In Search of Tomorrow ✓

Twelve

The school day dragged. After math, I had attended Spanish and art, forcing myself to take notes and pay attention for the sake of my slowly increasing grades. It was hard, though, to concentrate on my oil painting when my teacher was watching me work with a somewhat disappointed expression on his face.

"I don't think oil painting is really your thing," said Mr. Olson brightly as I accidentally painted outside of my carefully drawn lines. "Why don't you start on another project?"

It was clear he thought my current attempt was hopeless, and looking at the smattering of paint thrust across the canvas, I couldn't help but agree.

"Well then, what should I do?" I asked, pushing back my painting and finding with disappointment that it looked no better from that angle. My gaze travelled around the amazing art on display on the walls of the room—I saw an incredibly realistic pastel portrait of a snowy mountain scenery and saw that it had been done by Cameron.

Of course—the boy was good at everything he tried.

Mr. Olson was clearly trying to think of something that wasn't too difficult for me to do, but that still appeared challenging. At this point, if he had given me a stencil to trace, I probably would have gotten an F. I wondered vaguely if Cameron tutored in art, and if so why he had never thought to bring it up during one of his many evenings at my house. Surely he'd seen I was failing in that, too?

Thinking of Cameron made me think of my date that afternoon, and I was running my paint-stained fingers through my hair thoughtlessly before Mr. Olson said, "Evelyn, that's probably not a good idea."

I jerked my hand out of my hair and placed it back on the table.

"Why don't you try some pencil sketching? It might be more fun for you than working in color, since that seems to be what you're mainly having trouble on."

My main problem was actually getting the paintbrush to move where I wanted it to go with globs of gooey paint attached, but Mr. Olson was already standing and moving away, so I didn't mention that.

"What should I draw?" I asked instead.

Mr. Olson shrugged. "Find inspiration," he said. "This project's not due for quite a few weeks, so you have plenty of time to brainstorm and then start on your work."

He wandered off to the next student, the spiky-haired guy who sat next to me in math class. He was currently sketching an amazing, enormous drawing of a girl's face: wide-eyed and pale, she looked haunted.

I wasn't sure if that was what the guy was going for, but Mr. Olson and he got involved in a very technical discussion on depth and portraying reality that I couldn't follow, so I went back to my own work.

Pushing aside my canvas with my unrecognizable sky on it, I began to clean up my paints, all the while thinking about what I wanted to draw. I'd never really tried pencil sketching before, except for the brief unit in this class during fall semester during which we'd touched on it. I considered things that made me happy, but I honestly couldn't think of anything immediately.

Empty-handed, I sat down on my stool and jiggled my legs, watching the students around me work. Mr. Olson would likely award me a zero for participation that day, but I had no idea what to do.

I went back to staring at the artwork around the room, and my eyes lingered on a drawing on a dandelion that looked like a black-and-white photo. Suddenly, inspiration hit. Brushing my hair back off my face, I grabbed a pencil from my art kit and began sketching on a blank piece of paper, imagining the dandelion on the afternoon so long ago and the wish I had made—the one that had never come true.