by Seven Steps
“Ollie—” Mrs. Meredith’s face stretched as if she’d just made a grave mistake. “Do you mind if I call you Ollie?”
Ollie shrugged his response and gave her a charming smile meant to hide how much of a degenerate he was. “Consider me re-named, Mrs. M.”
A low titter escaped her lips, which she quickly covered with her graphite smudged fingers.
Really? Was he seriously trying to charm our teacher?
Everyone called Oliver, Ollie. It wasn’t like Mrs. Meredith was the first one. Heck, he’d introduced himself to me as Ollie. That right there was one of the reasons I couldn’t stand him. He was too sure of himself. Too flirty, and much too bold.
Mrs. Meredith rested her finger against her chin.
“Okay, Ollie, you can sit…”
She scanned the classroom.
So did I.
There were eighteen students in my class, but we had nineteen desks. It suddenly occurred to me where the extra desk was, and I closed my eyes to stop the full-on hissy fit raging inside of me.
The extra seat was right next to mine.
“Next to Jasmine Patel,” Mrs. Meredith announced.
Why couldn’t the stupid desk magically disappear and reappear somewhere else? Preferably Antarctica. I huffed again. This sucked. First, I had to practically carry Ollie through chemistry lab, and now I was going to be doing the same thing in art. That was the last thing I had time for.
What was he doing here anyway? It was so late in the semester. Why was he transferring so suddenly?
Ollie tipped his chin up at me like we were old friends—we weren't—and slid into the seat next to mine. He wiggled his eyebrows in my direction and smiled wide.
“Hello, Princess. We meet again.”
I growled and focused on Mrs. Meredith, not acknowledging his greeting or his presence. With any luck, he’d get the hint and leave me alone.
Not that that method had worked before.
Oliver “Ollie” Santiago and I were chemistry lab partners.
Correction.
I did all the work while he sat there dozing off, texting, or generally screwing around. I thought of Ollie like I’d think of a lead weight. He dragged down my chemistry grade and my mood whenever we were together. Of course, I’d complained and asked the teacher, Mr. Khan, for a different lab partner, but, so far, I’d been stuck with Ollie all semester.
Needless to say, it’d been a long semester.
Mrs. Meredith looked at her watch.
“Okay, we only have a few more minutes, but I want to let everyone know the winners of the annual art show are going to be announced Wednesday morning. And, I have some more good news. We’ve added an additional prize. On top of the winner having their very own display next to the main office, as well as a write-up in the school newspaper, the principal has recently requested that the lockers in the main hallway be moved farther down. So, in that new empty wall space, the competition winner will paint a mural.”
My heart stopped cold. This was a huge opportunity. A game changer.
I'd already entered the art contest. Now, if I won, I’d be painting a school mural. That would definitely pump up my letter of recommendation and earn me some points with Devinta. I'd practically be guaranteed a spot in the summer internship program.
I wanted to win the art contest before. Now, I craved it.
The bell rang, and Mrs. Meredith looked around as if she’d never heard a bell before, even though she’d been teaching at St. Mary’s for over a decade.
“Get those pencil drawings into me by tomorrow,” she called over the sound of bags being packed, chairs sliding, and feet stomping. “I want to see some beautifully shaded eggs.”
Eggs. Right. I’d have to get my egg finished by tomorrow. I put it on my mental to do list and started to pack up my things.
“Don’t get too excited about this contest, Princess,” Ollie said. “It’s just another way to keep us in line.”
I shifted my eyes to him, readying myself for another long-winded speech about conformity and standing out instead of fitting in. Over this past semester, I’d come to learn that Oliver Santiago was a bit of an anarchist. Everything he said was about going against the status quo and not allowing people to put you into a box.
I didn’t buy any of it, of course. I saw this whole “philosophy” for what it really was. An excuse to fail in school and not follow the rules. I traveled the straight and narrow. Ollie threw caution into the wind and ran in zig zags. We were as opposite as two people could be.
“For your information, I’ve entered the art contest, and I’m excited about it,” I announced.
“Oh yeah?” His head tipped to the side and his eyes twinkled in surprise as he examined me. “Never pegged you for the creative type.”
My face contorted in irritation. I’d only sat next to him in chemistry lab for an entire semester. Of course, he wouldn’t know anything about me, even though I knew more about him than I wanted to.
Like his favorite color was black, he had three friends: Jean, Jeff, and Able, and he loved pretzels. He always snuck bags of them into chem lab and munched on them. Loudly.
“Maybe if you came to class more often and looked at something besides your phone, you would’ve seen some of my work.”
He smirked, like he’d just figured out something important.
I shuddered to think of what that something was.
“I’ll bet you’re a painter.”
I could hear the mockery in his voice, and it made my insides boil.
“Bugs. Flowers. Maybe a sunrise or two?”
He was right, but the way he said it still made my back teeth grind together. “So what?”
“So, you think painting a garden makes you an artist?”
My eyes narrowed as hurt and indignation filled my chest. Ollie was the only boy who could make me consider murder in ten words or less.
I stuck out my chin, showing him I wasn’t bothered by his malicious insults. Even though I kind of was.
