“Ah, so no hope you'll be the next big E.J. Hill? Give Dante here something to work for?” I'm confused until I hear a snort next to me.
“Not a chance Mr. A,” my neighbor’s deep voice floats over me softly.
“Well I can always hope, can't I Dante?” the teacher responds lightly. After asking me a few more questions, the teacher leaves me with the paper and a sketching pencil, along with the overwhelming task of beginning my first portrait. I'm so lost.
Two
I walk home unhurriedly. Now that school is over for the day, I have a little free time to analyze the day.
My tablemate in art didn't utter a word as he worked on a beautiful picture of a woman. I had to stop myself from staring at his hands, moving across the paper so gracefully, at least three times. I finally understood what Mr. Adams was referring to when he was goading him. He must be beyond talented if what I’d seen today is any indication of his ability.
My meager drawing consisted of a few rough shapes, a large oval for the face of a pretty girl I found in a stack of magazines Mr. Adams said I could use for reference, and a trapezoid, the beginning form of her neck. I felt rather foolish with that guy Dante, beside me.
He seemed pretty popular, in art class at least four or five people greeted him by name when they moved around the room. He never did more than nod his head or a grunt in acknowledgment in return though. He seemed really taken with what he was doing.
When I get home, I know I'll find Mom either passed out on the couch, or bustling around our tiny home on wheels.
She only seems to have two speeds anymore. Lord knows she hasn't been sleeping at night for a while. I have to admit though, lately she's been off, even for her.
A large wooden sign that's lost most of its paint announces Turtle Park Resort as I pass from the black tar road to the gravel driveway of our new temporary home.
A “resort” it is not. Most of the sites are empty, and tall grass pokes through the gravel pads where most people park their RVs for a weekend camping trip. There are a few trailers permanently parked in the premium spots near the small man-made pond close to the front entrance.
It might even be quaint if it wasn't all so familiar, if we—like the others—only roughed it for the weekend, or even the summer. But we've been doing this for as long as I can remember. Trading one RV park for the next. Endless days of echoing shower stalls where you can never get any privacy, and dingy bathrooms covered in mildew and spiders.
I'm relieved the walk to school isn't too far this time; the busses never stop by these places for pickups no matter how far they are from the school.
Our site is secluded in the back of the park, where trees border one side while empty flat pads surround the others. Our motor home looks abandon as I approach.
The windows are all closed and covered with the heavy drapes Mom put up several years ago.
Easily finding the small key ring in my pocket, I tap quickly on the door before unlocking it, announcing myself.
Surprisingly, mom’s not asleep on the couch when I get in, and I don't see her anywhere in the tiny space. Maybe she laid down in the one bed we have, one I've tried to get her to sleep in for the past few months.
I peek back toward the curtained off area noting it is, in fact, closed.
I ease my backpack off, dropping it quietly on the tiny dining table not wanting to wake her up.
I have homework in two classes that should only take me a few minutes before I need to head back out and hand in the few applications I managed to collect Sunday afternoon.
The note I left on the tiny counter is still there when I return, and Mom is still nowhere in sight. Getting a little worried, I tread to the back where I usually sleep and brush the thin curtain barrier aside to peer at the small double bed.
Mom is half on her stomach, half on her side, sprawled over the flimsy mattress. Her messy hair, which should be a dark shade of blonde, looks taupe instead. Her face is buried so