To Paint the Sky

"Oh my Ludwig, this drawing is so good! Where did you learn to draw like this?" Mrs. Achermann asks you.

She is your middle-aged primary school teacher, and she smiles a sweet smile as if smiling makes the words come out any truer. She is nice to you but always comments on how you don't participate enough. She praises you on your math and on your penmanship, but she says that socializing is just as important as written work.

"Gilbert," you say in hope that she will go away. It isn't true. Gilbert can't draw.

"Who's Gilbert?" she asks raising the drawing to the light to inspect it. It is still there. The pencil lines are more translucent now against the fluorescent lighting. She squints at your work, and you wonder what she is looking for. It's only a dog.

You don't like the noisy classroom. You don't like Mrs. Achermann.

"My brother," you say. That is true. Gilbert is your brother. But sometimes you don't like to admit that.

She lowers the drawing back to waist height. She sets the paper down on the table and turns to smile tenderly, and you inhale the strong scent of tangerine as she walks closer. Mrs. Achermann always smells of tangerine, and her lips are always stained red.

"Ludwig, this deserves to be out in the hallway! This is better than some of my fifth-graders," she says in hopes to make you feel prideful.

You feel shy. The dog was meant to be only for your eyes. You don't know what to say. It doesn't matter. Mrs. Achermann is excited to stick the piece of lined paper outside with the other pieces of work.

You follow her out to the colorful hallway where her lanky pale arms hang your doodle with a thumbtack. You miss your dog. It still needs detail and yet here you are having to see it hang among the other bad drawings of your grade. Yours stands out. You didn't like to stand out.

She steps back and looks down to you. She expects you to say something. You don't.

"Have you considered joining the art program, Ludwig?" she asks.

"No."

"You should. I'm sure you would love it there get a chance to talk to other artists. Wouldn't that be fun?" You hate her purposely squeaky voice. She smokes. She has a scratchier voice than this. Gilbert usually walks away from her quickly enough to not let the smoke get into your lungs. Too bad it's already inside of you.

"I can't, Mrs. Achermann," you say shuffling your feet. You want to leave. Leave to where? You don't know.

"Do you like other things? How about sports? I saw you beat Arthur in the playground last week in a game of soccer." Arthur is a fifth grader who came from Liverpool, England. He is really good at soccer. You beat him.

"I like math, Mrs. Achermann," you say. It is true. Math is reliable. The other children just can't seem to understand how to add fractions or how to carry their ones. But you are considered "a genius."

She sighs and her long purple skirt sways back to the mess that is the classroom. She leaves you alone afterward to go scold the more lively children who will talk and laugh and sometimes behave. Something about Alfred not being allowed to make swords out of the markers to fight with the Russian boy because they were dangerous. You know it's really because they are expensive.

Only ten more minutes and then play time is over. In ten minutes the classroom will be in a shouting, groaning mess because toys will have to be put away and conversations cut short. You don't have to worry about that. There is no one to cut the conversation short with, and your pencil is already sharpened and ready on your desk.