Zero (18 page)

“What
is
art?” she repeats.

That’s
it
. Had it. “God, what do you want from me?” I say. “It’s an asinine question, and it’s abundantly clear I don’t know! I’ll never know it, so can we just forget about it?”

Dr. Salinger
smiles
.

“I’ll give you a hint,” she says, coming out from behind her desk. “It’s somewhere in this room.”

I roll my eyes again and look around the studio. It’s empty, totally empty. The walls are grimy and paint-splashed, and there are old scuff marks on the linoleum, several skeletal easels, some mismatched stools and chairs, and my—

Hold on a sec.

I point at my canvas.

“What, this?”

Dr. Salinger raises her eyebrows while continuing to slither toward me.

“Are you shitting me?” Man, Mom would punch me in the throat for talking like this to a teacher.

“I should hope not,” Doc S goes, and glides closer. “The answer has been in front of you the whole time.” She creeps behind my canvas and peeks around it. “This is art. You return again and again to this subject. The rainbow, the mountain. There is meaning here. There is a statement. A story. Whatever that story is, you must search for it, uproot it, tell the truth with it. That is where you’ll find your art.”

Give me a break. Better yet, a compound fracture. What an enormous steaming pile of excrement. She must be gunning for an Oscar with this performance.

But … I kinda want to hear more. I mean, just in case.

Dr. Salinger moves to stand beside me, my painting in front of us. “Do you see a future in this for yourself? Be honest.”

Ah. So that’s what this is about. She’s going to tell me I should pursue something easier. Nuclear physicist. Or garbage woman. Maybe I could learn construction with Mike’s dad.

“Sometimes,” I say. I don’t meet her gaze.

“Sometimes is not enough,” Dr. Salinger says. “What might happen if you changed your mind?”

Okay, look. If this is going to be some sort of Disney-fied version of one of those movies where the teacher is a hard-ass and shapes up a class full of social-misfit students by pushing them to excel in calculus or whatever, let me count the ways I do not care. The last thing I need is for this witch to pull some feel-good Fulfill Your Potential speech. Thanks, but no thanks.

“I only took this class because my boyfriend suggested it, and it probably won’t even transfer to the School of the Art Institute of Chicago, which, hell, doesn’t matter anyway.”

“SAIC?” Doc S says, arching an eyebrow. “That’s not a school for those who wish to be artists
sometimes
.”

I recross my arms and glare at my canvas. She has a point.

“What do you think of this?” She gestures to my painting.

Essentially, it’s a jagged still photo in grayscale, as if taken from behind me back in June while I was sitting in the carport with my charcoal pencil and that unreal rainbow hovering over Camelback Mountain. A small girl, no more than a dark
lump vaguely the same shape as the mountain, perches at the edge of a Phoenix carport while a black-and-gray rainbow arcs over Camelback. The only thing that’s in color is the rainbow the girl is sketching with a pencil. It’s the closest thing to a self-portrait I’ve done, if you don’t count the face on my ceiling. “Self-portraits are the artist’s best if not only way to reveal themselves to the world,” Mr. Hilmer told me once. “They speak volumes the written and spoken word cannot.”

But I don’t think this piece has accomplished that.

My shoulders bunch up under my ears. “It’s okay.”

“But you can do better?” It’s not a statement.

“… Sometimes.”

Dr. Salinger actually laughs, but not really
at
me. She pulls up a stool.

“You’re good, Amanda,” she says.

I physically
enter
a Dalí painting. The world around me melts, consumed by ants.

“You’re working off passion right now, and that’s a great place to start, but I have to tell you, it won’t get you any sales, and it
won’t
get you into the School. You can shit on a stick if you want, but unless it says something, it’s not art, and it won’t sell. It’s just shit on a stick.”

I lift my head.

“If you expect to get into SAIC, of all places, you have to take charge of your art, and that’s the one thing I’ve been hoping to see ever since your first assignment,” Dr. Salinger says.

Since my …?

“You’re using your tools and your talent, and that is where we begin,” she goes on. “But now it’s time to
work
. To use your mind
and
heart. Not just your eyes and hands. That
canvas you tried to assassinate several weeks ago, with the red acrylic? Passionate! Explosive! But not
intentional
.”

