As cheer girl gets closer to their group her features blur along with the distance.
Most of the kids are now streaming into the doors so I don't have time to watch which of the boys in the group she belongs with.
At lunch I don't linger in the stairwell as long as I did yesterday. I have my paper sack and book gathered up before the warning bell. I don't want to be caught hanging out when some couple needs a secluded spot to make out again.
I still hear a few whispers and some of the bolder kids even start to say hello to me. I always respond back with just enough to show I’m not ignoring them, but never stick around long enough for them to actually talk to me. Soon enough they won't bother speaking to me, and after that I'll be able to walk the halls invisible.
I'm hopelessly staring at the glossy magazine photo I chose for my project muse, and wondering how the hell I'll ever get my shapes to look anything like the beautiful girl in the picture, when I hear a soft warm, “Hey.”
I have to walk a fine line to become nonessential. I can't just ignore him, then people would start to think I'm stuck up. My approach is like threading a needle, I have to be shy and awkward enough that they don't befriend me, and quiet enough that they forget me.
As I've gotten older, it's pretty easy with boys. As long as I don't get friendly with them they usually are the first to wipe me from the radar.
“Hello,” I all but whisper back without lifting my eyes from my project. I can feel him watching me, so I continue to stare at my almost blank paper.
When a few moments pass without him speaking again, I think I'm in the clear. That is until Mr. Adams comes over to check my progress, or rather lack thereof.
“Laura, I'm starting to think you were telling the truth about not being the artist I thought you were.” His tone is light and teasing.
I shrug somewhat limply. “Yeah, I'm pretty lost here,” I respond back, watching his blue paisley tie which is layered over a cream colored button-up shirt.
“Well it's a good thing I had the exceptional foresight to seat you with my star pupil. What do you say Dante, can you give Laura some guidance on her next step?”
Dante sits quietly beside me. Mortification hits me fast. I can feel the heat invading my cheeks and down my neck. “Mr. Adams, I still have to finish this.” He gestures down to his work of art. His hand, stained black from charcoal, fans over the gorgeous woman looking up from the paper.
“That's okay,” I rush out. I know he doesn't want to be burdened with helping me. “Honestly I'll manage,” I continue even softer.
My shoulders are slumped forward, trying to make myself smaller so I can forget how embarrassing it is I don't have to try hard for people to not want to be around me.
They're both quiet as I pull my drawing closer and hunch over my work.
“Laura,” his voice tight, my teacher begins, “I have some examples of proportion division. Those will give you a better idea how to split the face, and where to place the features.” I peer up at him and meet his eyes briefly if only to convey my gratitude.
“Come on, we'll make a transfer paper too. That way you can get some ideas on top of what you've already got started on here.”
He pulls my paper from the table and I follow him to the front of the room, where he drops my unfinished work on his desk before gathering a thin sheet of clear paper, then combs through a filing cabinet in the corner.
The noise level in the class stays at a low hum of scratching pencils and quiet voices as I wait beside Mr. Adams’s desk. He returns quickly and motions me forward.
“All right, so here are a few illustrations on facial proportions.” He spends the next ten minutes going over techniques on dividing the face down the middle then splitting it horizontally so I know where to place the hairline, eyes, nose, and mouth. When he's done, I also have a traced outline, perfectly proportioned, on the clear sheet that fits directly over what I started yesterday, which he said I could use as a reference guide.