Skeets met them in the courtyard, his mini-transmitter tucked into his ear and a heavy bag slung over one shoulder. “Heya, Jer. Heya, Sam. Ready to go make some art?”
“Hi, Skeets. I’ve got to hit the library. Good luck, Sam.”
“Do I need luck for art class?” Sam asked, falling into step beside Skeets.
“Nah,” he answered easily. “Art is easy. I’m kind of surprised you signed up for it, though. Or is it like History, where you were assigned to it?”
“Milbyrne doesn’t offer creative writing classes,” she said. “So I signed up for
‘The Arts’. I’m not going to have to draw, am I?”
Skeets laughed. “Only if you want to. Ms.Tagetes encourages all forms of artistic expression. You’ll see.”
Sam followed him through a door and up three flights of stairs to a large open room. One entire wall was clear glass, allowing in the afternoon light. The room was filled with easels and long tables strewn with pads of paper, jars of colored pencils and paintbrushes and art books. Skeets took a seat at one of the tables, gesturing for Sam to join him.
Ms. Tagetes was bent over one of the tables, assisting a student, but she looked up when the bell rang. The art instructor was a tall slender woman with long curling dark hair. From the rear, she looked like Sam’s mother, and she blinked back unexpected tears. Ms. Tagetes smiled around at the room full of students.
“Welcome back everyone,” she said, pushing a pair of too-large spectacles up her nose. “I hope you had a nice day, and are all ready to create.”
She walked to the windowed wall, turning so she could see the entire class. “I know you all have projects you’re working on, but I’d like to take a break from that for today. I will give you the framework of a scene, and I’d like you to create a picture that shows your interpretation of the scene.”
She paused glancing around at all of them. “Is everyone ready? The scene is a street at night. A woman and a man are standing under a streetlamp. Show me the scene.”
Most of the class got right to work, including Skeets. He pulled a pad and a box of charcoal pencils from his backpack and started to sketch. Sam, along with a few other, were still staring blankly at Ms. Tagetes.
She smiled encouragingly as she wove through the tables. “Where is the street?” she murmured. “Who are the man and the woman? What are they talking about? Or are they talking? How do they know each other? What are they wearing?”
As she spoke, the students bent, one by one, and started to work. Finally, Sam was the only one not busy. Ms. Tagetes came to stand behind Skeets. She glanced over his shoulder.
“Excellent start,” she complimented him, then turned to Sam. “Tell me, what is your preferred medium?”
“I write,” Sam told her, a bit hesitant.
“So why aren’t you writing?” the instructor asked gently. “Do you not have any ideas for the scene?”
“I’m just not sure what the assignment is,” Sam answered. “What is the point of it?”
“The point is to create. I don’t want my students to come up with some pre-conceived idea I have of the scene I describe. I want to see what you see in that scene. It helps me get an idea of each artist’s style, so I can help them develop their talent. I don’t expect everyone to conform to my idea of art. That defeats the purpose of creativity.”
“What if I get it wrong?” Sam asked, and immediately felt foolish.
Ms. Tagetes just smiled at her. “There is no right or wrong in this assignment,” she said. “You need confidence, my dear, so you can express yourself freely. Now, later I might assign exercises for clarity and detail, and for those assignments, I will be quite demanding. For now . . write!”
Sam blinked, and fumbled for her e-journal. The instructor pulled it from her hands.
“No, no. None of that!” she said. “Use real paper, and a real pen. Electronic media have their place, but for this assignment I want you to feel more hands on. You can’t get that feeling from typing on a keyboard.”
Ms. Tagetes pulled a pile of paper from the center of the table, and handed it to Sam, along with a pen.
“Now, write!” she commanded with a beaming smile.
Sam thought for a moment, then bent her head and started to write. She scratched away for a while, then stopped to think. She looked over at Skeets, who was adding shading to his sketch. Beyond him, other students were hard at work. There were several working with pens and charcoal and markers. At the easels, four or five students were painting away, with various types of paint. At the far end of the room, a girl was shaping figures from clay. At the opposite end of the room, a boy was working with e-piano, apparently creating a song. He was wearing an earpiece, plugged into the speaker, so the sound wouldn’t disturb the other students.
Ms. Tagetes kept walking through the room, stopping here and there to say an encouraging word, or offer a compliment or a suggestion. Sam had no doubt that the instructor would speak to everyone in the room.
Sam stared down at the blank page, trying to ignore the sounds of brushes dabbing paint and pencils scraping across canvas and paper. Then a thought occurred to her, and she bent impulsively over the paper and began to scribble.
