Kaleidoscope (5 page)

“Uh, thanks,” I mumbled, tucking my head down into my jacket and making my way down the hall.

The room was easy enough to find. The moderately lit, linoleum-tiled hallway was short, only containing eight rooms that alternated down its length, and the one I was seeking was the last one on the right. Each heavy wooden door, laden with one small square window, wore with a small plaque on the side of the wall; it reminded me of my old high school.

“PAINTING/DRAWING – 108,” the sign read. I peered inside the room. Though a few minutes still remained before the class began, there appeared to be other people seated within at long rows of wooden tables that had been pushed together. I braced myself and pulled the handle to go inside.

CHAPTER SIX

Half a dozen pairs of eyes greeted me briefly as I made my way into the room, filled only with fleeting curiosity before they glanced back to other, more interesting points of focus. These mostly amounted to being phones that were lodged into their hands like a life source.

One set of eyes, however, did not look away. They belonged to a taller man, who I guessed was somewhere in his mid-40s based on the stripes of gray in his short, somewhat untidy hair. I could only assume that this was the instructor. Though he certainly didn't look very artistic, sporting a yellow and white plaid shirt tucked into khaki-colored slacks and finished with a pair of white sneakers, he was the only member of the room standing. I had to remind myself that people weren't always what they seemed just at first glance; I suppose I'd been wrong about first impressions on more than one occasion.

At the realization, a tugging in my stomach sent rolling waves into my brain, in what I could only describe as an some kind of emotional flashback. It stopped me for what was likely only a half of a second, but it felt like a full minute as I attempted to process the sudden fear and guilt that had overcome me.

“I think you're wrong about him...”

It was my voice, talking to someone else, a long time ago. But to who, and who was I referring to?

“Good morning, take a seat anywhere!” The teacher addressed me cordially, gesturing to the long tables before he took a seat at a somewhat large, oak desk in the opposite corner of the room.

There were four tables total, all aligned parallel to each other. I noticed now that each had a mug full of pencils in its center placed on top of a small pile of what looked like old magazines. I chose the one closest to the entrance where I now stood, then slowly ambled over and selected a brightly colored stool to sit on. Only one other person currently resided at this table, clear on its opposite side and near the opposite corner. The side I occupied, to my contentment, faced a large, horizontal panel window that gave a westerly view of the suburban surroundings.

As I orientated myself within the room, the fear and guilt that had overcome me early still hummed in my mind I peered around awkwardly, making sure no one was interested in my activity, and pulled the leather journal from my pocket. Placing it in my lap instead of on the table in front of me to make sure it wouldn't be seen, I quickly scrawled an entry.

October 23

Decided to take the painting class, I'm here now. I experienced a strange thing—like I experienced the feelings of a memory, but the actual event was just out of my reach. I looked at the instructor, who doesn't look like any sort of art teacher, thought to myself that I've been wrong about first impressions before.

The only thing I could remember past a sinking feeling of regret was that I once said “I think you're wrong about him.”

The words were hasty and somewhat illegible as I rushed them onto the paper, but they made it there nonetheless. More patrons began filing in; many were young like me, but a few older adults closer to my mom's age were mixed in as well. I slipped the small pen back into its holding space and plunged the items back into my jeans. My anxiety crept around me, lurking in the back of my subconscious like a snake ready to strike at any moment. I willed my heart to stop pounding in my head as the room of people, which had increased in volume as its occupancy grew, collectively became quiet. I looked around to find that the instructor had stood up once again and taken the floor.

Having no idea what to expect, but not wanting to make a fool of myself, I directed my full attention in the man's direction. At least, that's what it looked like. Truthfully, half my mind was still picturing a distorted image of myself looking into a mirror from every angle, wondering if I was saying or doing the right things and projecting the right persona to everyone else. Another smaller part of me was still trying to wrap itself around the strange half-memory, hoping that if I gave it enough attention, it would somehow be coaxed from wherever it was hiding in the recesses of my mind.

Nonetheless, I gave as much concentration as I could to the instructor.

“Good morning everyone! I see a lot of familiar faces here today, but for those who haven't joined me here before or in any of the other classes I lead here, my name is Mr. Pierson. This is our Thursday painting class, and according to the schedule, today we'll be learning how to paint people!”

The class “ooh”ed and “ahh”ed at this daunting task; I shrunk in my seat.

“It's not as hard as it sounds, I assure you! I don't expect anyone to be the next Da Vinci, but I will say that I bet I'll see some great results. As some of you know, the way that these classes work is that I'll guide you step by step on how to tackle this. This one is different from what we usually do because everyone's subject matter will be just a little bit different.

The other thing that's a little different here—if anyone's printed out a calendar or seen it on our website, today is actually the start of a three-class seasonal project! We have three weeks to work on these, and of course if you enrolled in today's class, you've already enrolled in all three. I encourage you to come to each of these and make the most out of this fun experience!”

Three classes? Mom hadn't mentioned that to me. Last night, she offered to take care of all the details for me—paying for the recreation center I.D. and enrollment, getting me the schedule for when I could paint, and looking up the bus route times and address. She never mentioned she'd automatically enrolled me for more than just a trial, and that sent a wave of apprehension over me.

It felt like I was in middle school all over again.
What if I got made fun of, or people ended up hating me? What if I truly never wanted to see one of them, or all of them, again, but was obligated to anyway because Mom wanted me to keep attending?
And it wasn't just that—the indignity that Mom made this decision on my behalf reminded me of my incapacity to make my own decisions. Her authority in this was crushing because it only made it more clear to me I was too “unstable” to decide for myself. It was decided for me that I would go to therapy, where the choice of who would counsel me was also made on my behalf. It was decided for me that I would keep a journal, that I would attempt to socialize, that I would dedicate more time to my hobby. What did
I
get to decide?

