“Don’t push it.” He shakes his head and waits for me to take a few steps before closing the door behind me.
Every time the bell rings, it vibrates through my skull, and I’m counting down the hours until I can wrap up here and get fresh air.
“Ms. Drake.” Annie—an oddly short seventh-grade girl who reminds me of Sunday—stands at my desk.
“Hey Annie,” I sit up a little straighter and lean on my sticker-bombed desk. Being the most disrespected teacher in the school,as well as the most loved, is a hard gig. Teachers don’t take me seriously because I teach art, but my room is a space for anyone. Kids who can’t handle the school cafeteria ‘cause it’s too loud at lunch, ones I find sitting in the hallway, because they were kicked out of class. Most just use my room as a study hall during free periods.
I also have the biggest room in the school, next to the gymnasium, and that always comes up in conversation at staff meetings and during teacher development days. I have free rein of the space, and unlike most rooms, it's darker inside. I replaced all the bright white lights with dimmable ones, and art covers every ounce of the walls. Kids are allowed to paint and repaint the tables if they have an idea, and art is more than just marks and exams.
It’s expression and emotion.
“I’ve been working on this for weeks, and I can’t get it right. Can you tell me what’s wrong with it?” She hands me her notebook, and I suppress the small grunt of pain as I take it with my sore hand.
It’s a sketch of an elderly lady feeding ducks at the park. I recognize the tree from the space down past Main, Twindleway Park. It’s got a big pond and a dog run that Cosy loves to use.
“Why did you choose her?” I ask her, looking over the messy pencil sketch.
“Uh,” Annie pauses to think.
“There must have been a reason,” I encourage, admiring each little duck she took the time to create.
“I guess I liked that she was so old, feeding a bunch of baby ducks…” She chews her lip, and her shoulders sag like she said the wrong thing.
“Then there’s nothing wrong with it,” I hand it back to her.
“There has to be,” she sounds disappointed.
“Nope.” I shake my head. “You capture her age with grace in these lines, and every duck you drew has its own personality, Annie. It’s beautiful.”
Annie stares down at it, and I can tell something is still bugging her.
“What did you think was wrong with it?” I ask her as the second bell rings for late students. “Why don’t you stay here and think on it? You have… English next?” I ask her, and pick up the phone on my desk as she nods. “I’ll let Mr. Disson know you aren’t feeling well, and you can hang out here with the seniors, maybe one of them can help you figure it out?”
Annie nods a little more enthusiastically that time.
“Mr. Disson,” I say as he answers on his end.
“What do you want, Ms. Drake?” he snaps, and I can hear the dust spit from his crusty eighty-year-old lips.
“Annie Gaul is supposed to be in your English class right now, but she projectile vomited all over my room three minutes ago and is being sent to the nurse's office.”
“Sure she did,” Mr. Disson grunts.
“Are you calling me a liar?” I challenge him, and he says nothing. “Excellent. Have a good afternoon.” I hang up the phone, “If you see him, give him a two-step wobble—sell the dizziness.” I laugh, and shecradles her notebook closer to her chest as she backs away to find a quiet spot to sit, as most of my senior class floods in and finds their own.
“Wow, creeping in on the second bell, how downright cool of you all…” I tease and push from my desk to start class. “I want you all to make a card, including a poem for someone special in your life, and I expect to have twenty-one cards on my desk tomorrow addressed to me.” I joke, and the class gives me a few pity laughs. “Get to work,” I say, and inhale to keep my hangover at bay.
I sit down, checking my cell phone to see a few missed messages from my Mom and a few from the girls. And one from my brother.
Reid
Mom’s being a nutcase again. Send help.
I stare at the message, and the headache only gets worse. It’s probably nothing, but I’d swing by the house before practice to check on him anyway. I set the phone face down, looking over the class once before laying my head on the desk and counting to ten to keep from vomiting.
"How does it feel?” Kaia turns my hand over in hers, “who taped this?”
“Uh,” I swallow, looking around the busy locker room. “Me.”
