The Messy Life of Blue

by Shawna Railey

  “What’s this for again?” my dad asked, but I was already running out of the kitchen and into the office. I turned the computer on and waited impatiently for it to boot up.

  “You’re never going to find a class in the next week,” Jackson said, leaning against the doorway with his arms folded like he knew everything. Which he did not. Why did he even care in the first place?

  “You don’t know.”

  “Yes, I do know.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “Yes, I do,” he said. “And if you do find a class, it’ll probably be all filled up anyway.”

  I didn’t look at him. I refused to stoop down to his level and continue to argue. He needed to understand that I was much older and much wiser than him. I didn’t have time to bicker with such an immature child.

  “If you don’t leave, I’m telling Dad!” I said with just a hint of a whine.

  He shook his head at me as he left, but I didn’t care. I was incredibly determined. A few minutes later, I was scrolling through a list of classes on the Art Institute’s website. There was one class that looked perfect. It was called Life Drawing, and it was next Saturday. That would give me a day and a half to finish my family portrait after the class. I would still have time to mail it in before the deadline.

  I needed to take that class.

  I showed it to my dad, who agreed that it did, indeed, sound perfect. There was just one problem. When he tried to register me, the website said there were no more spaces available.

  My eyes filled with tears, but I tried to hide it. I didn’t want my dad to think I was overreacting, but I could barely contain my disappointment. It felt like all my hopes and dreams were going up in a ball of flames.

  It didn’t really matter anyway, I told myself, trying to get a grip on my tears. I mean, who was I kidding? I could never win a drawing contest, even if I took a thousand art classes. I wasn’t phenomenal at anything, but I was especially not phenomenal at drawing.

  I thanked my dad for trying and went up to my room. I closed the blinds in my window, blocking out all the sunshine and happiness. I climbed onto my bed and stared into the darkness. After a few minutes, I opened the blinds again and let the sunlight back in. It’s easy to ignore the things that sparkle if you only focus on the things that dull your shine. Even feeling as sad as I felt, I never wanted to ignore the sparkles.

  On the following Monday at school I tried not to think about London Malloy or the contest or disappointing my mother. Instead, I tried to focus on the things I was really good at. I found out that I am actually very talented at:

  Getting to school late

  Doodling hearts on my math homework

  Avoiding Crybaby-Jared at recess

  Spelling the word hippopotamus

  When I got home, I dropped my backpack in the hallway. Then I picked it up and put it where it was really supposed to go, which made me quite proud of myself; I’d remembered for once. I was so busy giving myself a mental pat on the back that I didn’t even notice my dad sitting on the stairs. He had the phone in his hand.

  “I just got off the phone with Tamara Jenings. She’s the director of the Art Institute and used to work with your mom, so I called in a favor. It seems they are willing to overlook their strict class sizes and allow you to attend that class on Saturday, if you still want—”

  I ran to my dad and hugged him as hard as I could. “Thank you, thank you, thank you! I’m going to go get ready!”

  I hopped over him and raced up the stairs toward my bedroom. My dad hollered at my back, “Get ready for what? You still have the rest of the week!”

  I sat at my desk and made a list of all the items I needed to bring with me to class. It wasn’t a very long list. I chewed on the top of my pencil while I tried to think of everything. Sketch pad. Check. Pencil. Check. Eraser. Check.

  On Tuesday, I collected the items I’d put on the list and put them in a brown paper bag.

  On Wednesday, I watched back-to-back reruns of Family Tree, which was very inspirational to me artistically.

  On Thursday, I tried sketching just my dad, but he ended up looking like Jack the Pumpkin King. (On a side note, it turns out I can draw a pretty decent Jack the Pumpkin King).

  On Friday, I paced back and forth all afternoon after school, waiting anxiously for Saturday to finally arrive. That’s when my dad pulled me aside.

  “Blue, you’re driving us all crazy. Can’t you find something else to do besides walk back and forth past my office door?”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to. It’s just that I’m so excited for my art class tomorrow.”

