“I wouldn’t say no.” He surprises me when he reaches out and tucks a piece of my hair behind my ear. Is he teasing me?
“I think I’ll pass. I’m not going to be one of your many cherries,” I tell him. “Good night, Booker.” I walk past him and toward my car.
“Wait. Cherries are girls!?” I snort a laugh while getting into my car. I put the flowers on my passenger seat before starting up my car.
“See you at school. Maybe Trish will go to the lake with you.” I really don’t know how to keep my mouth shut.
Booker says something, but I’m already pulling out. I don’t go straight home. Instead I go to the lake. I grab my sketch pad and hop up on the trunk of the car. My hand moves across the open page as I try to stretch out the last rays of the sun before they disappear into the water.
I don’t have to look at the finished sketch to see what I’ve drawn. I know what’s on there—or rather who.
Chapter Five
Booker
“Mr. Peters, were you aware that Art I and II were prerequisites for this course?” asks our Advanced Art teacher, Mrs. MacIntosh.
“Sure was.” I add another line to the corner of the left eye in the portrait I’m sketching. The two eyes are wildly uneven with one being saucer big and the other looking more like it’s winking. Winking? Maybe that’s the direction I should go. I grab for my eraser but find Mrs. MacIntosh’s hand instead. I look up to see her glaring at me.
“How can you have taken both prerequisites and not be able to sketch a face with any approximation of skill?” She sounds personally offended. Another student might be hurt by her words, but I know I’m terrible.
“It’s a mystery, ma’am.”
The class laughs, which makes her only angrier. “I looked up your grades, and you are very smart. You have a 4.25 and have tested in the top .05 percent for all the advanced placement exams and standardized tests. You should spend your senior year pursuing things that fit your skill set best,” she tells me.
“I like art.” I reach across the aisle and grab the eraser off of Tommy’s desk and begin to rework the winky eye.
“But you’re not good at it.”
“I feel like my art is a fresh perspective in line with post-expressionism modern art where it’s more about the forms having dialogues with the mediums to speak to new generations about how institutionalized ideals can stifle creativity and uphold late-stage capitalism that suppresses free speech and freedom of ideas.” I toss the eraser back to Tommy, who is covering his smirk with the brim of his ball cap. In front of me, I can see Carrie’s shoulders shake with silent laughter. I’m the son of a lawyer. I can bullshit with anyone.
Mrs. MacIntosh rubs her lips together in frustration before moving on to Carrie. “Very nice work, Ms. Montlain. Some people could learn from you.”
“I like Booker’s art,” Carrie says. “It’s like he says. Free form and interesting. I wish I were more like him.”
“Your work is exemplary. No need to follow anyone else’s lead.” Mrs. MacIntosh sounds worried now, like I’m going to infect her prized pupil with my bad drawing disease.
“Booker’s art is my fave, too, with all the post-functional freely interesting communistic cultural anti-forms,” inserts Tommy with his own word salad.
Soon the entire class is proclaiming that I’m a next generation Pablo Picasso. Mrs. MacIntosh is savvy enough to realize she’s lost this battle and retreats behind her desk.
I kick Carrie’s shoe in thanks. A second later I get a text.
Carrie: Forms having dialogues with mediums????? Late stage capitalism? Since when are u an ani-capitalist
Me: Looks like three min ago
She sends me a crying face emoji.
Carrie: Why do u keep taking art
Me: Bc youre here and it’s the only class we have together bestie
That earns me the rolling eye emoji
Me: How are the peonies doing
Carrie: good
Me: Where did you put them and if you don’t say right beside your bed im breaking in and taking them away
Carrie: they’re on my desk why do they have to be on the nightstand
Me: so they’re the first thing you see when you wake up duh
Carrie: I sleep on my side and face the desk
Me: You should sleep on your back
Carrie: Thank you for your advice Dr. Peters
Me: i’m going to be a sports agent not a sports med doc
Carrie: why not both?
Me: ???
Carrie: ???
Me: ???
Carrie: ?—
“Ms. Montlain! Are you texting in class?”
Carrie jumps, and her phone clatters to the floor. I stretch out my leg and cover the pink glitter case with my size thirteen. “No, Mrs. MacIntosh. I was looking up a shading technique.”
By the purse of Mrs. MacIntosh’s lips, we all know she’s not buying Carrie’s explanation, but class is almost over, so she mumbles something about how we’re wasting everyone’s precious time. I kick the phone toward my backpack and scoop it up, sliding it into the side pocket.