Barb Zaneson's Miscellany

Round 3 - Art Camp

“How many different boys have you kissed?"

”Um...“ I glanced at Julia, who sat in an electric wheelchair by the dorm room window. She had a sketchpad on her lap, and was looking out at the other kids arriving at the college's high school art camp. ”Not many,“ I said, although my honest answer would be 'not any.'

”I've kissed five“ Julia said. ”One before the car accident, and four since I got out of the hospital. But nobody I want to marry yet.“ She erased a line on her paper. ”I've been sketching the boys as they arrive. If you want, I can introduce you to any of the boys who were here last summer.“ She held out her sketchpad.

I set my comb and toothbrush on the top shelf  by the window. Julia had filled the bottom shelf with makeup. I took her sketchpad, and flipped through a few pages of incredibly realistic portraits in pencil. ”These are amazing.“

”I hope so. My grampa makes me draw two hours a day, after school, every day. I go kayaking too, but I have to bring a sketchpad and draw birds and stuff. But what do you think of the boys?“

I looked more closely at the sketches. Some of the boys looked handsome, others looked mysterious, a few looked like they were about to join a rock band. I pointed out one who Julia had drawn hunched over, with light spiky hair around sunglasses. ”Was he here last year?“

She took back the sketchpad. ”No, he's new. He sort of trudged in, and his mom or big sister or somebody carried his backpack and sketchpad for him. She didn't stay long, and didn't hug him goodbye. Just waved.“ She tapped a little sketch of a waving lady. ”I guess you two might make a good couple. I bet having a girlfriend would cheer him up. When you're done unpacking, let's go see if he's in the cafeteria. The food here is really good.“

*

The food was great, but the boy in Julia's sketch wasn't in the cafeteria. After supper there were card games and board games, and I followed Julia from table to table, her wheelchair whining slightly, as she introduced me to most of her friends from last year. I was polite and quiet and trying not to hear my mom's voice in my head, saying, ”Make some friends this time. You need more friends.“ I wondered if my mom had somehow arranged for me to room with one of the friendliest, most popular girls at the camp.

The next morning, the spiky-haired boy came late to breakfast, sat by himself, and left before Julia and her friend Amy had finished trying to convince me to go and talk to him.

But he was in my morning painting class. Julia had sculpture that morning, so I wasn't sure where to sit. None of the free easels were near her friends, and I couldn't remember all their names anyhow. I finally sat down in a corner, close enough to the unhappy boy that he could talk to me if he wanted to. But he stayed silent.

Our teacher was a grad student named George, who wore a paint-spattered blazer with sleeves that were too short. George told us to pay attention to shadows, and use complementary colors for subtle outlines, and do some more advanced stuff that I didn't really understand. George pointed out jumbled vases and tools and fabric and other odd things on tables lit by the skylights in the ceiling, and told us to choose a still life subject.

The unhappy boy went over to a table and picked up a ukulele with only three strings, and began trying to tune it. Everybody else, including me, started putting paint on palettes, and sketching pictures of stuff onto canvases.

George walked over to the boy strumming the ukulele, and asked, ”Is there anything you don't understand?“

”I don't want to be here.“