  My dad stood up from his desk, snapping his fingers with a mischievous grin. “I have an idea. Follow me. I have something for you.”

  I followed him into his bedroom and waited while he rustled around in his closet. He came back out holding a navy-blue corduroy bag with two brightly colored birds stitched on the front.

  “This belonged to your mom. We bought it on our honeymoon in Italy. She actually embroidered it herself.” He ran his hand lightly across the fabric before unzipping the main compartment. “She carried it to every single one of her art classes. It’s the perfect size to carry a sketch pad and plenty more.” He held it out to me. “She would want you to have it for your class tomorrow.” He tried to smile, but it was obviously plastic.

  I took the bag from him and stared down at the two birds. I didn’t know how to explain to him how much it meant to me, so I didn’t say anything. But I think he knew. He pulled me in for a hug and I buried my face into his sweater. He smelled like peppermint and soap. For a second, I didn’t want to let go.

  I finally found the words to say: “I love it.”

  “Go on,” he said, letting go and ruffling my hair. “Get outta here and fill that bag up with all your art stuff.”

  I peeked over my shoulder as I left the room. My dad’s plastic smile was already beginning to fade as he picked up a photograph of my mother. I closed the door quietly.

  7

  By the time the art class finally arrived, my stomach was tangled up in knots. I held tight to my special art bag, now filled with my very own sketch pad, my black-and-white-checkered pencil, and my favorite strawberry-scented eraser. I tried to pretend like I wasn’t scared, but the truth was that I was terrified. I wasn’t afraid of the teacher or anything; I was afraid I would be a disappointment. I mean, if my mom was an artist, that should mean I have the same talent, too, right? Maybe my drawing skills were just buried deep down inside me, far, far away, miles below the surface, so small they were barely even there. But they were there. I had to believe that.

  I’d told my dad that I could walk to the classroom on my own, but once I got there, I wondered if I’d made a mistake. Being so close to Christmas, the temperature had dropped, and I used that as an excuse for the chills I suddenly had. I pulled my sweater tighter around me as I entered the classroom. The class was crowded, and when I scanned the room, I realized immediately that it was full of adults—there wasn’t another kid in sight. I checked the room number one more time; it still read 308. This was definitely the right room.

  I entered as quietly as I could. I think if I could have made myself invisible, I would have. I wiped my sweaty palms on the front of my jeans and tried to stay calm. The tables were pushed together to form one large circle, with everyone facing toward the center. I found a spot near the far window and quickly sat down.

  The teacher still hadn’t arrived, so the students stood chatting with one another, sipping on their teas and coffees and looking very sophisticated. I hadn’t thought to bring anything, but watching them sip on their hot drinks made me suddenly thirsty. Which then made me suddenly hungry. Luckily for me, there was a basket of fruit in the middle of the circle. I glanced around the room before helping myself with a shrug. First come, first serve, my dad always says.

  The shiniest apple ever created sat inside the basket and was calling out my name. It was buried underneath an
orange and a pair of bananas, but I wasn’t going to let that stop me. I nudged it out of its little tunnel and licked my lips in anticipation. Then I spilled every piece of fruit stacked inside the basket all over the floor in one giant rush of noooo!

  So much for being invisible.

  I didn’t look at anyone as I grabbed as many pieces of fruit as I could and shoved them back into the basket as fast as possible. I crawled underneath a table for the last one—a kiwi—and then placed it carefully on top.

  I sat back down, still too afraid to look anyone in the eye. I’d managed to save my shiny red apple, and when I bit into it, the crunch was so loud, it sounded like I’d used a microphone. I sat a bit lower in my seat. A man in a green coat—the kind that looks like it belongs with a suit—was watching me from across the room. He looked angry. I shrugged and pointed at the rest of the apples in the basket. If he wanted one, he could just get up and get one. Sheesh.