The paper was oversized, meant for sketching, not writing, and Sam’s handwriting was small and somewhat messy. She did not stop writing until she’d filled the entire page. When she finally looked up, the room was quiet. The other students were looking over their work, adding finishing touches here and there. She glanced at her paper then turned it over. She didn’t want to look at it.
Ms. Tagetes glanced at the clock and rose from the stool where she’d been perched. “All right, everyone, it’s time to display our work.”
As one, the students rose, situating canvases on easels, and pinning drawings up on a display board that covered the back wall of the room. Sam stayed in her seat, one hand protectively covering what she’d written. Ms. Tagetes came to her side.
“Everyone must display their work, Samantha,” she said gently, pulling the paper out from under her hands.
Sam ducked her head, her face red. “It’s personal Ms. Tagetes,” she whispered.
The art instructor just smiled. “Good art is always personal, Samantha,” she responded. “That’s what makes it art. Now, go pin this up with the others.”
Sam reluctantly obeyed. The class wandered back and forth, examining all the artwork. The room filled with a low hum of conversation and critique. Sam couldn’t make herself look, so she went back to her spot and sat quietly until the bell rang.
“Everyone, please leave your work here,” Ms. Tagetes said, raising her voice to be heard over the noise of students gathering their supplies. “We will look at everything with a fresh eye next class. Good work, everyone.”
Sam made to follow Skeets out the door, but Ms. Tagetes caught her arm. “I’d like to speak with you for a moment, Samantha,” she said.
Skeets cast a concerned glance over his shoulder, and hesitated.
“Go on, Skeets. This is private.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll meet you in the courtyard, Sam.”
Sam nodded, unable to say a word. Ms. Tagetes took her arm and guided her to the wall of artwork.
“I want you to look at these, and think about what you are seeing.”
Sam looked. Many of the pictures showed a couple in love. Some were more graphic than others. Ms. Tagetes guided her down the aisle, so she could look at each one. Skeets’ sketch caught her eye. Instead of drawing a kiss, he had drawn the man as a superhero, complete with cape, returning a stolen purse to teary-eyed but grateful victim. Sam stopped to look at it more closely.
“Does this surprise you?” Ms. Tagetes asked.
“I’m not sure,” Sam responded. “I knew Skeets drew comic books. But this is darker than I expected. I thought comics had a lot of color.”
“To Skeets, this scene is of darkness. He is showing us something of himself here. Do you see it?”
Sam reached out a hand, but stopped short of touching the sketch. She didn’t want to smudge the image. “The woman is grateful, but she looks scared.”
“Who is she scared of, do you think?”
Sam frowned. “I don’t know. Maybe she’s scared of whoever took her purse. But her hand stops just short of taking it back from the hero. As if she’s scared of him, too.”
Ms. Tagetes nodded. “And the hero?”
Sam looked at his face. There was a hint of Skeets’ own bone structure in the drawing. “He looks . . . hesitant. A hero ought to be confident, cocky even. But he’s not. It’s almost as if he’s scared of the woman. That doesn’t make sense.”
“Doesn’t it?”
Sam glanced at the art instructor, feeling a touch impatient. “This drawing is supposed to reveal Skeets’ entire psyche?” she asked.
“No, no. Of course not. But you see, the hero is trying to help the woman. He has done what he can for her. But he is not sure it’s enough. He is worried that the woman will fear him for his differences.”
“Which means what?” Sam asked, fascinated in spite of herself.
“My interpretation,” Ms. Tagetes said, “is that Skeets is afraid to put himself out there. He hides, because he worries that no one will understand him.”
“You mean the music and the slang and the dyed hair is just a way to keep people out?”
Ms. Tagetes nodded.
“But he has Becca and Drew and Jer,” Sam protested. “How could he be afraid, with such good friends?”
“You think they are good friends?”
“I’d love to have friends like them,” she responded. She looked at the drawing again. “Ms. Tagetes, am I seeing fear in the drawing because Skeets is afraid? Or because I am afraid?”
“That is a very good question, Samantha.” Ms. Tagetes perched on a nearby stool. “With art, some emotion comes from the artist and some comes from the viewer. So it could be a little of both. Are you afraid, Samantha?”
Samantha sat next to the instructor. “I guess I am, a little. I lost my mother. I’m living in a strange place with people I’ve never met. And I have to put on a good front, so other people don’t get hurt.”
“Other people,” Ms. Tagetes murmured, thoughtfully. After a moment, she said, “So tell me about your story, Samantha.”
She rose and walked over to Sam’s story. Sam followed reluctantly. Ms. Tagetes looked it over, and Sam forced herself to read what she’d written.
He walked the dark empty street, deep in thought.
A sudden movement made him stop and turn. A woman faced him--a woman he'd never seen before. Where had she come from?
'Who are you?' he asked.
