Semiprecious

by D. Anne Love

  “That’s wonderful, Opal,” Aunt Julia said. “Congratulations.”

  Opal threw her arms around me. “Your scenery is gorgeous! It looked so real, I could almost hear Spoon River running! I’m so happy I’m about to explode.”

  Sunday plowed through the crowd. “I’m starving! Who’s up for burgers and fries?”

  “At this hour?” Aunt Julia asked.

  “Oh, don’t be a stick-in-the-mud,” Sunday said. “It’s still early. Besides it isn’t as if you have a plane to catch.” She elbowed Aunt Julia in the ribs. “What do you say? You can give me a ride in that fancy car of yours.”

  “You are impossible,” Aunt Julia said, fishing her car keys from her purse. “Come on, then. Let’s go.”

  We went out to the parking lot and piled into the car, me and Opal in the backseat, Sunday riding shotgun with Aunt Julia. We cranked the radio up as loud as it would go and sang with Elvis all the way to town.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Summer hadn’t arrived yet, but we could feel it coming, and that made it harder for the teachers to keep our attention. They planned a lot of end-of-school activities that kept us busy without really teaching us anything. Every Monday, Mr. Stanley held a math bee in the cafeteria. He chose four team captains, and they picked the best students for their teams. I didn’t mind being picked last. It gave me more time to think about the letter we’d received from Daddy at Easter. Soon he’d be out of the hospital and on his way to get Opal and me the minute school was out. In between reciting the definitions of polygons and acute angles, I thought about how much I’d missed my daddy and my house on Piney Road. I thought about Jean Ann, my so-called best friend, who had not written to me even once the whole time I’d been gone. I wondered whether everything would be the same between us or whether we had changed too much to pick up our friendship where we had left off when Mama yanked me out of Texas.

  One day Coach Riley herded us out to the parking lot for a bike safety class, even though half of us didn’t own bikes. Picture thirty-two almost-eighth-graders pretending to weave in and out of traffic cones, giving hand signals for turns and stops. Cooley made screeching noises and crashing sounds at the stop signs and made everybody laugh until Coach Riley threatened to send him to the office. Then we went inside to watch a film about bike safety on the road. One thing about Coach Riley: He could find a film to suit any occasion.

  Powla was the only one who refused to give us busy-work, the only one who made us keep on creating and thinking, filling our minds with so many ideas about art and raising so many questions I thought my head might explode. I never dreamed the best teacher in the school would get in trouble for teaching us to think. But she did, and it was my fault.

  The Monday after Spoon River Anthology, I took my American Dreams piece to school. I’d copied the style of Rivera and Orozco, filling my canvas with figures of people like Mama and Aunt Julia looking up toward their dreams, and with pictures of Cherokees like Charlie, and black people like the kids in the Louisiana sit-ins, dreaming for the same chances the rest of us got. At the top I painted Uncle Sam in a striped hat, handing a Bill of Rights to some people, but tugging it away from the Indian and the Negroes, to show that it’s the powerful people who make the rules the rest of us are supposed to live by. From what I had learned in history class, it seemed that nothing was wrong if certain people wanted to do it. I hoped that when Miss Browning saw it, she’d decide I was finally working up to my full potential.

  Powla was stunned when she saw my picture, and I won’t kid you, I was pretty pleased with it myself. I could see how much I had improved since the beginning of the year. When Powla showed it to the class, Nathan said, “Wow,” under his breath, and after that I didn’t care what anyone else thought. I wanted his approval almost as much as I wanted hers. I couldn’t help it.

  After Miss Browning had seen it, Powla mounted my picture in the art room next to a copy of Tropical America. It covered the whole bulletin board. When Principal Conley walked in one morning a few days later, my piece was pretty hard to miss.

  Powla was teaching us about Jackson Pollock’s action paintings, and we were sprawled on the floor with our paint cans, dribbling color onto canvas in random patterns that looked more like the aftermath of a cafeteria food fight than an actual picture. But we were laughing and having fun, and Powla was on her hands and knees with us when the principal came in with his clipboard, his glasses riding on top of his bald head. Usually when he wanted to talk to Powla, he just opened the door, stuck his head in, and motioned her into the hallway, but today he strode to the middle of the room, looking so full of official business that the whole room went quiet.

