Same Difference. Siobhan Vivian
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college and will also be giving you instruction and answering questions.” Yates has his back turned to us, unloading Mr. Frank’s supplies. “I would like to start today by going around the room. Tell me a little about yourself and your goals for this class.”
It’s too much to process at once. His name is Yates. And if Yates just finished his freshman year, he’s probably only nineteen. I’ll turn seventeen in September. Two years older than me isn’t much of an age difference at all. But the fact that he’s my teacher is a big difference. Huge, even.
Mr. Frank looks in my general direction and snaps me back to attention. “Who would like to go first?” he asks.
My stomach flips. I hate speaking in public. I’m way better with images than I am with words.
Shadow Girl raises her hand, the only volunteer. Everyone in the room sits up and pays attention. I know I do.
“My name’s Fiona Crawford, and I’m from the glamorously named Fish Town.” Her voice is drowsy and raspy, but it projects like she’s used to addressing a crowd. “I’ll be a senior next year and I need some traditional pieces for portfolio reviews so I can apply to art school.”
Mr. Frank takes a sip of coffee from a Styrofoam cup. “Traditional as opposed to what?”
Fiona smirks. I can’t exactly tell if she’s annoyed that she has to explain herself, or happy that she gets to keep talking. “My work is mainly guerrilla meets performance, so it’s impossible to document.”
“You can take pictures. That’s entirely acceptable for a portfolio.” Mr. Frank looks for the next person to speak.
“Pictures?” Fiona’s face curdles. “A picture can never be as meaningful as the actual experience.” She arches her back into a stretch. It’s almost flirtatious. “I’d rather not show the piece at all, if it’s going to be some weak, half-assed version. So yeah, just set me up with some fruit in a bowl and maybe a ceramic pitcher, or whatever. A couple of still lifes and I’ll be good to go.”
Mr. Frank raises his coffee to his mouth and considers this. We all stay quiet. I don’t know about anyone else here, but I’ve never heard a person say assed before in a class. When he lowers the cup, he reveals the smallest smile.
The class collectively shifts its weight. Fiona’s answer is a lot to live up to.
Mr. Frank continues. “How many of you are going into your senior year of high school?” About half of our class raise their hands, including me and Pixie Girl. “Well, by the end of our six weeks together, you should all have more than a few portfolio-quality pieces. And the rest of you will have quite a jump on putting together something for admissions.”
I haven’t ever considered going to college for art. Meg and I are looking at Trenton State. Her grades are much better than mine, but hopefully we’ll both get in. I worry that maybe this drawing class is going to be more advanced or serious than someone like me, someone with no experience, is ready for.
Pixie Girl goes next. “I’m Robyn, and I’m from northern New Jersey. But it’s practically New York City,” she adds quickly, “because I can see the Empire State Building from my bedroom window. My parents own a gallery in Chelsea.” Robyn’s eyes stop on Mr. Frank, probably to see if he is impressed. If he is, he doesn’t show it. “They travel through Europe most of the summer and I get shipped off to Fine Art day care.” I’m surprised to hear Robyn talk in such a blasé way, like she’s already over this place. I guess when your parents actually own a real art gallery, these programs seem a lot like Ms. Kay’s class. “Anyhow, I’d like to work on developing a more critical eye, so I can express my opinions about art better. I plan on running my own gallery one day.”
“Well, we will be doing a lot of discussions and critiques. All of you will be expected to articulate an opinion on what your peers are producing.”
Great. I imagine myself hanging up a bad drawing and standing there, blindfolded, like I’m in front of a firing squad. Ms. Kay was nice about not forcing our class to show pieces we weren’t happy with. I have a sneaking suspicion Mr. Frank won’t be as forgiving.
We continue to go around the room. The rest of the kids in my class seem average compared to Fiona and Robyn, which puts me just the smallest bit at ease. Most are from the East Coast, but one guy is from Arizona. There’s a girl from Helsinki who speaks really bad English and I don’t think anyone understands her answers.
I notice that Fiona looks a little bored while the other people talk. Not in a mean way, but where she kind of looks over your head because she’s thinking about something more interesting than what you’re saying. Robyn keeps leaning in and whispering things in Fiona’s ear, jokes to get her attention.
When it’s my turn, it’s like I can’t help but want to impress them, for whatever reason. But I also already know that’s not going to happen.
My mouth opens. It’s so dry. “My name is Emily Thompson. I’m from Cherry Grove.” That’s the easy part. My smile fades and my mind goes as white as the paper up on my easel.
Mr. Frank clears his throat. “And why are you here?” He asks it not like he’s interested in my answer, but more like he’s feeding me lines I should already know.
Fiona glances at me, as she braids and unbraids her long pink waterfall of hair.
“Uhh . . .” All the answers that flood my head are ones I wouldn’t dare speak out loud. That this is the only way I could come up with to make my summer less boring, because I don’t have a boyfriend like my best friend. That art was the only high school class I got an A in. None of these seem like good enough answers, even if they are all true.
I end up shrugging my shoulders. It’s the best I can do.
Almost instantly, Robyn leans into Fiona, pushing that long pink lock away from her ear so she can whisper something about me. Then Robyn laughs. Loud.
I stare at the paint splatters on the floor. Even if I’m nothing special in Cherry Grove, no one laughs at me. I do enough right to keep that from happening.
“We’re all set, Mr. Frank,” Yates tells him quietly, a much-needed break to the awkwardness. I’ve made a fool of myself in front of him. He slips a small black notebook into Mr. Frank’s hands.
“Okay.” Mr. Frank stands up. “How many of you keep a sketchbook?”
A few kids raise their hands, including Fiona, though hers seems to rise above the rest. Robyn raises hers, too, but a few seconds later. I sit on my hands and enjoy the weight of my body, the pressure on my fingers, like a punishment. I’ve never kept a sketchbook. I’ve only doodled in the margins of my lined notebooks, when I got bored in school.
“For this class, I am requiring everyone to keep a sketchbook, which I want you to think of as a visual diary,” Mr. Frank continues. “Except that one entry per day will not do. Rather, I want you to catalog your life, your point of view in the pages. I want you to take pause in the small, beautiful moments where you’d otherwise push on through with your normal life.” He locks eyes with Fiona. “Would you mind if I took a look?” he asks, taking careful, slow steps over to her.
“Absolument,” Fiona says in a pitch-perfect French accent, and digs deep in her tote bag, which is covered in cartoon owls. “So long as you don’t narc me out to the cops.”
What?
“I don’t feel comfortable sharing my sketchbook,” Robyn says, even though no one asked to see it. “Mine is very personal.”
“Well,” Mr. Frank says, “you should begin a new one, then, because I will expect you to show me drawings each week.”
Fiona pulls out a thick blue book that looks handmade, stitched together with red yarn. It’s stuffed full, the way my binders get by the end of the school year, with a black band wrapped around the cover to force it closed. As she opens it up and hands it over to Mr. Frank, a few pieces of ripped