The Mandala Girl (COMPLETED)

Chapter 3

That next Tuesday, I pull up to Cubby's art studio knowing all too well that it will be for the last time. With no scholarship, there's no point in pursuing a career as an artist. It took a half a gallon of tears and a lot of shattered picture frames before I finally accepted that fact. Part of me still isn't sure if I even want to show up for today's class, but the other part wants to savor the experience. I may never get another chance to hold a paintbrush ever again.

Cubby's got its name from the owner-slash-art-teacher, who—so the story goes—got locked in a kitchen cupboard by his two older brothers when he was just seven years of age. He was stuck there for three hours until his mom found him and let him out. To pass the time while he was inside the cupboard, he sketched on a single piece of paper that he had in his pocket, filling the front and back side of it with random doodles and lines. The funny thing is he didn't even know he had a passion for drawing until that very moment. From that moment on, whenever he wanted to draw something, he would grab a number two pencil and a blank sheet of paper and go to his "cubbyhole", as he called it. And thus, that's how Cubby's got its name.

The front yard of the art studio is sporadically covered with glass bottle art; some of which are painted a spectrum of colors, while others are crafted into objects like flowers or animals. I proceed on up the cement steps and through the single door entrance; a small foyer greets me on the other side. On my left is a vending machine, which always seems to be out of Orange Crush soda, along with a countertop filled with Dixie cups and plates and mini size bags of Lays potato chips.

The adjoining room is the classroom, which is where the art lessons are held. I'm downright terrible when it comes to mental measurements, but I'd wager to say it isn't much larger than four-hundred-square-feet; basically the size of a large bedroom. The twelve of us students are usually tightly packed together. There's not much room for anything other than us, our easels, and Mr. Andersen.

Eleven heads turn in my direction as I enter the classroom, and I quickly realize that I'm the last one to arrive. Did they start early or did I lose track of time?

"Glad you could join us, Riley," Mr. Andersen says in a cheery voice. "I was beginning to think you weren't going to make it."

I consider telling him that this will be my last session, but I'd rather do it privately. The last thing I need is to give Leon another reason to belittle me. If nothing else, after today I will no longer be a victim of his harsh words. That's a huge relief.

"Um. Sorry, I'm late, everyone," I say softly.

"It's quite alright," Mr. Andersen says, gesturing with an open hand to the remaining spot on the floor.

I move over to the appointed spot and assemble my easel. Today, I'm standing at the one o' clock position, which just so happens to be the spot directly next to Leon; he's standing at two o' clock. Wonderful! Just wonderful. If hearing him criticize my every brushstroke from across the room isn't bad enough, having him stand close enough to see my canvas is that much worse. I guess that's what I get for being late.

Today's subject is a vase filled with assorted flowers: daisies, lilacs, and sunflowers. I feel my gut twist with nervousness. This is going to be harder than painting the fruit bowl. There's significantly more detail in the petals of a flower, detail that is difficult to capture by use of a paintbrush.

I choose a half inch paintbrush from my leather pouch of brushes and begin squirting different colors of paint onto my pallet, mixing them together to form three base colors. Here goes nothing. I dip the brush into a glob of gray-white paint and swirl it across the textured canvas.

To my right is a girl about my age. Out of the ten weeks that I've attended this class, I've only spoken to her no more than two or three times, mostly stuff like, "Oh, cute shoes!" or "Hey, do you have an extra brush I can borrow? My dog ate mine." I vaguely remember her saying that her name is Rose.