“By the end of class, you’ll either have a beautiful bowl or a lopsided disaster your mom will pretend to love, so we’re all winnin’ tonight,” he says, a round of chuckles from the class following. “Now, first things first, scoot your butt in close.Realclose. If you feel like you’re about to climb on top of the wheel, that’s the right distance. When it comes to pottery, stability is key. Elbows on your thighs, folks. We can’t have them hangin’ around like birds flappin’ in the wind.”
I’ll give it to him… Remington sure is good with a crowd. But he’s always been that way. I don’t think he’s ever met a stranger, and he naturally has this way about him that has people laughing or relaxing in his presence. This class is no different.
Except for me.
I can’t see me relaxing to save my life while I’m still in this room.
“Now we’re gonna center the clay. This is where most beginners start questioning every choice that led them here.” He chuckles, and so do a few other people. “Let’s wet our hands. Channel your inner Goldilocks. We don’t want them too wet or not enough, but just right. Then push the clay toward the middle. Don’t attack it, and don’t fight it. Think of it like guidin’ a toddler back to their playroom.” Remington’s gaze finds mine, a smirk curving his lips before he adds, “Or like corrallin’ a herd of stubborn heifers into the squeeze chute.”
I huff a small chuckle at the reference.
The clay is warmer than I thought it would be. It’s soft, but dense. Like cold butter that’s starting to melt.
“Let the wheel do the spinnin’. Your job is to shape the motion. And don’t panic if it starts wobblin’,” he says, right as my clay does just that. “As the wheel turns, lean in slightly and use your palms to push the clay into a cone, then back down into a puck. Up, and then down. This movement helps align the clay so it behaves for you later.”
Remington pauses, giving the class a chance to put his instruction to use. I pinch my lips together, my jaw aching from how hard I’m biting down. Sweat beads across my brow as I can’t seem to get this glob of clay to cooperate. It hums under my palms from the low vibration of the wheel. It’s gritty in places, but silky in others. I’ve barely even begun, and yet my hands are covered, and there’s clay splatter all over my forearms. I don’t bother glancing around to see how everyone else is doing because I’d imagine they’ve all got a handle on it better than me.
This is fucking ridiculous. The only thing this class is doing for my health is raising my goddamn blood pressure.
Walking over to me, Remington places a hand on my shoulder, and somehow, the steady touch works wonders in grounding me. “Take a deep breath,” he murmurs, keeping his voice low enough for only me to hear. “Keep it slow and controlled. Elbows to your knees, palms firm against the clay. You got this.”
It takes a minute—which feels like an eternity—but eventually, it stops wobbling, and I’m able to mold it how I need to.
“Thanks.” I clear my throat, refusing to meet his gaze.
Remington gives my shoulder a quick one-two squeeze before finding his place at the front of the class again. “Once the clay is centered, we’re ready to open it,” he says. “With the wheelstill spinnin’, take your thumbs and press straight down into the middle. Keep your hands connected; they’re stronger together. Make sure you stop about a half inch from the bottom so you don’t puncture through. Next, we’re gonna widen the opening we made with our thumbs by gently pulling the clay toward you. Keep slow, steady pressure.”
This isn’t as easy as it looks. Remington had it right when he said I’d rather wrestle a steer than sit at this wheel, trying to manipulate this wet, unruly clay. At least with the steer, I know what to expect. I know how to gain control. With this, I’m clueless. No matter what Remington says, I just can’t seem to get a handle on it as well as I should. And it has nothing to do with him as an instructor because I’ll give it to him… He clearly knows what he’s talking about, and the way he provides the instruction is clear and concise.
The problem is me.
My brain, for not making sense of what he’s saying, and my hands, for not wanting to move the way they should.
“Alright class, that’s all for tonight,” Remington announces as we’re approaching the final few minutes. “Take a look at what you made. The crooked bowl, the accidental ashtray, the thing that might be a cup but might also be a hefty paperweight.” A round of low, rumbling chuckles fill the room. “This is exactly what your first class is supposed to look like. If your piece collapsed or flew off the wheel, that’s okay. It just means you’re officially doin’ pottery. Leave your pieces on the shelf with your name on them. They’ll dry, then we’ll fire them, and one day, you’ll look at your perfectly imperfect piece and think, ‘Wow, I really made that.’”
My nerves are shot.
I can’t remember the last time I felt this on edge.
“Clean your tools and wash your hands, then take a moment to appreciate that, for most of you, you tried something newtoday. That’s the hardest part, and you did it. Be proud of yourselves.”I feel anything but proud.“Same time next week,” he adds.
I rinse my tools and clean up my area as quickly as I can manage. Once I’m done, I send up a silent thank you to the universe that one of the other students is currently talking to Remington about something so he can’t try and chit-chat with me before I leave.
Hightailing it out of the room—and the building—I swiftly cross the parking lot and climb into my truck. It’s not until I’m on the main road that I let out the deep breath I’d been holding for the last hour and a half. Going to that class was a mistake—one I won’t be making again. There has to be another way to help with the stiffness and mobility issues I’m experiencing.
Something that doesn’t end with me dripping sweat and on the verge of a stroke.
Five
Remi
The cab of my truck is silent, the tension so thick, I’m surprised it hasn’t suffocated one of us yet. I should probably turn on some music. To be honest, I’m not sure why I haven’t yet. Probably because I’m all frazzled and don’t know my ass from my head.
Lukas is moving in next weekend. The last month has somehow flown by and dragged on at the same time. I’ve spent so much time figuring out what he’ll need and getting everything in order, yet I feel no more prepared than I did when I decided to do this.
Since I’ve only got a few more days off before the big day—today being one of them—I thought it would be a good idea to get his room painted and put together so it’s ready for when he officially moves in. I picked him up about an hour ago, and we just left the hardware store with a couple of gallons of “Raspberry Bellini,” a shade somewhere between red and pink, to splash across the walls. Wouldn’t be my first choice for a bedroom, but Lukas seems thrilled, which is all that matters.
Glancing over, I take him in for a moment before bringing my focus back to the road. His hands are in his lap, and he’s been picking at the skin around his fingers since he got in the truck. Between that and the fact that he hasn’t said more than two words to me, other than about the paint, it’s clear he’s nervous. And the feeling is mutual. But as the adult, I know it’s my job to help ease his nerves…
