McKinley
“McKinley, hello?” I look up at Cole, who had his hand in front of me, waving it around like a crazy person. I can see his cerulean eyes peeking out from under his auburn hair. He pushes the hair out of his eyes when he sees I’ve noticed his flapping.
Cole Lucas has sat beside me everyday during art. My favorite and his most hated class. He is my exact opposite, tall and tan, and bad at art. But he always manages to make me laugh when he asks me questions about what we’re doing. He is completely clueless when it comes to this stuff and he seems to look up to me, that’s a first.
I glance over at Cole’s paper. It’s almost completely blank except for a few lines on the bottom of the page. He looks up at me and back down at his paper. He appears to be very aggravated, and plays with the ring on his right hand. I sigh and pick up his pencil, turning his paper toward me.
“Look, Cole, it’s not that bad. It just has no shape.” I bite my lower lip and try to hold back a laugh. He smiles and laughs, a deep chuckle escaping his throat.
“It has no shape? Huh, so it’s a disaster, basically?” I glance at him. When he laughs his blue eyes sparkle.
“Ummm,” I don’t know what to say. Honestly his “drawing” is horrendous, but Cole keeps talking.
“I just don’t know how to fix it. I don’t even know what I was trying to draw. But whatever it was came out in lines, with no shape.” He smiles as he says the last part. I start to connect the lines. Like a puzzle. I draw a box with a road in front of it. As the lines connect in my head they find their way onto the paper. Cole’s gaze travels down over my shoulder, he’s watching me. I can feel his warm breath on the side of my neck as he stares down at the picture that’s forming.
I stop. Pushing the paper back to face him and placing the pencil on top of it, I turn back to my own drawing. I can hear Mr. Mercado’s ugly brown shoes scuffling across the tiled floor. I try to concentrate on my own work when he passes Cole and comments on his sketch. But in a way it is also mine so I listen, pretending Mr. Mercado is talking to me, praising me for once.
In the months I have spent in his art class helping other kids or asking for his advice, he has never actually compliment my work. I think he is testing me, like he knows I’m good so he’s pushing me to do everything on my own. He wants me to think I’m no good so I improve with out him telling me. I hope. I know I’m good but he annoys me, always walking by my side of the desk not evening nodding in acceptance. It’s so aggravating.
I don’t even look up at Mr. Mercado when he circles back around to see what the people on my side of the tables have done today. He does the oddest thing as he passes me, he turns away. He turns his back to me, not even looking to see what one of his best student’s has come up with in his last class, and he walks away.
Beside me Cole whispers something. When I twist around to look at him he is playing with his ring again. He doesn’t repeat what he whispered so I assume it was unimportant. I turn myself toward the front of the class when Mr. Mercado is asking for the attention of the class. But I’m not going to give him my attention. He didn’t give me his. I lower my head so I don’t have to look toward the front. I focus on my paper; my eyes follow the lines on the desk seem to end into the trunk of the tree I have drawn. The black of the desk is mixing with the shaded black of the trunk creating a picture that just keeps on going. I can still hear Mr. Mercado but as I force myself to listen my attention does not leave the tree with its gray leaves and black trunk in the foreground and white sunset in the back.
Next to me Cole is packing up his bag, I notice that Mr. Mercado has stopped talking and move to put my picture in my folder.
“Why do you always do that?” Cole asks. I put the folder on the desk and open it. Inside are all the pictures and paintings I have done this year, some are better than others but I am keeping all of them. Cole stands up and I see his picture I drew in his right hand slowly curling up as he closes his hand.
“For college,” I say, “I’m going to be an art major, hopefully. Why do you always do that?” I close my folder and wave it toward his hand.
“For the heck of it,” he answers. “Even if I do go to college it’s not going to be for art. I play soccer. I’m hoping to get a full scholarship to any place that’ll take me.” He aims the now circular piece of paper at the trash can. I can see Mr. Mercado watching him out of the corner of his eye. Probably hoping Cole will make it so he doesn’t have to pick up another piece of paper. He tosses the makeshift ball in the direction of the can but it hits the metal rim and bounces off. Lucky for Mr. Mercado, who is still watching, Cole grabs his stuff and walks over to get the trash.
“I see why you don’t play basketball.” I mumble as he walks away, but of course he hears me and laughs slam dunking the wad into the trashcan as he strides out the door. I put my folder into the bag at my feet, grab it and make my way to the door.
“I saw what you did today, with that Lucas boy.” I freeze. Mr. Mercado’s voice rings out into the empty room.
“I just…He needed help.” I manage, the last thing I need is to get on the art teacher’s bad side. It doesn’t help that Cole is already number one on his bad list.
“Ms. Weaver, I don’t care if all he can do is scribble on the paper. At least he’s doing something on his own.” I stay quiet and try not the think about the fact that he was only doing a little more than scribbling. “His grades aren’t going to get any better if you do his work for him. His work will be better but it won’t be his so he won’t get credit.” I’m silent; I don’t want to say something stupid. “I’ll let this time slide, McKinley, but if it happens again I’m not going to give either of you credit. You’d better make this very clear to Mr. Lucas.”
I leave and Mr. Mercado goes back to his papers. The halls are empty, save for a few lingering students and teachers like Mr. Mercado who are doing grades. I walk all the way from the art room to the student parking lot on the other side of the school. I sling my bag on my shoulder around so that I can open the very front pocket and pull out my keys.