“This class provides canvases, and we do have some paint and brushes, but it's highly advised you bring your own if you've got them...ours are pretty broken in.” Mr. Pierson winked and glanced at the wall of used paints and brushes near his desk. The collection of half-filled pots and tubes, some soiled in paint on their outside in a color different than what was inside, sprawled along three massive shelves, taking up almost the entire space beneath the window. Three buckets of paint brushes in various sizes and shapes rested on the top left corner of the shelf. Overall, the collection was impressive, but messy and obviously neglected over years of being used by different participants.

“We don't need to worry about that right now though, because we're going to do some preliminary sketches, alright? So everyone, if you brought a sketchbook, go ahead and pull it out. If you don't, just raise your hand.”

A wave of embarrassment flooded my cheeks as I turned to see that I was one of only four others who hadn't brought a sketchbook
. I don't think I even own a sketchbook...I'm so stupid.

Mr. Pierson chuckled. “Ah, brand new students I see! No problem.” He whisked away to his desk and reappeared with a handful of sheets of sketchbook paper. He distributed them beginning at the furthest table closest to his desk, circling his way back around the room. I was the last to receive a piece of paper, and I could feel all eyes burning holes into my skin.

The instructor rubbed his hands across each other as if he were dusting them off, eager to be rid of the paper, then folded them together. “So, preliminary sketches. We don't have any live figures for you to go off because we're just a rec center class--” a few of the participants chuckled--“so instead, you'll use magazines. If you were wondering what the stacks on your tables were doing there, that's what you're going to use! I want everyone to spend ten to fifteen minutes sketching one or two poses from the magazines. They don't have to be crazy good—remember, we're just learning about how the human figure is composed. So, don't spend a lot of time on the details. Make sure you spend time on the proportions instead, because when we start our painting, those details won't be coming from your pencil.”

He clapped his hands together, signifying the start to this event. “As you're working,” he called out, “I'll come around and see where everyone's at so I know where to help you guys out for your paintings. If you need help, don't hesitate to ask me or your neighbor. I bet some of them are much better artists than I am!” With that, Mr. Pierson paced slowly around the room, fluttering near enough to assist, but keeping enough distance that his presence wasn't invasive.

With some hesitation, I leaned forward to grab a pencil from the mug, gently moving it to the side towards the stranger who sat on the opposite side of the table. I gave a weak smile to the girl, who looked about the same age as me but was half my size and covered in a mass of freckles. She grinned back, exposing a wide smile laden with braces. She seemed appreciative as her short, hairpin arms reached towards the mug. I thumbed through the pile of magazines—severely outdated by at least five years—and settled on one with a luscious-looking supermodel on the front. Placing the pile back towards the center of the table, I pushed it towards the girl as well, and resigned myself to the task of choosing an image to draw. I was fully aware that the clock was counting down.

I allowed myself to be distracted by the sounds of the instructor humming his thoughts and approval as he observed various reference images from his class participants. There was a vague murmuring as he leaned over someone at the next table. “Austin, you've been here at least a hundred times. Why don't you help me look around and make sure everyone's doing okay?” A mumbled agreement, and the squeaking of a stool as it slid back against the linoleum...

The more time I spent dawdling, the less chance I had to take part in this exercise. I flew through the magazine pages, barely glancing at most of them. A soap ad here, a pair of jeans there...and then, one in particular caught my eye. I stopped to examine a makeup ad; it featured a young woman who looked both wistful and hopeful as she looked over her right shoulder. It compelled me to wonder what she could be looking at...she almost seemed to be waiting for someone. I associated the look on her face with what it might feel like to be in love, though I'd never experienced such a thing myself. She was inspiring.

This is the one
, I thought, and set to work.

The few minutes available to me flowed and stretched into an undetermined length of time as I set my pencil to paper, allowing it to overtake my senses and embody my thoughts into forms. Sketchy figures of ovals and guidelines hashed themselves into the rough forms of a beautiful figure, almost without my input. The woman's hair, cut off just below her jaw and flowing in soft waves in an imaginary wind, billowed smoothly from the tips of my fingers as I recreated them. Her sleeveless dress, cornflower blue and covered in the image of soft pink and white petals, flowed around her figure like water stepping gently over a rock in a slow-moving stream.

“What are you drawing?”

I had barely noticed the voice in my creative reverie. “I'm sketching a girl.” My reply was monotonous; I didn't want to break my concentration. It was hard to come by for me in the everyday world, but when I created something...it was different. And I cherished it.

“That's really something! The drawing I mean, it looks great.”

“Oh, thank you.” I smiled. Curious to see who'd paid me the compliment, I tore myself away from the sketch and glanced up from it.

The green eyes I found myself staring into were very familiar. Framed by dark hair and complemented by a bright, white smile—it was that boy again!

Without warning I jolted back to reality, stuttering and stammering like a fool as I realized that I was now in direct conversation with a person I'd basically been spying on during our shared bus rides.
How awkward...
To stop myself, I simply stared at him, mute, my hands resting in my lap. I was certain I looked every bit as ridiculous as I felt under his curious and genial gaze.

Instead of well-deserved scrutiny, I simply received a smooth chuckle as he continued. “It looks like you really know what you're doing...it doesn't seem like you need this class much to learn!”

It felt like frogs were leaping around in my throat. “Oh, I don't know about that,” I croaked. I paused to regain my footing. “Uh...what about you, why aren't you drawing?”

“Oh, I've been a regular in here since March,” he replied with gusto. “Mr. Pierson asks me now and then if I'll help out during classes, just because so many people are used to seeing me.”

His voice was deep and smooth, like chocolate silk. Again, I got the feeling that he was somewhat older than me. “Wow...I guess you're pretty good then,” I replied, feeling impressed.