  He took a look around and his face got all shocked-looking, like he’d just survived a big explosion. He stepped over a bunch of our open paint cans. “What on earth is going on in here?”

  Powla stood up and wiped her hands on a paint rag. “This is an art class, sir. We are making art.” She smiled. “The process is not always a tidy one.”

  Principal Conley’s eyes locked onto Tropical America. He frowned, put on his glasses, and stepped up for a closer look. Then he saw my picture and my signature in the corner, and he totally came unhinged. He spun around. “Is this what you’re teaching these kids, Miss Mendez? To glorify disobedience and denigrate our government? This isn’t art, it’s nothing but Communist propaganda!”

  Mr. Conley trained his beady eyes on me. “Garnet Hubbard. You have been a troublemaker from the get-go. Writing disrespectful answers on your math paper, running away from school, causing a near riot at the Christmas program, and now this. Are you trying to get expelled?”

  “No, sir,” I said. “But you’re the one who said school is supposed to teach us to think. I think David Siqueiros told the truth when he said art is supposed to educate people so they can fight for what’s right.”

  “Garnet’s piece, and Siqueiros’s as well, is art as social commentary,” Miss Mendez put in, “which in my opinion is the only art worth making.”

  The principal pointed to our half-finished Pollock painting lying on the floor. “What commentary does this so-called art make?”

  Before Powla could answer, he said, “I came to conduct the required evaluation of your teaching, but this is not the appropriate time. When I return, I’ll expect to see something more appropriate for impressionable children.”

  “They are not children. They are young adults quite capable of thinking for themselves.”

  We all sat up straighter at that, in love with Miss Mendez for taking us seriously.

  “Nevertheless,” Mr. Conley said. “I insist you forget the Mexican rabble-rousers you seem to be so fond of, and focus on more appropriate subjects.” He waved his hand. “Landscapes, self-portraits, still-life studies. Anything but sacrilege and anarchy.”

  “Painting vases of flowers and bowls of fruit will teach them nothing about life.”

  “It isn’t your job to teach them about life.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Conley, but I disagree.”

  “Disagree all you want, but as long as you work here, you’ll do it my way. Otherwise, you can tell it to the school board.”

  He stomped out and Powla said softly, “Maybe I will.”

  We all felt bad for her, but we were also fascinated. I’m pretty sure it was the first time we’d ever seen a principal chewing out one of his own kind.

  Powla sighed deeply and glanced at the clock. “The bell is about to ring. Let’s get these canvases put away and clean up.”

  She was trying to act like what had just happened was no big deal, but I could see she was upset. I felt horrible for everything I had put her through, first by skipping her class and running away to Nashville, then by painting something that had made Mr. Conley mad. While everybody was busy putting the lids on the paint cans and stacking the canvases, I said to her, “It’s my fault. I’ll take my picture down now.”

  “You will do no such thing.”

  “Mr. Co
nley—”

  “Can swallow a rotten corncob for all I care.” Powla smiled. “If you’ve learned nothing else all year, Garnet, I hope you’ve learned that you must be willing to stand up for what you believe, and put it on the canvas. If you can’t do that, then you can’t be a real artist. This we learned from Diego Rivera, right?”

  I nodded. I wasn’t the best history student on the planet—just ask Miss Browning—but I had learned enough to know that the struggle for dreams I’d put into my picture was right and true.

  “I’m sorry I got you in trouble,” I said, as the bell rang and people hurried out.

  Powla laughed. “I seem to get into plenty of trouble all by myself. Don’t worry about it.”

  The rest of the week was devoted to cleaning cupboards, washing chalkboards, turning in textbooks, and paying library fines. The school crafts fair was scheduled for the last weekend before the year ended, and I was busy painting pictures to sell in the art gallery. I painted a still life of flowers in a vase, a picture of Black Beauty copied from the cover of my book, and one of Charlie Twelvetrees paddling his canoe on Willow River. Pictures I hoped wouldn’t give Mr. Conley a heart attack.

