“Man,” someone in the back says. “Ms. Fairchild was the best.”
Ignoring the mumbles of disappointment from some students, I snag a marker and write “Art as Self-Expression and Self-Exploration” on the whiteboard. “Here is the syllabus.” I send a stack of papers down the rows for them to take one and pass along. “As you’ll see, the first week—”
“Where are you from?”
“What sign are you? Also your moon and rising—”
“Can we eat in here?”
“Are you married?”
“Do you give extra credit? Ms. Fairchild always—”
“How old are you?”
The rapid-fire questions explode from all corners, and the moment I open my mouth to answer someone, three more people ask something else.
“Okay, whoa,” I say over them. “Look, you don’t have to do the thing where you raise your hand to talk, but what if we start with the syllabus, and then you can ask questions after?” The paper in my hands vibrates like a flag in a hurricane, so I set it down on the teacher’s desk. There is no reason to be nervous. These arekids, and it’s an easy gig. “And to answer your questions: Harlow, Pisces, but no clue about the other ones, no, no, maybe, and twenty-six.”
A semi-content murmur passes through the group of fifteen students. Tough crowd.
“I’m a curator. Until recently, I worked in Dublin.” All of their eyes are on me, and I clear my throat. “I’ve organized exhibitions around the world. My career focus is contemporary art on a global scale.”
“Why would you leave Europe for this place?” Xander asks with a snort.
This kid is me twelve years ago. I want to say,I know, right?but I surprise myself by coming to Harlow’s defense.
“There’s actually a lot of art happening here.” I echo what Eleanor told me at lunch the other week. Not that I buy it, but I have to make these kids believe that anything’s possible. That’s what my teachers did for me. “You know, when people want to get away from their lives and create something, they often come out here.”
“Are you an artist too?” someone named Avery asks.
“My art is just for me.” I sit on the desk, confident I’ve earned everyone’s attention. “I curate.”
“Why?” another person in the back asks.
“I like creating an experience. A story.”
Sophomore year, I helped select pieces for on-campus shows at my university, and I not only liked it, but I was good at it too. All those years of training to be the most affable guy in the roomgave me people skills, and all the geeking out on art meant I understood craft.
“Show us something you’ve done.” Avery crosses their arms and leans back in the chair.
“Are you any good?” someone else asks.
“You’re going to have to trust that the school hired me for a reason.”
“Make something!” another kid taunts.
“Yeah!”
Conversations pop up again—agreement and giggles and gossip. As annoying as they are, I respect the tenacity. I’d probably be a little disappointed to have a group of students who didn’t believe in questioning everything.
I lift my messenger bag of supplies from the chair onto the desk with a thud. These were backups for kids who might need them, but I guess I’m using them to prove something. “Medium?” I glance up to see fifteen faces who definitely didn’t think I’d take them up on this challenge. “Don’t be shy. You want to know what I can do, so let me show you. Medium?”
“Charcoal,” Zoë blurts out.
“Great. What am I drawing?”
“Landscape,” Avery says. “No, wait. Portrait.”
