Mute (M.C.)

f o u r

Over the days in class I tried to keep my focus on the screen but Leslie's seat remained empty. She never missed class and she wouldn't start now. I selected her as a partner for our last yearly art project that the art teacher threw in for the purpose of a lesson.
After the weekend I returned to a very worn down Leslie. Her hair was pulled up completely with strands carelessly falling from the back as if she was rushed. She had pale sickly skin and wore large frame spectacles that downed her face. She still looked like an angel.
A sickly angel.
In art I quickly sat in front of her as she looked down sketching what looked to be the bent over tree. As the bell rang I managed to get her attention by pulling out a sheet of notebook paper.
I wrote down, I am your partner for the last project.
I slid the paper towards her and she nodded, "I kind of figure you were."
She writes down something and slides the sheet of paper back to me. The hand writing was small like chicken scratch:
Don't call me or text me for anything other than this project.
Cell: 902-443-6728
I nodded and she slid her sketch book to the middle of the table. "I want to create something with this tree. It will be unique and I bet we can do something more or less concrete. Anyone can paint and draw but what if we make something that they can touch and experience.
I know the education system has lowered itself to half-assed assignments for passing and I bet the others will turn in sketches with paint. But I want to make something that speaks a million words."
As she spoke I wrote down an idea showing it to her: I think I know what we can do.