Well, it looks like I’ll have to get used to doing this on a daily basis.

A thousand pardons.

A SUNDAY LIKE NO OTHER (continued)

Time for Art!

The Art Room is all the way in the back part of the school. It’s near home ec, shop, mechanical drawing, and the service entrance. It’s almost an island.

When I walk in, I smell clay, paint, and freedom. Being here is almost as good as being in the attic.

“All right, you should all know what projects you’re working on by now,” says Mr. Ernst. He’s a big guy with a soup strainer mustache and always has his dress shirt sleeves rolled up. He looks more like a football player than a stereotypical artist.

I throw my book bag in a corner with the other bags. It’s Friday, it’s the afternoon, and I’m in the Art Room.

I saunter over to the racks and pull out my painting. I place it on the easel in front of the still life. I cross the room to the supply cabinet. After getting my palette, paints, and brushes, I go back to my easel. Mr. Ernst is teaching us about composition and values. We’re using only brown and white paint. He gave us a lot of the instruction last week. Now is the time to apply it.

As I squeeze out the colors, I look over at the still life. I begin again to look for the dark, medium, and light values of the objects. Mr. Ernst says to pretend you’re a black and white camera. Ignore the green of the vase or the yellow of the sunflower. Not that easy but it’s easier than bookkeeping.

On the other side of the room are Armstrong and his gang of seniors. Armstrong is the star senior artist of the school or so he thinks. He and his gang are working on this huge canvas that is nailed right into the wall. In fact, the canvas is the size of the wall. They use ladders to work at the top. Everything is drawn in thick black charcoal lines. It looks like a gigantic kid’s coloring book page. They’re all laughing and talking loudly; loud enough that Mr. Ernst has to remind them to keep it down. They’re working on the color today.

Why aren’t they using crayon?

I turn to my painting and start. From across the room, I can hear Armstrong.

“We have to decide on a color palette system.”

I roll my eyes in response.

A color palette system? It’s just a palette.

“We should have six colors,” says a girl whose black hair matches her clothes.

“No, we should have more colors,” counters a guy with holey dungarees.

“Yes, yes, yes, we should have a six times six color palette system,” commands Armstrong shaking his long, shaggy, red hair. I turn in time to see him raise his fist. He’s dressed in black like that girl.

Did they come in a matched set?

“Yeah, yeah, that’s it!”

“Cool, man, cool!”

“Groovy!”

“36, 36, 36, 36, 36,” chants Armstrong. He commands the others to chant with him.

“Armstrong!” It’s Mr. Ernst, the supreme commander.

Silence.

I’m having trouble concentrating. I keep imagining them all in diapers. Big babies in diapers coloring on their big coloring book. It doesn’t help my concentration. I laugh out loud.

“What’s so funny?” asks Anne, who I realize is right next to me.

“Nuthin’,” I mumble.

“The tie looks good,”

“It does…? Uh, it does, doesn’t it?”

Anne giggles and her killer dimples appear.

Smooth as Englebert Whatshisdink.

How can I ask her now? Oh, go ahead, you chicken.

But I’m suddenly tongue tied. I didn’t even think about what I’m going to say and here she is, right next to me. I’m uncomfortable. My skin is too tight and my mouth too dry. I drop my brush. When I bend to pick it up, the handle hits the easel on the way up and I lose the brush again. Picking up the brush a second time, I mumble something about having to clean the brush and head over to the sinks. As I wash the brush off, my skin loosens. The cool water feels good on my hands. I take a quick drink from the faucet. I’m less uncomfortable now. I head back to my easel and Anne. She is working and Armstrong and his gang are babbling about color palettes again.

I stare hard at my canvas and then look at the still life. I can feel her looking at me and I can hear Armstrong and his gang babbling about color.

I have the drawing done already. I work furiously at the rendering of the vase and bowl. I’m so engrossed that I forget about the Armstrong gang and even Anne. I decide on a very dark background like Rembrandt’s so all the light areas will pop. Time flies.

Mr. Ernst cuts into my concentration. “Time to clean-up. Be certain to put away all materials in their correct can or cabinet. Wipe up any spills be they solvent or paint or otherwise.”

I place my still unfinished painting into the rack and clean up my area. I walk over to one of the sinks to clean out my brushes.

Anne is there washing out her brushes. Her hair is pushed to one side.

As I approach, my skin tightens. My mind is tripping over itself looking for the right words.  I feel like Hoss Cartwright, Little Joe’s brother. You know, he’s the big clunky, shy guy on Bonanza who always stumbles over his words around “the pretty little fillies” as he says. I have to remember what Little Joe would do. He’s the opposite of Hoss. He always knows what to say and do.

She looks over from cleaning her brushes. “Can I have my tie back? I know you won it in Spin the Bottle but I’d really like it back.”

It’s then I remembered what Little Joe did.

“Sure, on one condition.”  I can hear Little Joe now.

“And what’s that?”

“That you come with me to the Fall Ball.”

Silence.

“You can have your tie back but you have to agree to be my date.”

“Oh, I see. What if I don’t got with you to the dance?”

“Then I guess I keep the tie.”

There’s a long pause. She smiles slightly.

“Okay, I’ll go with you.”

“You will? That’s great!

“Then I can have my tie back?”

“Yeah, yeah, sure, here,” I say as I loosen the tie and hand it back to her.

“Thanks,” she murmurs.

She sashays out of the Art room. “See you at the play tonight.”

I stand there with the brushes in my hand.

Wow! She said yes. I’m going to the dance with Anne. I’ll be damned. I did it. I’m going to the flipping Fall Ball with Anne.

I quickly finish cleaning the brushes off.

“Mr. Ernst, can I go to the boys’ room?” I call to him.

“Yes.”

“I don’t need a pass?”

“Not this late on a Friday,” he says. He goes back to discussing the color palette system for the coloring book canvas gang.

Wish I could command that much attention from Mr. Ernst. I know Mr. Ernst likes the work I do. But, I don’t know, am I good enough to get into art college? I cross the corridor on the lookout for Mr. Craigson and push open the boys’ room door. I’m hit with the smell of piss and cigarettes.

I’m nearly home walking along Oak Drive. I pass the Kincaid’s house. The dog is out. My hands go clammy and my heart beats faster. Maybe I’ll make it past their house without…but no…the dog sees me. He starts barking and draws the attention of two of the three boys in the yard.

“Go get the little faggot!” yells Billy and gestures with a sweep of his arm for the dog to charge.

I feel the blood flood out of my face and run down into my legs making them feel like I’ve grown barbells for feet. I move as quick as my panic lets me. The dog is nearly to the fence now, barking and barking and barking. He lunges into the fence and snarls through it. Fortunately, the gate is closed. I get past the fence feeling frightened and breathing rapidly. I make it to the corner, one house away from the Kincaid’s and the dog quiets.

I stand on the sidewalk safely out of the dog’s sight. I feel lightheaded and my hands are sweaty. I have to concentrate to get my breathing under control. It’s then I notice I’m wet with sweat. I look down at my pants. Not wetness there. I take in a deep, long breath and let it flow out of my body along with some of the fright.

By the time I make it up the small hill across from my house, I’m feeling like myself. The barbells have been replaced by feet and my blood is back to flowing everywhere.

I get in the door and take another deep, calming breath. I don’t hear anyone.