  “This is wonderful,” Powla said, holding my picture of Charlie to the light.

  It was the Friday before the fair, and regular afternoon classes were canceled so everyone could get ready for it. Cooley was helping the home ec teachers set up tables for selling baked goods. Lee Crockett and a couple of other boys from art class were helping the shop teacher set up a display of birdhouses his students had made. Miss Mendez and I were setting up the art gallery. Nathan was helping us put up shelves for the pottery exhibit. He stopped long enough to take a look at my picture of Charlie.

  “Garnet’s a regular Rembrandt,” he said. “I can’t draw anything.”

  “But you’re a good ballplayer,” I said. It seemed easier to talk to him when Powla was around.

  “You still haven’t come to a game,” Nathan said. “We’re playing in Linville on Sunday.”

  “Maybe I’ll come.” I tossed my hair the way I’d seen Opal do it.

  Nathan’s face turned red. He finished setting up the shelves and picked up his glove. “I’ve got practice. See you.”

  When the door closed behind him, Powla said, “My, my, Garnet. You played that boy like a violin.”

  “Ma’am?”

  “It’s obvious he’s got a huge crush on you, so keep him guessing. The harder you are to get, the better boys like it.”

  “That’s exactly what my sister says.”

  Powla laughed. “Just put Mr. Nathan Brown out of his misery and go to one of his games if you like him.”

  I felt my face turning red. She pretended not to notice. “Help me hang this watercolor.”

  We finished hanging the pictures and stood back to admire the final result. I was proud of my work, but Polly Barton’s watercolor of the Willow River in winter was better. Faith had made a picture of her daddy’s church with an angel watching over it. Cooley’s contribution was a lopsided brown vase with white lines etched into it. Some of the eighth graders had made silk-screened pictures; others had made charcoal sketches of houses, fields, animals, and people.

  “That should do it.” Powla gathered up her stuff and we went to the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  I rode the bus home. Opal stayed behind to help Cheryl finish setting up the freshman exhibit in the home ec room. Some of the girls had made aprons, pot holders, and cloth purses to sell. Others were bringing brownies, muffins, cakes, and pies. Since Opal had no interest in baking or sewing, she volunteered to set up the exhibit and act as cashier during the fair.

  When I got home, Aunt Julia was sitting in the living room listening to her opera recordings. Mozart was curled up at her feet, dreaming his cat dreams.

  “Aunt Julia?”

  She turned off the music. “Yes?”

  “I was wondering. Could you drive me to the ballpark Sunday afternoon? A friend invited me to watch the game.”

  “A friend? Here in Willow Flats?” Her blue eyes twinkled.

  “It’s about time, now that school is over.”

  “No law says you can’t come visit me next summer,” Aunt Julia said. “I imagine he’ll still be around.”

  “Who said it was a he?” I snagged a couple of cookies off the plate in the kitchen and washed them down with cold milk.

  “Do I look like I just fell off a turnip truck? As improbable as it may seem, I was young once. I know a crush when I see one.”

  “It’s just a stupid baseball game.”

  “Right.” Aunt Julia munched on a cookie. “The answer is yes. I will drive you to the ballpark if you’ll help me wash my canning jars. Strawberries are coming in and it’s time to make jam.”

  I spent the next two hours kneeling over a tub of scalding hot water, elbow deep in suds, washing jam jars until my fingers wrinkled and my knees ached. Aunt Julia stacked them in boxes and left them in the kitchen. When Opal came home, we ate a late supper on the porch, watching the fireflies lighting up the dark.

  Since the incident at the river with Travis, Opal had given up on boys. Most days she came straight home from school to practice her acting techniques up in our room. All she talked about now was next summer, when she would go away to work in a real theater company.

  After supper Aunt Julia said, “We got a postcard from your mother today. She has a job singing backup with Jimmy Bowers and the Bluegrass Boys.”

  “Jimmy Bowers?” Opal asked. “That old guy? Mama always called him a loser. And she hates blue-grass! I can’t believe she’d sing with him.” With the toe of her sneaker, Opal set the porch swing in motion. “Then again, who else would hire her?”

