Freedom of Sketch

Intervention

The half-circle of school administrators bears down on me like a towering, impenetrable wall. Even though my mother is as irritated with them as I am, I lean as far away from her as possible without tipping over in my chair. The steam pluming from the cheap staff lounge coffee in her Styrofoam cup drifts up past her face and curls around the top of her head, further giving the impression that she's an enraged dragon ready to barbecue all of us if pushed far enough.

"Given recent events," Principal Matheson says, clearing his throat, "we have some serious concerns about Shiloh's behavior. We care deeply about every student at this school, and when someone's conduct poses a potential threat to the health and safety of themselves or others, we have to take action."

There is a raw, grinding pain inside my head, as though someone is tightly screwing every piece of bone and sinew together. Either that or I'm having an aneurysm. Can seventeen-year-olds even get aneurysms?

My mother stares at the same spot of carpet I've chosen as my anchor. "So she had a lapse in judgment and behaved carelessly with a classmate," she says, her voice icy but calm. "They were just kids being kids, for God's sake."

As much as I want to jump up and yell, for the bajillionth time, that my fight with Brooke was not my fault, I keep my mouth shut.

Vice Principal Hayes breaks through the heavy silence, his tone defeated. "The assault on her classmate is only the tip of the iceberg. Have you seen what Shiloh's been drawing?"

Fuck.

The vice principal gives Linda a curt nod. And that's when I notice she has my sketchbook. Leaning forward, she reaches across the middle of our awkward arrangement and hands it to my mom. I clench my jaw to fight off impending tears. The only sound in the room is of my mother's hesitant hands navigating my personal paper universe.

Flip. In the middle of the page, a little ink boy has died. His body hangs from a tree like a kite captured in the branches.

Flip. Girls made of bones cry over crumbs, their tear-filled eyes glittering in their sockets.

Flip. Hands reach out of black and white flames, grabbing at a sky that's cracked like glass.

Flip. A shadow figure holds a razor to her wrist.

Flip.

The sweat freezes on my face. "It was an assignment," I whisper.

***

When I first drew the shadow figure, I was sitting in Study Hall with Lizzie and Daniel. They passed my sketchbook back and forth, murmuring suggestions.

"Make it clearer," Daniel said.

"What do you mean?"

Daniel: "Like, give her an actual face. It'll give her a personality, which will make people connect with her more."

Lizzie edged closer and turned the sketchbook around for a better look. "So she's supposed to be killing herself?"

"I chose suicide as my society topic," I answered.

"Okay. You need to be more realistic. When you kill yourself by cutting, you don't go across your wrist. You cut lengthwise down the wrist." She sat back and casually returned to her Econ homework.

Daniel and I exchanged dark looks. Then I shrugged, turned my sketchbook back around, and began drawing the one face I thought I knew best.

My own.

***

Now I'm actually hoping for an aneurysm. My legs shake. I can't look at my mother. My hatred of the past few days stirs within my chest. It feeds on the memories of Brooke breathing on my face, the fire swallowing my safe space, Principal Matheson searching my locker, Lizzie screaming into her hands. I make a big deal of examining my cuticles.