Having no idea what to expect, but not wanting to make a fool of myself, I directed my full attention in the man's direction. At least, that's what it looked like. Truthfully, half my mind was still picturing a distorted image of myself looking into a mirror from every angle, wondering if I was saying or doing the right things and projecting the right persona to everyone else. Another smaller part of me was still trying to wrap itself around the strange half-memory, hoping that if I gave it enough attention, it would somehow be coaxed from wherever it was hiding in the recesses of my mind.
Nonetheless, I gave as much concentration as I could to the instructor.
“Good morning everyone! I see a lot of familiar faces here today, but for those who haven't joined me here before or in any of the other classes I lead here, my name is Mr. Pierson. This is our Thursday painting class, and according to the schedule, today we'll be learning how to paint people!”
The class “ooh”ed and “ahh”ed at this daunting task; I shrunk in my seat.
“It's not as hard as it sounds, I assure you! I don't expect anyone to be the next Da Vinci, but I will say that I bet I'll see some great results. As some of you know, the way that these classes work is that I'll guide you step by step on how to tackle this. This one is different from what we usually do because everyone's subject matter will be just a little bit different.
The other thing that's a little different here—if anyone's printed out a calendar or seen it on our website, today is actually the start of a three-class seasonal project! We have three weeks to work on these, and of course if you enrolled in today's class, you've already enrolled in all three. I encourage you to come to each of these and make the most out of this fun experience!”
Three classes? Mom hadn't mentioned that to me. Last night, she offered to take care of all the details for me—paying for the recreation center I.D. and enrollment, getting me the schedule for when I could paint, and looking up the bus route times and address. She never mentioned she'd automatically enrolled me for more than just a trial, and that sent a wave of apprehension over me.
It felt like I was in middle school all over again. What if I got made fun of, or people ended up hating me? What if I truly never wanted to see one of them, or all of them, again, but was obligated to anyway because Mom wanted me to keep attending? And it wasn't just that—the indignity that Mom made this decision on my behalf reminded me of my incapacity to make my own decisions. Her authority in this was crushing because it only made it more clear to me I was too “unstable” to decide for myself. It was decided for me that I would go to therapy, where the choice of who would counsel me was also made on my behalf. It was decided for me that I would keep a journal, that I would attempt to socialize, that I would dedicate more time to my hobby. What did I get to decide?
“This class provides canvases, and we do have some paint and brushes, but it's highly advised you bring your own if you've got them...ours are pretty broken in.” Mr. Pierson winked and glanced at the wall of used paints and brushes near his desk. The collection of half-filled pots and tubes, some soiled in paint on their outside in a color different than what was inside, sprawled along three massive shelves, taking up almost the entire space beneath the window. Three buckets of paint brushes in various sizes and shapes rested on the top left corner of the shelf. Overall, the collection was impressive, but messy and obviously neglected over years of being used by different participants.
“We don't need to worry about that right now though, because we're going to do some preliminary sketches, alright? So everyone, if you brought a sketchbook, go ahead and pull it out. If you don't, just raise your hand.”
A wave of embarrassment flooded my cheeks as I turned to see that I was one of only four others who hadn't brought a sketchbook. I don't think I even own a sketchbook...I'm so stupid.
Mr. Pierson chuckled. “Ah, brand new students I see! No problem.” He whisked away to his desk and reappeared with a handful of sheets of sketchbook paper. He distributed them beginning at the furthest table closest to his desk, circling his way back around the room. I was the last to receive a piece of paper, and I could feel all eyes burning holes into my skin.
The instructor rubbed his hands across each other as if he were dusting them off, eager to be rid of the paper, then folded them together. “So, preliminary sketches. We don't have any live figures for you to go off because we're just a rec center class--” a few of the participants chuckled--“so instead, you'll use magazines. If you were wondering what the stacks on your tables were doing there, that's what you're going to use! I want everyone to spend ten to fifteen minutes sketching one or two poses from the magazines. They don't have to be crazy good—remember, we're just learning about how the human figure is composed. So, don't spend a lot of time on the details. Make sure you spend time on the proportions instead, because when we start our painting, those details won't be coming from your pencil.”
He clapped his hands together, signifying the start to this event. “As you're working,” he called out, “I'll come around and see where everyone's at so I know where to help you guys out for your paintings. If you need help, don't hesitate to ask me or your neighbor. I bet some of them are much better artists than I am!” With that, Mr. Pierson paced slowly around the room, fluttering near enough to assist, but keeping enough distance that his presence wasn't invasive.
With some hesitation, I leaned forward to grab a pencil from the mug, gently moving it to the side towards the stranger who sat on the opposite side of the table. I gave a weak smile to the girl, who looked about the same age as me but was half my size and covered in a mass of freckles. She grinned back, exposing a wide smile laden with braces. She seemed appreciative as her short, hairpin arms reached towards the mug. I thumbed through the pile of magazines—severely outdated by at least five years—and settled on one with a luscious-looking supermodel on the front. Placing the pile back towards the center of the table, I pushed it towards the girl as well, and resigned myself to the task of choosing an image to draw. I was fully aware that the clock was counting down.