  It was the truth, but I felt sorry for Mama. Her shining dream was getting farther and farther away, and she was trying desperately to grab ahold of a piece of it wherever she could find it.

  “They’re going to sing at the fairs this summer,” Aunt Julia went on. “Melanie says maybe she’ll get to Mirabeau in August.”

  “Just in time to celebrate her birthday,” Opal said wryly. “That’s Mama, always thinking of herself.”

  Which was also true, but somehow my bitterness toward my mother had softened into something less painful. Melanie McClain would never be the mother I wanted, but I couldn’t let that fact ruin my life.

  Aunt Julia got up from the porch swing. “You two can stay up if you want, but I’m going to bed.”

  “We’ll be in soon,” Opal said. “We’ve got a long day tomorrow.”

  “And your sister has a date on Sunday afternoon,” Aunt Julia said. “Good night, girls.”

  “A date?” Opal said when Aunt Julia had gone. “How come you didn’t tell me?”

  “It isn’t a real date. Nathan invited me to his ball game, that’s all.”

  “Oh, wow!” Opal jumped up and began to pace. “We’ve got only one day to plan your wardrobe. And do your nails. They’re a mess with all that paint under them. What about your hair? Up? Or down.” She peered into my face. “Up will be cooler, but you definitely look cuter with a little hair around your face. Maybe we could do a ponytail and leave a few strands free.”

  “Opal, I’ll be sitting in the stands and he’ll be out on the field. It doesn’t matter.”

  “Of course it matters! You can wear my new yellow shirt and your white shorts. You’ll look fabulous!”

  We went inside and ran upstairs to our room. Opal took her shirt from the closet. “Here. It’s yours.”

  It was hard not to catch her enthusiasm. I changed into my nightshirt and fell into bed, too full of mixed-up feelings to sleep. All year I had dreamed of cracking the code that would let me into Opal’s world of friends and dates and parties. And just as I was starting to fit in, the school year was over. Soon I’d be going back to Mirabeau. Now I wasn’t sure where I wanted to be.

  The next day we went to the crafts fair at school. People from all over milled in the parki
ng lot and hallways, eating brownies and cookies and taking in the exhibits. Aunt Julia and Sunday went around together, admiring the displays of handmade jewelry, quilt squares, and birdhouses. After I helped Powla set out price tags for everything in the art gallery, I sat behind a desk with a cash box and waited for customers. Mrs. Underwood came with a couple of ladies from her choir. One of them bought Faith’s angel picture right away. Mrs. Underwood studied everything before she made up her mind to buy Polly’s winter scene. Then she picked up my flower picture and held it out at arm’s length. “This will look nice in my powder room,” she said. “The colors match my towels.”

  Powla shot me a wry grin as she wrapped up their purchases. When they had moved off down the stairs, she laughed. “You should have seen your face when Mrs. Underwood said your picture matched her towels. Get used to it, Garnet. Sometimes people buy art for the wrong reasons. But we can’t let that stop our work.” She rested her hand on my shoulder. “You have a gift, but it’s worthless unless you use it. Promise you won’t waste it. Promise me you’ll find teachers to encourage your talent.”

  This was beginning to sound like good-bye, and I wasn’t ready for it. I picked up Cooley’s vase and turned it around in my hands.

  “I’m leaving tomorrow,” Powla said quietly.

  “No! So soon?” My throat closed up.

  “Monday’s the last day of school and it’s an assembly day, so there won’t be regular classes. There’s no point in prolonging things. I’ve heard the gossip about how I dress, what I paint, how I live. The school board will never renew my contract. At least I can have the satisfaction of resigning instead of waiting to be dismissed.”

  “Where will you go?”

  She shrugged. “Now that my father is better, I’m considering a trip to Mexico. I have a friend who teaches at a small art institute near San Miguel de Allende. Perhaps I’ll teach there. Perhaps I’ll go back to Spain.” She laughed. “I am not cut out for a place like Willow Flats, Oklahoma.”