I swing them around my finger, letting the extra keys and my easel keychain dance in the air. I hit the unlock button as soon as I stepped through the side door of the school. I can hear the chink chink noise the lock makes as it shoots up in the door, and knew I was getting close to my Jeep Liberty. Well Dad’s Jeep that I am borrowing, so he says, but I have had the Jeep since I got my license last July.
I stop hitting the button when I see the yellow sticker that Dad had put on the back left side of the bumper. The letters are worn from years on the Jeep so no one outside our family knows what it says.
I get in and throw my bag into the passenger’s seat. Quickly I slid the key into to ignition and put my seatbelt on. Putting it in reverse, I back out of the parking place and head toward the studio.
I pull into the small brick building that my parents bought six years ago and named The Studio. My dad plays guitar and my mom paints so it’s pretty perfect. On the top floor Mom has her art studio where she likes to watch little kids paint their versions of a picture. And also where she has a private studio for older students, like me, and herself.
On the bottom floor dad has his guitar shop where he sells guitars made by some guy he knows. He also gives lessons to kids and adults (the adults are worse than the kids). In the back of the store he also has this door that leads to the soundproof recording studio where he lets a few of my friends, who started a band, rehearse twice a week.
When I get out of my car I see Liam and Natalie in the shop through the glass windows Dad has in the front wall of his shop. They must be here for rehearsal. With my bag on my shoulder I slam the Jeep door and go to the door. The bell above the door jingles as soon as I pull it back.
The shop smells of metal and cleaner. And sounds like a band before a concert, instruments playing randomly. Liam and Natalie are behind the counter in their matching red aprons complete with metal name tags. The must be working this week so they can practice. Dad doesn’t normally make them, but sometimes they just work. It’s okay with me; it’s one less thing I have to do.
The door to the art studio is in the back nestled in the corner. There is an elevator and stairs side by side. The elevator was my smart idea, for people who can’t walk up the stairs. But it seems like everybody uses it, I guess they are just lazy. I take the stairs; since I’m one of the only people who ever do, at least they get some use.
At the top of the stairs is yet another glass door, leading into Mom’s sanctuary. This is one of the only places Mom is happy. Like Dad’s store the studio has a smell too. Paint and new canvas smells fill the air. It is like a bakery for painters; new paint is like fresh bread. For me it smells of home, of my own paradise where no one can disturb me.
Little voices whisper as the kids paint, Mom is helping them. I sneak into her studio to get away from the children and the world. Cabinetry built into the back wall holds all the things I could possibly need. I dig through the mess of supplies and find a good pen and some paper.
Closing my eyes I pull away from reality, sinking into my own world. I breathe in the woodsy calming scents that my mind is conjuring. It is all but an illusion but I’m focused now. I draw what I see, deep green grass surrounded by thick woods and plant life. I breathe in again; taking in the details of the magical place my mind has created.
My fingers brush over the picture I can feel the spots where I have shaded so much that the paper has sunken down. I can feel the places where the leaves’ veins have met and created delicate designs, the pressure of the pen has pushed the small lines into the paper.
I open my eyes, coming slowly back to reality where I’m forced to exist. I have left my plant paradise, but on the desk in front of me is my black and white reminder of where I have traveled.
“That looks wonderful.” My mother is standing to my right. She moves her hand to rest on my shoulder. She looks tired, her blue eyes have dark shadows under them and she seems paler than usual. I notice the children from her class have all left and she is wiping her frail hands on her apron trying to scrub the paint off her fingers.
“Thanks, Mom,” I say getting up to put away my pen and the extra paper. I brush passed her and head for the door. I take the stairs again and Mom takes the elevator, but I still beat her.
“McKinley, I’m going home,” she says as she steps out of the elevator. “Do you want to come?”
“Nah, I’m going to stick around for rehearsal.” I say sliding behind the counter, knocking on the door to Dad’s studio. I don’t hear what she says as she walks out.
On the other side of the door it is chaos. Natalie is yelling at Liam and Dad is trying to get them to stop. They all look extremely frustrated. I don’t see their guitar player in the mess so that’s probably what they are arguing about. What do you know? I’m right. When I pick up the head phones I hear Dad through the microphone, explaining something about guitar players and how there are a lot out there. He also tells Natalie that if she wanted to learn how to play he could teach her so they wouldn’t have to worry bout one.
I hit the button beside my mic to ask what’s going on. No one even pays attention to me. Apparently Dad says something though and he goes to get a guitar. He is going to play. Liam hands him the music he’s made and gets behind the drums. Once Dad gets the hang of the music and the timing right they actually sound pretty good. The lyrics are kind of hard to make out sometimes but I assume Natalie knows what she’s doing.
At the end of the song they ask me how it was. I press the mic button and tell them it was good. I didn’t mention the fact I couldn’t believe my Dad was playing for them. He looked happy though like he was finally doing what he was meant to do even if it was with two teenagers.
They only practice two more songs before Liam and Natalie leave and we have to close up shop. Dad stays downstairs to take care of his shop and I run upstairs to lock Mom’s shop. I cover all the canvases with cloth and switch off the lights in the main studio and Mom’s. I through the crystal glass as I lock the main door and see how sad the studio looks to be closed. It looks like an old house hoping for one more chance to have someone in it. I shake the image from my mind and sprint down the stairway.
