The Fabricators

Grace Henry, 2:45 P.M…

                It was the last class of the day. I grabbed the 6B graphite pencil and darkened my shadow on the paper. The sound of the loudest kids in my art class had been officially blocked out; they barely had any of their work done. I also didn’t have much on my paper, just some of the fur of a sleeping cat I was drawing. When it was finished, Socks—the name I had mentally donned the cat—would be dozing in a rocking chair on someone’s front porch. There would be no color. Every time I added color to a drawing it ruined the drawing completely.

                “Grace,” Mrs. Trish repeated herself. I snapped out of my thoughts and turned in the chair to look at Mrs. Trish. I realized she had just told the entire class something. “Did you hear that?” I looked at the white, paint-stained tile floors and bit my lip, shaking my head no.

                “I was just saying that I’m making an extra-credit opportunity for all of my classes. Not that you all need it, but you never know,” she shrugged, leaning back in her chair.

                “What is it?” a boy at the other end of my table asked.

                “That contest they had in the announcements this morning,” Mrs. Trish pointed up at the speakers with her pencil, “the one where you draw or paint an image of another world, one you can make up however you want.”

                “Another world?” a girl asked, “How are we supposed to express that? It could be anything.” Mrs. Trish smiled.

                “Yes, and that gives you all the room to use creativity. As long as it is school appropriate you can place it in the contest.”

                “What’s the prize?” the girl asked.

                “In here: ten points extra credit on your final just for entering something. In the contest,” Mrs. Trish looked at a paper, “There will be fourteen winners that move on through more levels until final winners are chosen. The prize for the fourteen winners is a hundred-dollar check.”

                “What about the final winners?” a student asked.

                “It doesn’t say,” Mrs. Trish squinted at her paper. “It does say that the fourteen winners will be chosen from fourteen ‘districts’. And it lists them on the back.”

                “Which one are we in?”

                “Let’s see, Pennsylvania,” her eyes scanned the page, “that’s the second district with New York, New Jersey, Delaware, and Maryland.”

                “Aw man, we’ll have to compete with New York art students,” a kid complained.

                “Don’t let that sway you,” Mrs. Trish said, “You never know who will make it.”

                I turned back to my work and continued shading. Allowing my pencil and my hand to rest five minutes before the bell, I attempted to recall how exactly the paws were shaped. As Mrs. Trish told us to begin cleaning up, I told myself I would have to figure it out tonight.

                When I pulled into the driveway, my heart began sinking in my chest. The all-familiar, lipstick-red sedan was parked in my place, almost like saying ‘Hey Grace! If you haven’t noticed, I’m back for the weekend!’ I turned off the engine and mentally prepared myself for the whirlwind of Madison Breech-Henry, my step-mom.