Dr. Salinger takes my hand, with the brush still held in it, and lifts it toward the canvas. She moves my hand until it rests on the miniature rainbow. “Unclutter this,” she says softly, and guides my hand and the brush over the rainbow. Chunks of acrylic stick to the bristles, and suddenly, I see it: the image beneath the technique. Like I’d painted over an entirely different—and better—painting.

“See?”

“Yeah,” I say, awed that such a little change could make such a difference.

She lets go of my hand. “Now keep going.”

I follow her quiet instructions, using the thin brush to stroke away the excess I am so used to applying. The rainbow clarifies, standing out brighter now against the dismal background.

Inspired, I add soft shades of ochre to the shape of the girl sitting on the concrete. The rainbow now lights her from the front, like a discovery. A pinwheel begins to whirl in my belly, blowing tingles through my limbs as I wipe my brush across the canvas, delicate and sharp as a kitten’s claws.

“Better,” Dr. Salinger says after several minutes of silence. “You’re getting it.”

I can’t stop an amazed smile from crossing my face.

“This is the first step,” Dr. Salinger goes. “But only the first. Eventually, you have to put yourself out there. Throw yourself naked upon the brutality of other people’s opinions, laughing all the while. That’s part of the business. Be a part of the student exhibition this fall, for example. Find a small
gallery somewhere that hangs local art. There’s a delightful little shop downtown that has a local art program. You should give that a try.”

I turn away from the canvas. “Um … you don’t mean Hole in the Wall?”

Dr. Salinger’s eyes widen. “I do! Oh, isn’t it just lovely? Eli and I are old friends from a long while back, before he opened the shop. It’s a perfect venue to try.”

She heaves one of her melodramatic sighs. “Do you know what I’d give to be in your shoes?” Dr. Salinger says, looking all, like,
earnest
. “You can just up and go travel the world if you want, Amanda. This is precisely the time for you to do so.”

Her eyes wander to the ceiling. Does she keep her misspent youth up there or something? “I wish I still had that to look forward to,” she says. “What I’d give to get back to Chicago myself, or New York, Santa Fe …”

Whoa.

Dr. Salinger gives herself a shake. “Well,” she goes. “At any rate. I am prepared to make you a small offer. You hang something at Eli’s shop, and promise to take my class next semester. If you do, and you continue to take yourself seriously as an artist, we can get together and discuss a portfolio submission—”

“I did that,” I say, feeling clouds cover my face. “I mean, I got in. To SAIC. But I couldn’t afford it.”

“There’s a number of merit scholarships offered each—”

“Yeah, well, they shot me down on that.”

“For what reason?”

“ ‘Lacking technical excellence.’ ”

“Technical excellence?” She looks confused, and I’m not sure how to feel about it. Doc S peeks at my canvas. “I’m not sure that’s a terribly accurate assessment, based on what you’ve done this semester. It’s really only a fancy term for technique. Easily remedied, if you do the work. I can teach you that. If you wish.”

If I
what
?

Doc S frowns, but not at me. “Do you still have the originals?”

“The canvases? Sure.”

“I’d like you to photograph them and bring them in for me. If you wouldn’t mind.”

“No. No, I …” I rub my forehead. “But then, why?”

“So I can assess them myself.”

“No, I mean—if you’re right? And it’s not my technique? Then why would they say that, why would they turn me down?”

Doc S taps a finger against her chin. “Well, Amanda, I don’t want to leap to any conclusions. Bring me the photos and we’ll see what’s what.”

And for the first time, the possibility of trying again feels like it might be worthwhile. “Yes! God, are you … really? You mean it?”

“Well, of course I mean it! Bring me photos of your best work and a draft of your artist statement next week. Something that tells the world what you’re all about. Did you really plan on staying at this school for your associate’s?”

“Well, sorta. I don’t have much choice right now. It’s a money thing.”

“Then we will build you a new portfolio instead.”

“You mean drop out of school?” Mom and Dad would
freak
.

“A change in focus. There’s nothing at this school for you, Amanda. There’s no school in this entire state that can offer you what you’re looking for. But perhaps
I
can.”