I allowed myself to be distracted by the sounds of the instructor humming his thoughts and approval as he observed various reference images from his class participants. There was a vague murmuring as he leaned over someone at the next table. “Austin, you've been here at least a hundred times. Why don't you help me look around and make sure everyone's doing okay?” A mumbled agreement, and the squeaking of a stool as it slid back against the linoleum...
The more time I spent dawdling, the less chance I had to take part in this exercise. I flew through the magazine pages, barely glancing at most of them. A soap ad here, a pair of jeans there...and then, one in particular caught my eye. I stopped to examine a makeup ad; it featured a young woman who looked both wistful and hopeful as she looked over her right shoulder. It compelled me to wonder what she could be looking at...she almost seemed to be waiting for someone. I associated the look on her face with what it might feel like to be in love, though I'd never experienced such a thing myself. She was inspiring.
This is the one, I thought, and set to work.
The few minutes available to me flowed and stretched into an undetermined length of time as I set my pencil to paper, allowing it to overtake my senses and embody my thoughts into forms. Sketchy figures of ovals and guidelines hashed themselves into the rough forms of a beautiful figure, almost without my input. The woman's hair, cut off just below her jaw and flowing in soft waves in an imaginary wind, billowed smoothly from the tips of my fingers as I recreated them. Her sleeveless dress, cornflower blue and covered in the image of soft pink and white petals, flowed around her figure like water stepping gently over a rock in a slow-moving stream.
“What are you drawing?”
I had barely noticed the voice in my creative reverie. “I'm sketching a girl.” My reply was monotonous; I didn't want to break my concentration. It was hard to come by for me in the everyday world, but when I created something...it
was different. And I cherished it.
“That's really something! The drawing I mean, it looks great.”
“Oh, thank you.” I smiled. Curious to see who'd paid me the compliment, I tore myself away from the sketch and glanced up from it.
The green eyes I found myself staring into were very familiar. Framed by dark hair and complemented by a bright, white smile—it was that boy again!
Without warning I jolted back to reality, stuttering and stammering like a fool as I realized that I was now in direct conversation with a person I'd basically been spying on during our shared bus rides. How awkward...To stop myself, I simply stared at him, mute, my hands resting in my lap. I was certain I looked every bit as ridiculous as I felt under his curious and genial gaze.
Instead of well-deserved scrutiny, I simply received a smooth chuckle as he continued. “It looks like you really know what you're doing...it doesn't seem like you need this class much to learn!”
It felt like frogs were leaping around in my throat. “Oh, I don't know about that,” I croaked. I paused to regain my footing. “Uh...what about you, why aren't you drawing?”
“Oh, I've been a regular in here since March,” he replied with gusto. “Mr. Pierson asks me now and then if I'll help out during classes, just because so many people are used to seeing me.”
His voice was deep and smooth, like chocolate silk. Again, I got the feeling that he was somewhat older than me. “Wow...I guess you're pretty good then,” I replied, feeling impressed.
The boy shrugged and shoved one of his hands deep into the front pocket of his grey and black striped pullover, swinging into a free seat beside me. “I dunno about that...I've been in a couple of art shows, but I've never been able to draw something as quick as you have that's actually accurate. I take forever.” He gestured with his free hand towards my drawing.
“Oh...” I looked at it in its raw, unfinished form. “Well, thanks.”
He extended the hand out to me. “My name is Austin, by the way.”
I looked at Austin's hand; the old-fashioned exchange of greeting was uncommon in my age group. I extended my own, eyeing him curiously as he offered me a good, strong handshake. I couldn't help it; a smile was creeping onto my face.
“I'm Jade.”
“Nice to meet you, Jade!” Austin smiled too, and a sparkle lit up his eyes. “Hopefully you'll stick it out through this project. I bet your painting will be awesome!” He glanced around the room as a hand shot up from the table closest to the window. The woman's eyes looked imploringly at him, seeking his guidance.
“Gotta go help out the people who actually need it,” he said, winking as he stood up. He scratched his head and ran his fingers through his dark hair before starting towards the other side of the room. “See you around!”
“Yeah...see you...” I trailed off. I was only just aware that he'd already walked away.
As Mr. Pierson announced the end of the figure exercises, I inwardly cursed at myself for my inability to be a “people person.” I didn't need to be the next Oprah, but it would be nice if, just for once, I would stop nitpicking at myself for just long enough to not look and sound like a complete idiot every time someone approached me. I glanced towards Austin, seated next to the middle-aged woman who had sought out his help. She nodded with understanding as he explained something to her.
It would especially be nice to be more social with someone like Austin, I thought to myself. I had to admit that up close, he was even more good-looking than he appeared to be from far away. The angled set of his jaw and his high cheekbones were classic features that made him quite handsome. How strange was it our paths had crossed so many times in the past week, and I was now meeting him, talking with him, and getting the chance to know him?
