heads swivel around the room. Looking for the new student that I'm sure most of them had no clue was among them.
I'm tempted to ignore her, but I know that doesn't work because I've tried it before. So, I gaze at the front of the room without making eye contact with anyone and lift my hand in a small wave.
“Laura, tell us where are you from?” Mrs. Yarro prods.
At this point I don't even remember, so I tell her the last place we moved from. “Michigan,” I respond loud enough so I won't need to repeat myself. Mrs. Yarro nods her head encouragingly, wanting me to add more. When I don't, she folds her hands together and looks around the room.
Taking mercy on me after one last look in my direction she says, “All right then Laura, we're happy to have you. Jimmy can you tell me where we left off on Friday?”
“Um, uh,” the guy in front of me stutters as he turns back around to his own desk and fumbles with a textbook.
With a heavy sigh Mrs. Yarro answers her own question, “Chapter twenty-four people! Remember we're having a test Thursday. I'll expect everyone to be prepared.”
I get a few more looks throughout the class period but nothing I couldn't handle. My last class of the day is the only elective available to me, art. To say I lack the creative gene would be too simple; frankly, I'm completely out of my element with anything artistic.
The teacher, a mild looking man in tan corduroy pants and a button-up shirt, is standing near a lab table. Oh no, these are the worst. I really don't want to share a table with anyone; it's hard to ignore someone sitting at the same table with you.
“Laura,” he addresses me in a smooth tone. I nod, stepping close enough that we won't draw too much attention from the others coming into the room. “I have an open seat for you right here.” He gestures to a table at the far left of the room. “We've been working on portraits for the display case at the front of the school for the past few weeks, after everyone arrives I'll get you started, and we'll see if we can get you caught up.”
I let my bag slide down my arm and to the floor next to the stool. The other seat at the table is still empty when I drop into mine. Do I dare hope it will remain that way?
I take advantage of the fact that few other students haven’t arrived yet and let my eyes scan the room.
The ceiling is high, leaving exposed gray beams crisscrossing above me, every inch of wall space from about ten feet down is covered with layers and layers of artwork. Some childlike with just smears of colors on aging construction paper, others you can tell the artist has real talent.
It's the most vivid place in the whole school; while everything else bleeds gray and bland, this room erupts in colors. It's a little dizzying honestly.
The scrape of a stool jolts me from my stupor as I stared at a particularly dark drawing. It almost covers the white paper completely in charcoal, but it still invokes a feeling of emptiness in me. I can't make out the images from my vantage point, but the desolation spans the room. Instinctively, I look over to the sound that disturbed me, and when I catch sight of a slightly scruffy chin, I snap my head back to face the front of the class.
I can't believe I was so distracted by the sketch, I didn't realize students were filling seats around me.
Mr. Adams greets the class by clapping his hands together to get everyone’s attention. “All right guys, your portraits are due soon. I’ll make my way around the room to see if anyone needs a little guidance, if I don’t make it to you today, it’ll be first thing tomorrow. I want to see the best you have to give me.”
He makes his way over to my table, already carrying a large, thick piece of white paper. Mr. Adams leans his palms on the surface, and his eyes meet mine briefly before I move my gaze to the paper resting on the black desktop. “We've been focusing mostly on technique over the last few weeks, learning proportions and facial perspective. How familiar are you with portrait work?”
Looking at his thin neck and rounded chin, I whisper, “Not at all really.