“What would you know about it? You don’t have a creative bone in your entire body. You’re probably here just because you got kicked out of another class.”
He smirked. “Is that what you think, Princess?”
My temper exploded. “Stop calling me Princess!”
“A rich girl who lives up in her palace near Central Park. What else am I supposed to call you? The help? I’ll bet you don’t even make your own bed.”
“Don’t call me anything. Just pretend like you don’t know me.”
“Do you mean biblically?”
I growled, which pulled a chuckle from him. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was enjoying baiting me.
Note to self: start looking for places big enough to stash a six-foot tall boy’s body.
“Relax, Princess. Don’t get your panties in a twist. Paint your boring flowers, buy American-made cars, and continue to feed the beast.”
Boring flowers? His words hit me right in my gut. No artist in the history of artists wanted to be called boring. I sucked in a breath and glared at Ollie so hard my eyes hurt.
“My flowers are not boring. And from now on, don’t speak to me. Don’t look at me. Don’t even breathe in my direction. Just continue to waste your life goofing off, failing at everything, and being a loser. It’s what you do best, right?”
His cheeks blanched, and he returned a glare just as hot as mine.
In seconds, he’d picked up his bookbag and stomped out the door, tossing a ball of paper in the trash can along the way.
He looked furious. Good, because so was I. He’d taken his comments too far this time, and I’d had enough.
I finished packing my own things and headed for the door. I was almost through it when I remembered I had to talk to Mrs. Meredith.
I stopped and took a deep breath.
Ollie’s antics had almost thrown me off my game. Just like every other day of my life.
When I was calmer, I turned around and face
d my teacher.
Mrs. Meredith was an older, jittery woman, who appeared even older by the three warts that grew from her face. Her hands constantly shook, wrung, and clutched. It was like she’d gotten a caffeine IV or something. Even her eyes were skittish, always darting around the room at us or at her supplies. The only time she seemed at peace was when she had a pencil or brush in her hands.
I cleared my throat and said, “Mrs. Meredith, can I talk to you?”
She smiled and smoothed back her graying brown hair. “Of course, dear. Did you hear Ollie call me Mrs. M? It’s kind of groovy, huh? Do you think I should make it a thing?”
Her cheeks were reddening in excitement, and I gave her an unsure smile.
“To be honest, I like Mrs. Meredith better. It’s more… uh… distinguished.”
Mrs. M did sound cool, but I would never side with Ollie on anything. Ever.
Mrs. Meredith looked at me with unabashed disappointment.
“Oh. Distinguished, huh?”
I nodded. “Yes. It has a very… uh… adult… ring to it.”
She frowned. I could tell I’d just burst her bubble, but I only felt slightly bad about it. She shouldn’t have let Ollie charm her in the first place. It would only end in heartache when she found out what a jerk he really was.
“Thank you for your honesty.” She slowly sat down in her chair, her eyes taking on a faraway look, as if trying to come up with another cool nickname before class. “Did you want something, dear?”
Oh yes. The reason I was here.
“Yes. Do you remember Devinta Holly’s summer internship program?”
“Yes. And don’t worry. I still intend on writing you that letter of recommendation.”
“Thank you. I appreciate that. I just had one more favor to ask you.” I pulled out my phone and opened my pictures. “I started on some of my paintings for the five-painting requirement, and I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind critiquing one for me.”
She perked up a bit at that. If there was one thing Mrs. Meredith loved more than her own art, it was critiquing other people’s art. “Of course, dear.”
I handed her the phone and waited patiently as she examined it.
I’d painted a beautiful landscape at sunrise, complete with full, thick oak trees, grass waving in the wind, and even a few bugs. I made sure to use a bright color pallet. Something Devinta would have appreciated. Neon greens for the grass and leaves. Brilliant tangerine for the sunrise. It was like a bag of skittles had exploded, but I was proud of it.
Mrs. Meredith looked at the picture for a long time, then she turned the camera upside down and looked at it some more.
Finally, she handed the phone back to me.
Her smile was gone.
What did that mean?
“Did you paint that?” she asked.
I frowned. Did she think I plagiarized the picture? Was that a good thing or a bad thing?
“Yes.” My voice was shaky, and I tried to steady it. “I painted it.”
She let out a breath and squeezed her lips to the side in thought.
“What were you feeling when you painted it?”
“Um… I guess I wanted to paint something that would be good enough for Devinta.”
“But what were you feeling?”
She held her hands in front of her, palms up, in a pleading motion. Like she really wanted me to answer the question correctly.
Honestly, I didn’t know what she was talking about.
“Um… happy?”
She frowned. “Are you sure?”
“Yes. I was definitely happy.” I think.
“Jasmine, you are a gifted artist. Your technique is developing nicely, and your subjects are interesting. That’s a good start. But this”—she gestured to the phone—“it’s just… flat.”
“Flat?”
“Boring. Emotionless. It left me unmoved.”
Confusion deepened my already creased forehead.
“You don’t like it?”
