Maybe We Can't Change the World

Day 3

I was late. I'm late for most things, but this time was not my fault. The only alarm clock I had was an old radio that I guess I didn't know how to work.

My roommate Angelica blew a kiss at me at the door as I was forcing on the opaque tights. She and her full stomach had the benefit of being early risers.

The school uniform was a fresh blue skirt that came down under my knees and a blazer of the same color. Underneath that a pure white button-up and a green vest.

There was probably supposed to be a tie or something, but I couldn't find it. The slippers were just a size too big and flapped around when I walked.

I popped my collar, a creative choice for one with no time or resources.

When I finally got to Math class the teacher decided to keep me late for tardiness. As a result, I was late to my next class and when I finally got out of that one I was so lost in the halls I ended up late again.

The whole class stared as I walked into the room. After a short pause, the teacher continued with her lecture. I went to an open stool and settled in.

This class was like any other, except for the strange desks put in perfect lines down to the chalkboard. They had an indent just inside the outer rim.

"As you know, this semester's focus is in the human form." She said, trying to clue me in. "For centuries the greatest artists have been inspired to create masterpieces. Pablo Picasso, Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci."

She spoke for a while about it. On my schedule, she was called Ms. Jacot and she looked a lot younger than Mrs. Abrams. By her passion, I'd say she was new to teaching.

I pushed my fingers in between the crack of the desk, the words fading into a jumble of noise.

The teacher circled around a plaster figure. It stood on a pedestal, a woman's slender body holding plaster cloth over anything revealing. Her head was sliced, identity stolen away.

"A student just like you crafted this piece from over two years of labor," she continued. "And today you're going to recreate it on pencil using a more unexplored medium, charcoal pencils."

For a moment the teacher paused to pick up the phone. She spoke a few simple words and hung up, then gesturing to a stack of canvas panels on her desk.

The students all stood off of their stools and grabbed their supplies.

I sat still, I couldn't help but think why spend so much time on the body of a woman without a face?

When students got what they needed they went back to their desks, putting their hands in the indents and popping open a part of the desk. They positioned it so that it sat slanted and went to work.

Two years, for something that people have done a thousand times before. It was beautiful, but it was too much like everything before it. What did those two years give to the student who made it?

Maybe she was just mythologizing herself. Her accomplishment made her remembered.

It would be good to be remembered, to have a medal in the Clear Lake trophy case, or to just be someone that people were proud of. That's how I used to be. I didn't want it anymore.

Charcoal left marks on my fingers as I gripped it to draw the shape of her hips. I turned off my mind, with occasional glances at the statue.

I didn't do what I was supposed to, but it ate at me to just sit there and do nothing. There were no spray paint cans, nothing to try and steal. All my little ways of rebellion were gone, except for this.

Ms. Jacot didn't call me out. Instead, when the class filed out of the room at the end of the hour, she put her hand on my shoulder.

I grumbled, "I can't be late to another class."

"I'll write you a note,"

With a sigh, I walked towards the windows and looked down at the tennis court.

Ms. Jacot watched me ignore her and decided to speak, "... We aren't a delinquent school, Vivian."

I leaned over the window's thin inside ledge. The cold sunk through my thick blazer sleeves.

The teacher grabbed pencils left on the edge of an easel and put them away. She sighed, "All your art teachers raved about you. You showed immense talent from a very young age and fostered it for years. That's why you qualified to come here."

My hands curled into fists.

Jacot almost seemed hurt when she pulled out my work from today and told me, "Then you started making these things, even breaking the law to put up these..."-she searched for words, and found the one that expressed how she really felt- "... monstrosities."

I finally turned away from the window, taking in a shallow breath. Ms. Jacot made sure I saw her chuck my picture in the trash can at her feet.

"You threw away all your potential to be a contrarian."

I looked her dead in the eyes and attested, "Maybe I did. But I'd rather create trash for the rest of my life if my other option is this."

Ms. Jacot didn't yell back, only opened her drawer, and began to scribble on a little piece of paper. When she was done she handed it to me.

"This isn't playtime, Vivian."

It was a detention slip for tomorrow afternoon.

"Your individuality complex is forever going to hold you back."