“But I don’t have the money to—”

“Which is why your portfolio is so critical,” Dr. Salinger says. “Continue your requirements here if there are financial reasons to do so. That’s all well and good. But while you are doing that, your focus must be on getting into SAIC, or one of several other schools that can provide you what you need to move forward. Don’t spend the next two years here if you can possibly help it.”

“… Okay. Yeah, um. Yeah, that sounds awesome. Thank you!”

“Thank
you
. Oh, and Amanda,” Dr. Salinger says, “I’ve been meaning to ask you. I’ve noticed you sign your work with a
Z
. What is the significance of that?”

“Oh,” I say, surprised. “It stands for Zero.”

“Zero,” Dr. Salinger repeats. “And to what mystery does that allude?”

“It’s kind of a nickname?”

“I see. Did you give yourself this name?”

“Um … sorta. In junior high.”

Dr. Salinger nods. “Well, in my ex-professional opinion, you should consider getting rid of it. This
nickname
.”

“Too unprofessional?”

“Because you’re worth more than that.”

She arches an eyebrow at me again and leans forward a little, like to make sure this little gem hasn’t escaped me.

And it hasn’t. But I can’t think about it right now. No, I
can’t
.

I feel like I should shake her hand or something, but I don’t. Instead I drape my painting, pick it up, and head for the door as Dr. Salinger moves back toward her desk.

“Thanks again!” I say. She waves at me, and I walk out into the hall, through the lobby, and into the hot summer sunshine.

What a freaking
epic
day. I’ve got to tell Mike! But first, I stop and register for fall. Including Painting 205, D. Salinger, Instructor. And Spanish … and math and English. Waiting for my receipt, I stare at my school account checkbook. How easy it would be to write myself a big fat check, cash it, and bolt for Chicago
today
, scholarships be damned. Maybe I could get a job or something….

Stupid, I know. Plus, I’ve got my boyfriend to think about. But it’s fun to consider, too.

I cruise home, rerunning our conversation. She did offer to help me with my portfolio, right? I mean, that’s what it sounded like. And of course I’m going to take her next class, and as for the Hole … well, screw it! Dr. Salinger’s right; it’s time to just put myself out there.

Wow
.

I shouldn’t get too excited. Then again, why not? I mean, this could change
everything
.

When I get home, there’s a note on the kitchen table from Mom. She’s “at appt. till 3.” Doesn’t say where or for what. Strange, but whatever. Dad’s at work.

That means … if Mike got here in thirty minutes, we’d have … about two hours, at least, to ourselves.

In my room.

Giddy, I call him up and damn near order him to come over.

“Okay,” Mike says, easily enough. “You want me to borrow my dad’s truck?”

Duh. Mike owns a skateboard, not a Porsche. “Oh, well, yeah, I mean, if you can …”

He laughs at me over the phone. “Okay, consider it done. On my way. But not for too long. We got a show tonight at The Graveyard.”

I almost literally clap when I hang up, I’m so thrilled. I take a quick shower and even manage to change my sheets.

Wait.

Just so we’re clear
, I say to myself as I shrug my pillow into a fresh case (Cookie Monster! Shit yeah!),
you’re not planning on, like … you know
.

No!
I respond.
Not that
.

Maybe a little something
like
it … God, I don’t know, I am
so
making this up as I go. Is there time to call Jenn …?

Knocking at the kitchen door. I give my room one more quick look-over before racing to the door and flinging it open.

“Hey,” Mike says, stepping in, “how’s it go—”

I cut him off, wrapping him in my arms and mashing my face into his. It takes him a second, but he recovers and returns my assault.

We yank the kitchen door closed and stumble to my room together. “Hi,” I whisper between breaths.

“Mm,” he grunts back.

A second later, we fall onto my bed.

I’m a seventeen-year-old American girl,
eighteen
a few weeks from now,
yes!
Sex is all over the place: TV, movies, magazines. I’m told I must weigh or appear to weigh ninety-eight pounds to be considered attractive. On television, I’m shown that sex with lots of douche-bag square-jaw guys is not only desirable but necessary to maintain my worth as a human being. Like, say,
Jenn
, as a sad for-instance. I’m told, indirectly, that anyone asking “Do you have this in a size larger than four?” is a balloon animal, inflated pastel cattle to be mocked.