Slated

Chapter 31

Phoebe's robin is on the front wall in the art studio. No other pictures hang there. Many are displayed on the sides, the back, but never the front. She hasn't signed her sketch; no one but us would know whose it is. Instead of barking at us to hurry, Mr Gianelli is silent as we file in and scan our cards, for this: our first class since Phoebe was taken. Everyone sees her sketch of the robin, and falls silent also.

He must know. I glance towards the door; Mrs Ali stands there. She still shadows me between classes most of the time, though it is obvious I know how to get around. She is keeping tabs on me: will she always? Ben and Amy don't have anyone in their footsteps.

Mrs Ali glances around the room; she can sense something is up, looks from face to face. She stays.

"Class, today I want you to think about something: the importance of connecting with what you put on paper. Take our friend Mr Red Breast, here. See the care, the connection; it takes an ordinary moment and moves it beyond, makes you be better than you are, finds the artist within. The communication between you, and your subject, yes? Give and take. How you see your subject, in a way nobody else can."

And he stands back, so he is with us: all eyes are on Phoebe's sketch. Everyone, together, studying the drawing. The robin that trusted her, hopped closer and closer. Phoebe's smile as she sketched, murmuring at the robin, him chirping back. Seconds tick by: to a minute of silence, then two.

He shakes his head sadly, and returns to the front of the class.

"Today, draw something or someone you care about, that makes you feel something; feel anything. Good or bad, I don't care. Go! Get started."

He slumps at his desk. Movements begin around the room; small, unhurried. Paper smoothed. Pencils, charcoals selected. All as if waking from a dream, a trance.

I lean over crisp, white sheets. Out of the corner of my eye I track Mrs Ali. Hers are thoughtful, puzzled; she departs.

Gianelli looks older today, the lines about his eyes more pronounced; his skin as grey as his hair. A silent protest at one of his students being taken, but we all know what he did just now, the risk he took. I see him slip a flask out of his pocket, tilt it into his tea. Then start a sketch of his own.

Without thought or question, I use my left hand. Turned in my seat a little so I can see the door, in case Mrs Ali comes back.

Draw someone I care about; someone who makes me feel something...

Quick and smooth strokes. A subject I haven't tried before, but there is no trial and error with my left hand: it is right the first time. His thoughtful eyes. Strong chin, dark hair that is more wavy than curly, just below his ears: Ben.

Where are you? He wasn't in biology this morning. Worry makes me chew my lip so hard it hurts. He hasn't done something stupid? I asked Miss Fern but she didn't know; she wasn't hiding anything, though; there was no worry or remoteness in her. I'm starting to understand that there are different types of teachers. Fern, Gianelli, and the running coach, Ferguson: they are real. They might tell me off on occasion, they're not always nice, exactly, but they talk to me like I exist, like I matter. Then there are ones like the Head, Rickson, Dr Winston, the ed psych, and Mrs Ali: who for all their smiles and "I'm just here to help you"chat are really just watching for mistakes, for anything outside the rules.

I jump when the bell goes. Time passed unnoticed. I lay down my pencil as Mrs Ali appears in the door. Gianelli starts to gather up drawings, and pin them up around the robin. When he gets to me, I say, "Wait. It's not finished." He looks at it and sees that it is, but doesn't comment, moves on to the next one as I pack it away.