Touch

38

The day is a complete and total bust, one I never should have gotten out of bed for. Zayn doesn't come back to school. Hanna and I don't really talk much.

The principal calls for an impromptu assembly, where he lectures about the Polly Piranha vandalism, the havoc wreaked since the very first day of school, and the way the reputation of our high school has been seriously damaged (the real impetus for the assembly).

Top all of that off with the Sweat-man's brilliant idea of throwing a near-impossible pop quiz, and I'm an emotional wreck.

And so, in spite of how weird things got between Chase and me in school the other day, I head to work early, hoping that the sensation of sticky red clay against my cold and clammy fingertips will help me relax and put things in perspective.

The good thing is that Chase isn't even there when I arrive.

I've got the entire studio to myself. I line up all my tools, grab my board, and unwrap the piece I started, removing the plastic tarp and damp paper towels, essentials that keep the clay from hardening.

With my eyes closed, I spend several moments just breathing into the clay, trying to block out any stray thoughts, to focus instead on my fingers as they smooth over bumps and glide across cracks.

After several minutes, I feel the clay begin to take shape beneath my fingertips.

My eyes still closed, I prod a little further, creating what feels like a sharp angle extending up from a boxlike base.

I open my eyes to see what it looks like.

Chase is there.

He's standing just a few feet away. I let out a gasp and take a step back, knocking a stack of cups off the shelf behind me. "I didn't mean to startle you," he says.

"You just looked so inspired. I didn't want to interrupt."

"Where did you come from?" I ask, looking toward the door, knowing I would have heard the bells jingle if he'd just come in.

"I was downstairs pulling molds." He takes a step closer to view my piece. "What are you working on?"

"Something with a pulse, I hope." Chase smiles and runs a hand through his dark hair. "I had a feeling you were bothered by that."

I shrug and look down at my piece, anxious to see what's become of it. There's a rectangular form at the bottom, with a smaller version of the same on top, sort of like a car, minus the wheels.

"I only said that to push you deeper," he says. "You have a lot of talent, but sometimes I think you take the easy way out. You don't take the time to examine the guts."

The guts? "Dig a little," he continues. "Search. Examine. Sculpt from the inside out, and not the other way around. Don't be afraid to screw up along the way."

"I screw up plenty," I tell him, still looking at my lame-o car figure.

"Good." His smile morphs into a smirk. "You need to screw up to learn. You need to experience to create greatness. It's not just about bowls, you know."

He takes another step, as if he wants to get an even closer glimpse of the angles of my piece, but instead he's looking at me, his face just inches from mine now.

"It's good to see you experimenting. I can't wait to see what comes of it."

"Yeah," I say, noticing the razor cut on his neck. "Me, too."

"And that invitation's still open if you ever want to talk." I nod, suddenly feeling as if the walls are closing in. I try to move away, but between the shelf and Chase I'm totally pinned.