Freedom of Sketch

The Artist

My first class is Government, a twelfth-grade course, and only one semester long. The teacher's name is Mr. Blair. He's in his forties and starting to go gray at the temples of his cropped brown hair. He wears a baggy Hawaiian shirt over faded cargo shorts, and looks more prepared for summer vacation than for a day of teaching a gang of zit-popping, gum-cracking teenagers.

I awkwardly stand next to his desk and map out potential seats as my classmates file in. I'm not particularly close with any of them, because they were juniors when I began my senior year. Thanks to the grapevine, Mr. Blair probably knows all there is to know about me. He stares at me for a minute with eyes like silver stones.

He asks for my name.

"Shiloh. Shiloh Mackenzie," I answer.

He nods. "I thought so. The Artist."

I turn my head away, blushing. "So you have heard of me." I watch him out of the corner of my eye.

"Well, you're skilled... practically a legend. And who could forget how you were wrongly accused of starting the art room fire?" He clicks his tongue in disappointment. "What an injustice."

I continue my blank stare and can't think of anything to say. An adult actually siding with me? Impossible.

"You okay?" says Mr. Blair.

"Umm... I think so."

The bell rings. I spot a discreet seat in the very back of the grid of desks. It sits in a heated corner that smells of dust, burning wires, and body odor.

Mr. Blair: "We can talk after class, if you want."

"Maybe," I say, and walk to my new spot, resigning myself to a lull I'd long forgotten. Lizzie is supposed to be sitting next to me, passing me graphic, long-winded notes about her drunken sexual celebrity fantasies, but in her place is a shadowy boy who is using a can of Mountain Dew as life support.

Mr. Blair hypnotizes us with his tropical button-down, upbeat demeanor, and lively gestures. You can tell that he loves Government and Social Studies, and that's what makes him so good at what he does. He maintains eye contact and emphasizes important points with expressive, purposeful hand movements, sculpting the air like clay. He doesn't spit on the front row like Mr. Simmons.

Despite Mr. Blair's gift for teaching, I have a difficult time paying attention. My mind drifts to a distant place too far for me to reach. I sink into an emotional quicksand. What is Lizzie doing? How is Daniel? And Molly and Riley - what about them? So many loose ends.

A flicking noise rouses me from my stupor. Mountain Dew Boy plays with a lighter, hiding it under his desk. He's colored in his fingernails with a black permanent marker. Mr. Blair tolerates food and drink in class - about half of my peers are having brunch or drinking black coffee, like they're adults or something - but I bet he wouldn't be too thrilled if he saw what this loser was doing. I want to punch the kid in the back of his head. If he burns down this classroom, I'm automatically guilty by association.

My mind wanders away again. Mr. Blair said I was a "legend". Does that mean that he and the rest of his teacher clan know me as The Girl Who Actually Isn't An Arsonist But Is A Confirmed Mental Case?

When I come to, Mountain Dew Boy has returned his lighter to his pocket and collapsed into his hoodie, where he takes a light nap, snoring quietly. My notes blur and warp before my tired eyes. I weave in and out of consciousness. Fortysomething presidents shoot me a collective glare from their posters, their beady eyes berating me for not doing my best to focus. I couldn't tell you the difference between declaration and defamation, legislature and nomenclature. After class, I should hijack the Biology lab, clone myself, and send my doppelganger through high school hell while the Real Me curls up in the biographical section of the library to sleep. I watch the second hand tick on the wall clock above the door until the bell rings.

Before I can worm my way out the door with nothing in my bag except empty notebooks, useless comments on the constitution, and a note to buy a three-ring binder, Mr. Blair stops me. "I noticed that you seemed to be in another world during class today," he says, his voice kind. "Did you get any sleep last night, or were you just zoned out because today's a Monday?" He thinks he's cool because he uses phrases like "zoned out". I suppose he is. What teacher can wear a pineapple-print shirt in the dead of winter and not be cool?

"Today's a Monday," I say uneasily.

He smiles. "I can look forward to having you be a little more present tomorrow, right?"

I adjust my shoulder strap. "Of course."

"All right, then. Enjoy the rest of your day."

I thank him and leave, joining the hallway stampede. It's time for my most difficult subject: Lunch. Alone.

***

Daniel and I concocted a theory that our cafeteria food was actually prepared in the Biology lab instead of the kitchen. From the look, smell, and especially taste of things, we figured that the Biology Club was looking to create a new species. Or that they were trying to test the resilience of the average American high school student's digestive tract.

I shovel what resembles very moist couch lint into my mouth without tasting and without looking at anybody. I hope I throw up so I can go home early, though I don't really want to see my mother, either. I've chosen a table close to the doors, where winter can breathe on my back. I'm right in the shadow of the popular table's conversation. They're talking with their mouths full and taking bets on who can get the nerdy girl in bed the soonest. I sweep the surrounding area and don't turn up any obviously nerdy girls, and I'm the only person sitting alone. Are they referring to me?

I heave my Government book out onto the table. I have a lot of homework to do. I doze off on page 153.