  I reached into my bag and pulled out my pencil. Might as well be ready for when class started. I couldn’t help but overhear the two women sitting next to me while we waited.

  “Beth Ann told Tabitha that the last time she took this class, they used a live model.”

  “Is that so?” the other woman asked.

  “It is. Did I also happen to mention he was nude?”

  I accidentally inhaled part of my apple. I began to choke, holding on to the table as I coughed and gasped for breath. Eventually, with the help of a very nice stranger who patted me on the back, I coughed out the chewed-up piece of apple. It flew out of my mouth and across the room, landing on the table in front of the man in the green coat.

  Oops.

  He looked disgusted. I shrugged and tried to give him a smile, but he rolled his eyes at me and looked away. If we were getting graded in this class, I would already have a big fat F, and the class hadn’t even started yet.

  Just then, the teacher entered the classroom in a dramatic flourish, waving her arms about as she spoke. She introduced herself as Cosimia and told us her name meant “of the universe.” And that she was. She gave us a long speech about freedom of expression and how society tries to make us “color inside the lines.” And it seemed like the more she spoke, the crazier her arms got. By the end, she had broken out in a sweat and strands of her curly hair were shooting away from her head in a frizzy disaster.

  It was quickly obvious that everything Cosimia did was going to be the same way: completely over the top. Some of her words were exaggerated and drawn out; others were barely whispered. She wore a long, flowy gown that billowed behind her wherever she went. She was like a real-life rainbow.

  She was like art itself.

  When she paused to catch her breath, I took a bite of my apple, the crunch echoing in the brief silence. She whipped toward the basket of fruit in the center of the room so fast, her dress spun into a blur of painted waves.

  “My dear, what is it you think you’re doing?”

  Her eyes bored into my soul. I glanced to either side of me, then back at Cosimia. She was still staring at me, her left eye twitching as she waited.

  “Um, are you talking to me?” I said, not very loudly.

  “Of course I am talking to you. Who else would I be talking to?” She spun in a circle, gesturing with her hands to the other students. I’d never seen anyone with that many rings on their fingers. And they were so large. She had a giant red gem on her middle finger that reminded me of my perfect apple.

  The apple!

  Oh, no.

  I looked down at the half-eaten piece of fruit and gulped. “Do you mean, why am I eating this?”

  “That is precisely what I mean. My dear, do you know what that is?”

  I was so confused. “You mean, besides an apple?”

  “That”—Cosimia pointed with a bejeweled finger—“is my warm-up.”

  “Your . . . what?”

  “My warm-up. I put that basket of fruit there for my students to sketch at the beginning of the class, before we start on the real assignment.”

  “But I thought this class was supposed to teach us how to draw people?” I hoped I didn’t sound rude.

  “It is, it is.” More hand-waving. “But I always start my classes with a warm-up.” She leaned over me, her wild hair tickling my cheek. “Today, you ate the warm-up.” She didn’t give me a chance to apologize. She gave me a smile and a wink, then spun around to talk to the man in the green coat.

  While she was distracted, I snuck back over to the basket and buried my apple underneath the other fruit. It was mostly hidden except for a corner of it, and that part of the apple didn’t have any bite marks on it, so the warm-up was practically the same as before.

  Cosimia started the class with her fruity warm-up and made us all sketch the basket of food while classical music played in the background. I’d only sketched the top of one banana when my pencil broke. I raised my hand.

  “Yes, my dear?” Cosimia asked.

  “I broke my pencil.” I held up my special checkered pencil to show her.

  “It seems you have. Pencil sharpener is over there,” she told me with another exaggerated wave.

  I quickly sharpened my pencil, then went back to drawing the fruit. When I finished both bananas, I moved on to the kiwi, now dented a bit because of my earlier spill. I was so wrapped up in what I was doing that I didn’t even notice the man who’d quietly slipped into the classroom. It wasn’t until Cosimia started moving the basket away that I realized what was happening. My heart pounded in my chest.

  The man was wearing a white robe.