“It's a pretty picture, but it has no substance. It doesn’t speak to me or tell me a story. It’s just, there.” She shook her head. “I’m sorry, but if you’re going to enter a painting like that for your internship, you’re going to have a hard time getting anyone’s attention.”
Her words devastated me. I literally felt my insides shatter.
I’d worked long and hard on this painting. And now she was telling me it was boring.
Flat.
Emotionless.
That was literally the worst thing anyone had ever said to me.
Were all my paintings boring and flat? And if my paintings were boring and flat, did that mean I was too?
“Look. Go home. Start working on a piece that really speaks to you. Look deep inside yourself, figure out what you want to say, then use your brush to say it.” She stood and placed her hand on my sagged shoulder. “And no more fluff pieces. Okay?”
I nodded, still in a daze.
“Okay.”
I felt like crying, but I couldn’t cry in front of her. Artists were supposed to have thick skin. They were supposed to take criticism well. They weren’t supposed to cry when someone told them they didn’t like their work.
I considered myself an artist, but at that moment, I wanted to curl into a ball and cry my eyes out.
But I couldn’t. I’d spent a half an hour on my makeup this morning, getting it absolutely perfect. There were over a thousand dollars’ worth of cosmetics on my face right now, and I was not going to let Mrs. Meredith’s words ruin it.
Mrs. Meredith sat back down in her chair while I turned to walk away.
Her words followed me like a ghost.
Flat.
Emotionless.
Boring.
That was what she thought of my paintings.
How would I ever get into Devinta’s program if my paintings were flat and emotionless?
My chest burned.
My throat hurt.
I felt my eyes start to well and I sniffed back the tears.
I would not cry.
Not here.
Not in front of Mrs. Meredith and God knew whoever else would walk in.
I had to keep it together.
I needed to keep it together.
If not for my pride, then for my winged liner, which I had finally gotten perfect on the first try.
With Mrs. Meredith’s words ringing in my ears, I finished packing my things and headed for the door. I was almost through it when something in the trash caught my eye.
Ollie’s paper. It had to be his because it was the only thing in the trashcan. The round ball hadn’t been wadded up enough and was already starting to unfurl.
Did that boy do everything halfway?
I don’t know why, but I looked a little closer, curious at the lines and shapes that were slowly revealing themselves.
Had Ollie been drawing?
When did Ollie start drawing?
Out of morbid curiosity, I picked the paper from the trash bin and smoothed it down on the skin between my simple, blue, long-sleeved, knit minidress and high brown boots.
It was a pencil drawing of two halves of a face.
The right side of the face was very handsome. Slicked back hair, dark eyes, sharp nose, full lips. Definitely dateable. But, there was something sad about it too. I noticed it in the lowered eyebrows and the turned down mouth. This half of the face looked sad. Angry. Lonely even. It made me feel those things too.
The second half of the face was a monster. Pupil-less eyes with big black bags beneath them. Shredded skin. Angular cheekbones. Heavy black brows. Scars. It was gruesome and a little nauseating. Yet, I swore the monster looked happier than the human. Its brows weren’t pressed down, and even though its lips were shredded, I could see a bit of a smile there. It made me smile too.
How could one face made me feel so many different things at once?
“Jasmine, did you draw that?” Mrs. Meredith plucked the paper from my fingers.
“Now this is what you should be entering for that internship. It’s absolutely breathtaking.”
I turned to face her, keeping my eyes on the crumpled drawing and not on my hurt feelings.
“I didn’t draw it,” I said sadly. “Ollie did. I just rescued it from the trash bin.”
She shook her head in awe.
“Oh. Well, it’s still beautiful.” She held the drawing up so we both could see it. “You can really see the artist’s anguish from the way he shades the eyes so differently.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you see on the man’s side how the shading is mostly focused on the eyes and around the mouth. Almost like the light is coming from within it. While on the monster’s side the shading is more realistic, like there’s an actual outside light source. He’s telling two completely different stories with just one picture. It’s brilliant. You know, you could really learn from this.”
“Me learn from Ollie? Yeah, right.”
“No, I’m serious. Every piece must tell a story. It must reflect the ugliest parts of ourselves and make them seem beautiful. That’s what art is, dear. Taking what seems ugly and presenting it as beautiful.”
I stared at the picture, letting the image seep into my brain. It seemed like every time I looked at it I saw something different.
Did Ollie really do this in ten minutes or was this something he’d been working on for a while?
And, more importantly, when did Ollie become capable of something like this? Something that involved actual work?
“I think I’m going to hang onto this,” she said. “It’s too nice to throw away, even if it’s crumpled.”
She carried the picture back to her desk and lovingly laid it down.
I almost asked if I could keep it.
But I didn’t.
I didn’t want anything of Ollie’s.
Not even a drawing.
I turned and walked out of the classroom, when my eye caught Ollie casually leaning against a locker, laughing as another kid I didn’t know held a book just over Dana Rich’s head.
I tried to reconcile this boy with the boy who’d drawn the picture. Were they the same person? Or, was Oliver like his drawing.
Two faces. One a man and one a monster.
2
I received a text message from my mom just as I walked into the cafeteria.