I wondered what kind of person he was. He clearly liked drawing and art as much as I did—maybe even more, with his dedication to this class and his involvement in art shows. But when he spoke, he seemed so confident and upbeat...those definitely weren't traits I possessed. But, I found that refreshing. He also seemed intelligent as he gave direction to other participants who had trouble with the sketching exercise. I suppose that meant he might be a nice, even generous person as well. He'd been nice enough to come up and strike a conversation with me, after all.
But who knows—I could be completely wrong, and Austin could be an absolute jerk, a sociopath. My therapist had explained to me a bit about sociopaths briefly when I expressed concern that I was one at the start our sessions. I recalled her saying that they often seemed very charming, witty, and confident to onlookers.
I guess the only way to know was to hope that I had the nerve to keep talking to him.
“Alright everyone, go ahead and pick a canvas from the second pile behind me! The second pile is the larger ones...please make sure that your canvas is one of the bigger ones! Start brainstorming some ideas for what you might want to paint as your subject, and I'll go over the basic theme behind what we're doing here...and don't put those pencils away just yet!”
CHAPTER SEVEN
October 30
Sorry it's been a while since I've written. This is the busiest I've felt in years...going to therapy once a week, combined with the painting class on Thursdays, and helping Mom out with the chores as per usual and weekend dinners, almost gives me a feeling of purpose and accomplishment. Almost, I guess.
The painting class really is a fun experience though. I met a friend, named Austin. Today was my second class, and he moved to sit next to me. In between instructions from the class teacher, he tries really hard to be friendly with me. I feel like an idiot sometimes when I try to talk back, but I do find that when I'm painting, it's easier to talk to him because I don't think so much about what he's thinking of me. I can just focus on my work and the words just come out better. We even exchanged phone numbers! Maybe one of these days, I'll go check my phone and see that he's left me a text or something.
But, this is a memory journal, so I don't think I'm supposed to write about that kind of thing. I'm mostly writing because tomorrow is Halloween. Last year, I stayed home and handed out candy to all the kids, and I'll probably do the same this year. I tried to remember the last time that I'd gone trick-or-treating myself, and I only have vague recollections of what are most likely different years of doing it, all rolled into one low-quality memory.
But what I do remember is the last costume that I ever wore. It was a home-made costume because Mom was pretty broke back then. We used some cloth that we had lying around from various projects...some of it I think was from sheer curtains, and part of my outfit was a modified shirt...it's hard to remember the details, but either way, I was a genie that Halloween. I remember going to school dressed in it, feeling like some sort of mystical ninja with my sheer red face wrap shrouding everything but my eyes.
It's incredible how, as a kid, you can feel so powerful, or meek, or happy, or adventurous, just using your imagination to get yourself into that state of mind. I remembered this because Mom had brought it up...she found some old pictures of me as a kid and showed me the picture of me in the costume. It was a little ratty, and fraying on the edges because we didn't have time to sew up the ends after we cut the cloth, and honestly, I looked more like a terrorist than I did a genie. But at the time that I was wearing it, none of that stopped me from feeling like a real, all-powerful genie.
I really do wish that I could still feel that way just by pretending.
I stowed the leather-bound booklet on my nightstand, rolling onto my stomach to do so and then sitting up in the pile of warm, comforting purple and navy blue blankets adorning my bed. I don't remember exactly when I'd gotten them, and they weren't something I would choose to buy new. Normally I liked more neutral tones. I'd outgrown their colorfully feminine appearance years ago, but for some reason, I liked them anyway. Luckily, I never had many guests that would see them, so the fact that they seemed to have come out of a child's playroom didn't phase me in the least.
Thinkin
g about my childhood did, however, remind me about the small incident in my painting class the previous week.
I'd briefly skimmed the short memo about it that was written prior to the relative novel that I'd just put down. Unfortunately, no matter how much I pondered on the event, I couldn't get myself to recall the feeling I'd had, the guilt and the fear. So, I decided I would invest in the help of my mother to see if she knew or understood the meaning behind it.
***
It was after dinner time. Usually, Mom could be found on the faded brown sofa downstairs in the living room watching her favorite sitcoms or reading a book, the television quietly playing in the background as noise filler.
I crept downstairs. I almost never spent any time in our living room, so I almost felt like a stranger to it as I noted the circular rug in the center of its hardwood floor, patterned in alternating rings of rusty orange and white. It coordinated to match the pastel shades of the yellow and white plaid curtains hung across two small windows on opposite walls in the corner of the room.
Around these hung various framed pictures. Some of them were art pieces I'd done a long time ago, some were prints of Mom's favorite scenery, and others were family images of she and myself, or of my grandparents that I hadn't seen in many years. A lot of the pictures were just of me—the staggering amount dedicated to my youthful self was almost embarrassing.
I peered around the short entrance wall that separated the living area from the front door. As expected, my mother was there on the sofa, her silky hair tied behind her in a loose bun. Her square, bifocal reading glasses perched on her nose as she sat absorbed in a novel that she was halfway finished reading. She licked her thumb and flipped the page intently, a habit that always drove me nuts every time I saw her do it.
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