Freedom of Sketch

Theatrics, Act I

The end of January sprawls its cold, heavy body over the snow-covered landscape, smothering my quiet neighborhood. Only the snapping of twigs and crunch of my boots can break through such a thick silence. I ache for spring, for a season that promises to scar over old wounds with new skin. Once I reach the stop sign on the crest of a hill, I wait.

A shiver ripples through me. I check the time on my phone. The bus is seven minutes late. I decide I'll give the driver another three, and if he doesn't show, I'll wander off into the wilderness and build myself an igloo.

Exactly three minutes later, the cheese wagon clanks around the corner and pulls up with a sigh. It opens its doors for me and I climb on. Guess I won't be living the Eskimo life after all. I choose a front row seat next to a sleeping kid who reeks of cinnamon and weed. Those sitting by the windows decorate the fogged glass with finger drawings of stickpeople, genitalia, and hearts. One guy writes "UOY KCUF" so that the people outside will be able to read his message. I have no faith in my generation.

***

School is an assault of rumors, slamming locker doors, and elaborate hallway make-out sessions. My messenger bag is filled with art supplies and whacks my leg with every step. I get a pass from my art teacher, Mr. Kramer, to use the school's art studio during first period Study Hall. I knock before entering, because rogue students have been known to wander into the room to conduct their sexual adventures. The space is as large as a generously-sized walk-in closet and its solitary window offers views of the forest behind the school. I've come here to draw my third sketchbook piece for the week. Mr. Kramer's rules dictate that we're supposed to bring him three new sketchbook drawings every Monday.

As I open the book, the fresh pages produce waves of eager energy, begging to be marked, to be anything other than landscapes of blank plainness. Ideas flit through my mind, humming, waiting for me to catch them. I close my eyes and inhale. The smell of oil and paint thinner is a bit stronger than usual today, but it lights me up inside, excites me. I play with my pencil, holding it between my fingers, rhythmically tapping the wooden table. I know what I'm going to draw.

I make light shapes, build structures made of faint lines. Mr. Kramer taught me that in realism, nothing has an actual outline - it's only shadow and light, foreground against background. I press harder, fleshing out the figures, anxious to fill in the details. In my mind, I dig for memories of faces, people I know. They don't come easily, but I do my best. Study Hall ends too soon, and the drawing is still only about half-finished. I hold the paper up and away from me to examine it from a distance. A gang of zombie students limps across the middle of the horizontal paper, bleeding from empty eye sockets and wounds one cannot see. I've drawn my real classmates, even myself. The late bell rings, so I pack up my stuff and hurry out of the art studio like the obedient zombie that I am.

I breeze through layers of superficial conversation and enter the twenty by thirty foot cinderblock prison cell that is the Spanish classroom and breathe a sigh of relief when I notice that the teacher is also running late. My best friend, Lizzie, drags herself to her seat next to mine. "I should have told my mom I'm sick," she moans, unwinding her fluffy scarf.

"Are you?" I say. I pull out my folder of unfinished drawings and place it on my desk.

She manages a small smile, rubs her tired eyes. "Nah, just stayed up too late." She moves to sit in her chair and accidentally bumps her sharp hip into a girl navigating her way down the narrow aisle. Unfortunately, that girl is Brooke Adley, white bread suburban blonde and Caberwood High's biggest terrorist. Hobbies: Makeup, manicures, and making others cry.

"Watch where you're going, Fatso," she hisses, bearing down on Lizzie with her cleavage, expensive perfume forming a thin veil between them.

"Hey." I step in, the stares of twenty-five students prickling the back of my neck. "Watch yourself."