pear.
“Hi,” I say, and I sit at the table next to his as casually as possible.
He looks up briefly. “Hi,” he answers, then goes back to his work.
I get my charcoal and art pad ready, then focus on an apple in the arrangement of fruit. The apple’s a little misshapen, with only one well-rounded side and a lumpy top that looks like a weird hairstyle. With a few strokes I draw my apple, and it begins to take form as a character. Droopy eyes, a long nose, and a mouth stretched wide, as if he’s singing. A few lines here and there, and he has hands and a guitar with one broken string.
I hear a chuckle behind me and look up to see Ms. Montero. “Even without the hat, he’s definitely country-western,” she says.
Jonathan hesitates, then leans over to look. He doesn’t say anything.
“I’m sorry,” I tell Ms. Montero as I rip the sheet from my art pad. “I drew what I saw. From now on I’ll tend to business.”
“I like what you drew,” she says. “After all, that’s what contemporary art is all about—what the artist sees, how the artist feels. Interpret what you see in your own way, Kristi.”
She moves on to see what Beth is doing. I catch Jonathan looking at me. He quickly looks away,then turns back again. “You’re good,” he says quietly.
Surprised, I say, “I thought you didn’t like my drawing.”
For the first time Jonathan smiles at me. “I like it. Maybe too much. I guess I’m a little jealous of you, Kristi.”
“Jealous?” I realize my mouth is hanging open. With a gulp, I close it.
“It all comes so easy to you,” Jonathan says. “I watched you. Just a few quick lines and your apple suddenly was a real character. For a moment I thought I could even tell what he was thinking.” He waits a moment, then says, “I can’t draw like that. I wish I could.”
“Thanks for the compliment,” I tell him, “but sometimes I get mad at myself when I get too cartoony. I’d like to sketch like you. Your work is always so well planned. Every line counts.”
“I plod at what I do. You don’t. You’ve got a real talent. It must be something you were born with. Heredity. Is either of your parents an artist?”
I shrug. “I didn’t get it from my parents. My grandmother says I draw like one of her older brothers, but he was a farmer and didn’t have much time to spend on his art. Maybe it just skipped a generation!”
Ms. Montero holds up her left arm and points at her wristwatch. “Watch the time, kids,” she says.
The buzz of conversation dies down as we all tend to business. I begin with the best of intentions. But soon a gigantic human hand reaches out overthe bowl of fruit, ready to choose something to eat. My apple hunkers down in the bowl, scowling, and my big-bottomed pear winces and grits her teeth. My grapes get into such a pushing-and-shoving match that two of them fall out of the bowl onto the table.
Yeow! Ouch! Look out!
I write in balloons coming out of their wide-open mouths. YOU NEED AT LEAST FOUR SERVINGS OF FRUIT A DAY FOR GOOD HEALTH , I print in big letters along the bottom of the page.
Jonathan has inched his stool closer to mine. He looks over my shoulder. “That’s very funny. I like it. Could I have it?” he asks.
“Sure,” I answer. Then I say, “Let’s trade.”
He hands me his sketch of a pear. It’s beautifully shaded with thin, soft lines. I’d never have that much patience. Every little freckle and bump on the pear has been faithfully sketched in. It’s perfect.
And it’s dead. I’d like to add closed eyes and a lily in its hand.
But it’s Jonathan’s. Wonderful, handsome Jonathan. “Thank you,” I tell Jonathan, and smile at him, which is very easy to do.
I walk out of class in a happy daze. Jonathan has not only noticed me, he’s talked to me. He has even confided in me. But my daydreams about Jonathan disappear with a pop as I reach the bus stop and see a black sedan with someone in it parked halfway down the
“Hi,” I say, and I sit at the table next to his as casually as possible.
He looks up briefly. “Hi,” he answers, then goes back to his work.
I get my charcoal and art pad ready, then focus on an apple in the arrangement of fruit. The apple’s a little misshapen, with only one well-rounded side and a lumpy top that looks like a weird hairstyle. With a few strokes I draw my apple, and it begins to take form as a character. Droopy eyes, a long nose, and a mouth stretched wide, as if he’s singing. A few lines here and there, and he has hands and a guitar with one broken string.
I hear a chuckle behind me and look up to see Ms. Montero. “Even without the hat, he’s definitely country-western,” she says.
Jonathan hesitates, then leans over to look. He doesn’t say anything.
“I’m sorry,” I tell Ms. Montero as I rip the sheet from my art pad. “I drew what I saw. From now on I’ll tend to business.”
“I like what you drew,” she says. “After all, that’s what contemporary art is all about—what the artist sees, how the artist feels. Interpret what you see in your own way, Kristi.”
She moves on to see what Beth is doing. I catch Jonathan looking at me. He quickly looks away,then turns back again. “You’re good,” he says quietly.
Surprised, I say, “I thought you didn’t like my drawing.”
For the first time Jonathan smiles at me. “I like it. Maybe too much. I guess I’m a little jealous of you, Kristi.”
“Jealous?” I realize my mouth is hanging open. With a gulp, I close it.
“It all comes so easy to you,” Jonathan says. “I watched you. Just a few quick lines and your apple suddenly was a real character. For a moment I thought I could even tell what he was thinking.” He waits a moment, then says, “I can’t draw like that. I wish I could.”
“Thanks for the compliment,” I tell him, “but sometimes I get mad at myself when I get too cartoony. I’d like to sketch like you. Your work is always so well planned. Every line counts.”
“I plod at what I do. You don’t. You’ve got a real talent. It must be something you were born with. Heredity. Is either of your parents an artist?”
I shrug. “I didn’t get it from my parents. My grandmother says I draw like one of her older brothers, but he was a farmer and didn’t have much time to spend on his art. Maybe it just skipped a generation!”
Ms. Montero holds up her left arm and points at her wristwatch. “Watch the time, kids,” she says.
The buzz of conversation dies down as we all tend to business. I begin with the best of intentions. But soon a gigantic human hand reaches out overthe bowl of fruit, ready to choose something to eat. My apple hunkers down in the bowl, scowling, and my big-bottomed pear winces and grits her teeth. My grapes get into such a pushing-and-shoving match that two of them fall out of the bowl onto the table.
Yeow! Ouch! Look out!
I write in balloons coming out of their wide-open mouths. YOU NEED AT LEAST FOUR SERVINGS OF FRUIT A DAY FOR GOOD HEALTH , I print in big letters along the bottom of the page.
Jonathan has inched his stool closer to mine. He looks over my shoulder. “That’s very funny. I like it. Could I have it?” he asks.
“Sure,” I answer. Then I say, “Let’s trade.”
He hands me his sketch of a pear. It’s beautifully shaded with thin, soft lines. I’d never have that much patience. Every little freckle and bump on the pear has been faithfully sketched in. It’s perfect.
And it’s dead. I’d like to add closed eyes and a lily in its hand.
But it’s Jonathan’s. Wonderful, handsome Jonathan. “Thank you,” I tell Jonathan, and smile at him, which is very easy to do.
I walk out of class in a happy daze. Jonathan has not only noticed me, he’s talked to me. He has even confided in me. But my daydreams about Jonathan disappear with a pop as I reach the bus stop and see a black sedan with someone in it parked halfway down the
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