmates have just escaped. “Good. I’d like to recommend you for one of them. Would you like that?” Ms. Calico’s gaze is piercing, as if she is searching me for some kind of answer or information, and meanwhile my heart might just swell so big it’ll pop out of my chest. She thinks my work is impressive?
“Really?” I ask. “Yeah, I would definitely be interested. That would be incredible!” My mind is whirring so fast. Can this be real? I study Ms. Calico’s face. “You really think I’m good?”
“I wouldn’t stand here and say it if I didn’t mean it. And this particular program has a cartography class that I think you’d really enjoy.”
“Wow,” I say softly.
“Yes, well, I will bring the application forms to you tomorrow. The program is in London, so you’ll have to cover the airfare, but beyond that, all expenses would be covered.”
“London?” I repeat in amazement. For a moment, I feel like I’m taking off, leaping into glorious flight. Finally, I will go somewhere. Then, reality thumps me over the head, as it always seemsto do. My mother is never going to allow me to go to London for a summer. Never. “Oh, I—I don’t know…” I whisper.
“Well, how about you just fill out the application, and let’s see? All right?” Ms. Calico prods.
I can only nod my head mutely.
“Okay, go party with the rest of them,” Ms. Calico says, lightly steering me back through the door. “And remember, the application is due November fifteenth.”
Words are fumbling through my mind. Impressive. Potential. London. I know I’m walking a tightrope. I could let go and allow myself to believe in this fantasy that my art has potential, that I have talent, and that I could go to London to explore it. But, it’s too dangerous. This is something I want so badly, too badly, and I can only crash and fall flat on my disappointed face.
I walk out into the tangle of swaying bodies, my mouth hanging open as I take in the mass of wriggling dancers, the teachers standing silently, smilingly in their classroom doorways. Mr. Halpern, the assistant principal, is wading through the sea of students, helplessly flapping his arms, anxiously tugging at his greasy hair and wiping at his brow, as he tries heedlessly to shepherd everyone back to class. He makes an absurd and lonely picture in the midst of all the jollity. Actually, the whole affair makes a pretty absurd picture—a dance party in the high school hallway at two o’clock in the afternoon. ButI feel lonely and removed from it all. Funny, how I am more in sync with Mr. Halpern than anyone else at this moment. I continue moving through the crowd, feeling gangly and wooden, aware of my arms hanging limply at my sides—they feel too long and stiff.
Suddenly, I walk into something. Hard.
“Ouch.” I look up. “Oh.”
Damian. He is standing in front of me, rubbing his arm. “Hey,” he says.
“Um, hi,” I reply. “Sorry about that. I was distracted.” Was he waiting for me
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