  And Beth Ann told Tabitha that the last time she took this class, they used a live model.

  And he’d been nude.

  The two gossiping women sitting to my left fidgeted in their seats when they noticed him making his way toward the center of the circle of tables. I surveyed the room, and it seemed that I was the only one who was concerned with what was about to happen.

  Look, I have three brothers. And I’ve seen Arnie naked a thousand times. But I was not okay with a nude model. I was trying not to panic, but it was obvious that everyone else had forgotten I was even there.

  With the fruit gone, the model leaned against the now-empty table in the center. He was reaching for the belt securing his robe.

  For the love of onion rings, I had to put a stop to this.

  “No! Wait!” I yelled, standing up. “I don’t want to see you naked!” I covered my eyes with my hand. “Don’t do it!”

  “My child, what on earth are you talking about?” Cosimia sounded so taken aback that I peeked through my fingers. The model’s hands were frozen on his belt, and Cosimia was staring at me, horrified. A hum started to fill the room as everyone began murmuring to one another. I slowly brought my hand down away from my face.

  “I thought . . . I mean . . . he’s wearing a robe. . . .”

  Cosimia waved her hand at the model and he pulled off his robe. He was wearing a white T-shirt and shorts.

  Oh.

  That was awkward.

  I shifted uncomfortably and I could feel my face turn hot. A buzz erupted all around me and a few people chuckled, which made me feel even more embarrassed. If every set of eyes hadn’t been glued to me, I would’ve gladly crawled under the table. Forever.

  “May we continue, my dear?” the teacher asked. I nodded.

  For the next ninety-five minutes, Cosimia walked us through different drawing techniques. I gave her my undivided attention as I tried to take in what she was teaching us and apply it to my hand, but unfortunately my hand wouldn’t cooperate. When I told it to draw a circle, it drew an egg. When I told it to draw a full head of wavy hair, it drew Medusa. (On a side note, it turns out I can draw a pretty decent Medusa).

  So, I wasn’t surprised when, as Cosimia circled the classroom, she paused, standing behind me and leaning down low so as to see my drawing in even more detail. Great. I knew she was silently judging my artistic abilities, but there wasn’t a whole lot I could do a
bout it. I swallowed the lump in my throat and reminded myself that this dreadful class would be over soon.

  And with it would go my chances of ever winning the contest. But I couldn’t think about that now.

  The sleeve of Cosimia’s dress brushed against my hair as she straightened, but not before whispering in my ear, “I see a great deal of potential in you, child. You aren’t afraid to color outside the lines. The greatest artists never are.”

  My mouth hung open, I was so surprised. Could that really be true? I wanted so much to believe her. I hunched over my drawing, now more determined than ever to get the hands I’d been working on just right.

  At four o’clock sharp, the class ended. I packed up my things and waved goodbye to Cosimia. She waved back, her hand flowing as if guided by the wind. I smiled to myself on the way out.

  My dad was waiting in the parking lot, and I rushed to his car. I slammed the door and laid back in the seat, my eyes closed.

  “Everything all right?” my dad asked.

  I took a deep breath as I tried to decide whether or not I liked the class.

  “I do not color inside the lines,” I said, feeling just a hint of pride.

  My dad started the car and chuckled. “Oh, I know. You never have.”

  As soon as I got home, my brothers gathered around and asked to see my drawings. It caught me off guard and made me feel kind of shy, which was odd, because they were only my brothers. I mean, most of the time they smelled like moldy cheese, for goodness’ sake. So what if they were giving me a little extra attention, right? We always enjoyed Seth’s surfing competitions and Jackson’s baseball games. It felt good to have them take an interest in me. I took a deep breath and pulled out my sketch pad, opening it up on the kitchen table. I hoped they didn’t notice my hands shaking.

  Jackson pointed at my first drawing. “Hey, isn’t that the lady who has snakes on her head instead of hair? What’s her name?”

  “I don’t know who you’re talking about,” I said quickly.