****
So we became clay fanatics. You should have seen the look of joy on Miss Apples’ face when we all, I mean every one of us, walked in together. Boy, was she surprised when we worked overtime and during our spare time and on weekends to finish as much as we could during our art rotation. She hadn’t expected that much enthusiasm.
“We’ve got kind of a competition going for the best clay sculpture,” explained Prakash, “to see who can make the most authentic example of the originals.”
“Are these some more of the pictures you picked off the website the other night?” Miss Apples’ face was ruddy from firing up the kiln where we baked our finished clay projects. Prakash handed her our example photos. She blew a strand of gray hair out of her face as she gingerly took the printouts in her muddy hands and squinted through her glasses.
She held the papers up to the light and looked at them, nodding as she viewed each one. Then she glanced up at us in alarm, hurriedly scrunching up one of the pictures and tossing it in the trash bin.
“Boys, really. This photo is obscene! I really think you should not try to copy that one,” she said in a tetchy voice. We nodded and smiled. We’d figured that one out. She got herself calmed down and cleared her throat.
“Aztec culture is a subject that is rather sadly neglected in art education. There is so much material on European art. But you boys should be able to appreciate this excellent resource about Mesoamerican art.” She kept lecturing as she rhythmically lifted and thumped a huge wad of clay on her working table. We could tell she was taking this pretty seriously. In her paisley work apron, raising her clay-covered arms in the air to let the clay hit the table with another thump, she was as intense about this in her own way as we were.
“You know, you boys could find this material useful as research if you ever had a paper you needed to write for one of your other classes.”
Oh, no, please, no, I prayed. I had had enough of filed, pointy teeth, tattoos, and shaved eyebrows to last a lifetime.
“Not at this time, Miss Apples, but we’ll keep that in mind for our rhetoric assignments,” answered Ian.
I kicked him in the ankle, and I hoped it hurt. We went back to work, kneading clay and working it into shapes that vaguely resembled humans while Miss Apples showed us how to form the bodies and keep the clay arms and legs from breaking off, and how to make the clay surfaces as smooth as polished stone.
Our sculpture class was only on Fridays, but since we were signed up for the class we could use the studio in our free time, and we did. We were a production line, cranking out fake pre-Columbian sculptures like mad. We kept Miss Apples scuttling around helping us so much that she hardly had time to critique what we were making.
“Think stylized,” muttered Brookie, wiping a streak of clay across his nose as he showed off his latest. He tilted his head as he looked at the little figure. It had symmetrical pigtails and a concentric circle tattoo on the forehead. Nobody could argue that Brookie didn’t have a flair for the outrageous.
“Hey, can I keep this one when we’re done? It’s way cool,” said Eric with enthusiasm.
Looking doubtfully at Brookie’s bizarre creation from all angles, Miss Apples commented a little dryly, “It looks like you boys have a good handle on your Aztecan style. Let me give you a couple of tips on clay technique, though.” And we dived right back into the cold, damp world of clay sculpture.
However, going to class soon crimps a guy’s style when he’s living the artist’s life. Art, along with bagpipe band, took my mind off my studies very effectively. Apparently, spending my study hall time poring over ancient depictions of Mayan, Incan, and Aztecan heroes was affecting the quality of my academic work enough that they had to let my mom know about it. I got “The Call” from home—that is, my parents’ home away from home.
“Charlie, are you adjusting all right? Should you go to the counseling office?” She sounded genuinely concerned and maybe a little guilty for abandoning me to be raised by the Order of St. Rupert. I didn’t take time to glory in it. I thought fast instead. I guess I was learning a lot from Prakash. I’d better deflect suspicion.
“Actually, too well, Mom. I’m making friends with the band and developing a real interest in an art history project we’ve gotten involved in, in arts and crafts.” She sounded doubtful.
“Well, don’t neglect your studies, son.”
“I’m just getting well-rounded, Mom.” There was a long pause as she realized she’d just had her pet theory thrown back at her.
“Well, if you’re homesick, I want you to deal with it, Charlie, promise? Get tutoring if you need help.” I sighed. I was tired, I was involved, and I definitely didn’t have time to miss my parents.
“I promise, Mom. You’ll see a grade improvement, as soon as this project is finished in another week.” Rolling my eyes, I said, “I’ll send you pictures when our art project is finished.” That would scare her into a real panic, if I sent her a photo of one of my clay uglies.
Deceiving Mr. Bevison Page 18