gawk at me with
wide eyes. “You have a locker in senior hall? I thought he said you were a
junior.”
“Oh, yeah.” I rolled my eyes. “The secretary told me that
was the only hall with working lockers available.” I shrugged with a rueful
grin as if to add, What’re you gonna do ?
“Wow.” Laina looked awed.
Happy I’d managed to impress her, I said, “Yeah. I guess.”
Memorizing the route she took, I noted every doorway and
hall we passed, mumbling left and right under my breath when we made a turn.
Finally, Laina jerked to another stop. I glanced at the row of lockers to our
right and spotted the number 408. Realizing I was close, I ticked off a couple
more spaces before I found 412.
“Thanks.” I swung my bag off my shoulder. “I’ll just be a
minute.”
It took me three attempts to work open the combination. For
my first crack at this particular lock, I thought that was rather impressive. I
glanced over my shoulder twice to make sure my guide hadn’t deserted me, and
thank goodness, she continued to hang around, not looking at me but staring longingly
at her book bag, making me think she was tempted to pull out her novel and take
up where she’d left off her on her story while she waited.
After extracting my laptop, a notepad, and pen, I shoved my
bag inside and spun around with a deep breath. “Okay, I’m ready.”
Technically, I wasn’t ready at all, but if I had to proceed with
this day regardless, I was as ready as I’d ever be.
Laina took off again, without speaking.
We trekked back to the far end of the hallway, then turned
right and moved halfway down that passage before she slowed and finally stopped
walking. Thrusting my schedule in my direction, she said, “Here.”
I took the page, glanced down until I found the class number
for Art, then looked up to discover we’d actually made it. Turning toward
Laina, I grinned gratefully. “Thanks. I really appreciate…”
She’d already left and was halfway down the hall, her hair
gathered around her face as she stared at the ground. I found it amazing she
still knew to dodge to the side and step out of the way of oncoming students
without once looking up.
Shaking my head, I entered Art—ugh—and immediately got into
trouble.
“How many times do I have to repeat, no laptops in class!”
I stopped in my tracks, my face draining of color.
“S-sorry,” I sputtered, already backing toward the exit. “I’m new. I didn’t
know—”
The teacher lifted her glare from the computer tucked under
my arm and focused on my face. “Oh,” she said, her shoulders easing and mouth
softening into a welcoming smile. “Sorry about that, dear. But next time, don’t
bring your computer to class. There is no need for electronics in Art. That
means cell phones and iPods too. You must be Grace.”
With a flourish, she swept toward me, her long, hippie
flowered skirt billowing around her sandals and tattooed ankles. Seriously, the
woman was wearing sandals in January with a below-zero wind chill going on. Why
would I lie about that?
When she held out her hand as if I were there for an interview
instead of attending my first class, I faltered a moment before taking her
fingers in a shake. But she didn’t pump our wrists up and down. Instead, she
jerked me toward her and lifted my palm upright, studying the skin. Expecting a
fortune reading, I was a little surprised when she cooed, “Nice, capable fingers.
Yes, I see promise here. I’ll make an artist out of you yet.” Then she lifted
her face and narrowed her eyes before asking, “Quick. Which great artist cut
off his ear before killing himself?”
“Uh…” Holy Hosanna, was knowing that answer some kind of
prerequisite to taking Art 1? Thanks to Schy, I actually knew the artist’s name
and how to pronounce it correctly. “Umm, Van Gogh?”
A slow, approving smile spread across the teacher’s face.
She let go of my hand and took a step back. “Very good. I’m Miss
wide eyes. “You have a locker in senior hall? I thought he said you were a
junior.”
“Oh, yeah.” I rolled my eyes. “The secretary told me that
was the only hall with working lockers available.” I shrugged with a rueful
grin as if to add, What’re you gonna do ?
“Wow.” Laina looked awed.
Happy I’d managed to impress her, I said, “Yeah. I guess.”
Memorizing the route she took, I noted every doorway and
hall we passed, mumbling left and right under my breath when we made a turn.
Finally, Laina jerked to another stop. I glanced at the row of lockers to our
right and spotted the number 408. Realizing I was close, I ticked off a couple
more spaces before I found 412.
“Thanks.” I swung my bag off my shoulder. “I’ll just be a
minute.”
It took me three attempts to work open the combination. For
my first crack at this particular lock, I thought that was rather impressive. I
glanced over my shoulder twice to make sure my guide hadn’t deserted me, and
thank goodness, she continued to hang around, not looking at me but staring longingly
at her book bag, making me think she was tempted to pull out her novel and take
up where she’d left off her on her story while she waited.
After extracting my laptop, a notepad, and pen, I shoved my
bag inside and spun around with a deep breath. “Okay, I’m ready.”
Technically, I wasn’t ready at all, but if I had to proceed with
this day regardless, I was as ready as I’d ever be.
Laina took off again, without speaking.
We trekked back to the far end of the hallway, then turned
right and moved halfway down that passage before she slowed and finally stopped
walking. Thrusting my schedule in my direction, she said, “Here.”
I took the page, glanced down until I found the class number
for Art, then looked up to discover we’d actually made it. Turning toward
Laina, I grinned gratefully. “Thanks. I really appreciate…”
She’d already left and was halfway down the hall, her hair
gathered around her face as she stared at the ground. I found it amazing she
still knew to dodge to the side and step out of the way of oncoming students
without once looking up.
Shaking my head, I entered Art—ugh—and immediately got into
trouble.
“How many times do I have to repeat, no laptops in class!”
I stopped in my tracks, my face draining of color.
“S-sorry,” I sputtered, already backing toward the exit. “I’m new. I didn’t
know—”
The teacher lifted her glare from the computer tucked under
my arm and focused on my face. “Oh,” she said, her shoulders easing and mouth
softening into a welcoming smile. “Sorry about that, dear. But next time, don’t
bring your computer to class. There is no need for electronics in Art. That
means cell phones and iPods too. You must be Grace.”
With a flourish, she swept toward me, her long, hippie
flowered skirt billowing around her sandals and tattooed ankles. Seriously, the
woman was wearing sandals in January with a below-zero wind chill going on. Why
would I lie about that?
When she held out her hand as if I were there for an interview
instead of attending my first class, I faltered a moment before taking her
fingers in a shake. But she didn’t pump our wrists up and down. Instead, she
jerked me toward her and lifted my palm upright, studying the skin. Expecting a
fortune reading, I was a little surprised when she cooed, “Nice, capable fingers.
Yes, I see promise here. I’ll make an artist out of you yet.” Then she lifted
her face and narrowed her eyes before asking, “Quick. Which great artist cut
off his ear before killing himself?”
“Uh…” Holy Hosanna, was knowing that answer some kind of
prerequisite to taking Art 1? Thanks to Schy, I actually knew the artist’s name
and how to pronounce it correctly. “Umm, Van Gogh?”
A slow, approving smile spread across the teacher’s face.
She let go of my hand and took a step back. “Very good. I’m Miss
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