'I am the mother of your child," she replied.
'But you're dead!'
'On this night, on this street, that doesn't matter,' she told him.
A sudden movement made him stop and turn. A woman faced him--a woman he'd never seen before. Where had she come from?
'Who are you?' he asked.
'I am the mother of your child," she replied.
'But you're dead!'
'On this night, on this street, that doesn't matter,' she told him.
‘Why are you here?’
‘Why do you think?’
‘I don’t know!’ he protested. ‘How can I know why you do anything? Why did you do it? Why?’
The woman was silent for a long moment. He started to turn away in disgust, and she spoke.
‘I was all alone,’ she said, her gaze on the ground. ‘I didn’t want to be alone any more. I wanted a child.’
‘There were other ways. You, of all people should know that.’
‘I spent a lifetime helping others create children. The art of cloning . . . splicing cells from two donors . . . But science is nothing like nature. I didn’t want a duplicate of myself.’
‘So why choose me? There must have been other options, a man you knew, a man you cared about.’
Her face twitched slightly. ‘There was. But he was gone. There was not enough of him to create a child.’
‘Even so . . .’ his voice was not unsympathetic. ‘Why me?’
She raised her eyes to meet his for the first time. ‘I thought you were all alone. I thought you might need someone, too.’
‘That argument would have more force if you’d told me about her. If you’d asked my permission!’
‘I was afraid. I was afraid you’d say no. I was afraid you’d take my child away from me.’
‘Take your child? I was hardly more than a child myself.’
‘Please! You have to understand—‘
‘You stole from me!’ he interrupted. ‘And then you hid what you stole. And then you died, and dumped this chore on me, with no warning.’
‘She is not a chore,’ she said pleadingly. ‘She’s our daughter. She’s your daughter. Can’t you love her, just for that? Not even a little?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘She is innocent. She knew nothing.’
‘She knew everything but my name,’ he disagreed. ‘You told her all. Too much responsibility to lay on a child. A mistake you repeat.’
‘She was the only one I could talk to. She was the only one I could trust.’
‘You isolated her. You controlled her. What choice did she have? You were the only one she could talk to.’
‘I made mistakes. I know that. But can’t you find it in your heart to change that? Can’t you help our daughter?’
‘I don’t know.’ He turned and walked away. ‘I don’t know.’
She watched him, one hand outstretched as he vanished into the darkness. The pleading look on her face changed to hopelessness, and her hand fell.
Then a voice came back, echoing slightly in the empty street.
‘I’ll try.’
“I didn’t think about it, Ms. Tagetes,” Sam admitted. “I just started writing, and that’s what came out.”
The teacher nodded, as if that made perfect sense. “This is something very personal to you.” It wasn’t a question.
Sam hesitated. “My parents never met in person,” she said finally. “I don’t know what they would have said to each other if they had.”
Ms. Tagetes perched on a stool, giving Sam her full attention. “You don’t think your father loves you?” she asked.
Sam took a seat next to the instructor. “I don’t know. How could he, when he never knew I existed? He didn’t have any choice about me. Surely a father ought to have some say, shouldn’t he?”
Ms. Tagetes was silent for a long moment. “This is not a new thing,” she said slowly. “Many men have fathered children without knowing about it.”
“But not like this. Not with DNA stolen from him.”
“And you are angry that your mother stole his DNA?”
“Shouldn’t I be? How can I forgive her? How can my father forgive her? And how—“ she stopped, the words freezing on her tongue.
“And how can your father love you, when you are a constant reminder of this?” Ms. Tagetes murmured.
Sam stared at her, mute.
The art instructor sighed. “People are complicated,” she said. “You are innocent of your mother’s crime. You had no more say in it than he did. He ought not to hold it against you. Do you really think he does?”
Sam shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know. I don’t think so. He doesn’t act like he hates me. But it’s just . . . awkward.”
“Awkward with potential for improvement?” Ms. Tagetes asked.
Sam considered. “Potential . . . I like that. Yes, there is potential. But I still worry he’ll hate me.”
Ms. Tagetes patted her gently on the shoulder. “Don’t let that fear cripple you. You know it’s not true.”
“In my head, yes. My heart is another story.”
Ms. Tagetes laughed at that, and hopped down from her stool. Sam followed suit and they walked to the classroom door together.
“Ms. Tagetes,” Sam said. “Do I really have to leave my story pinned up?”
The instructor met her gaze squarely. “You feel exposed. Your personal fears are in that story,” she said. “But do you imagine none of the other students put their fears into their art? Art is part of a person’s soul, be it a painting or a sculpture or a story. Everyone’s fears are pinned up on that wall. Don’t be afraid to show yours once in a while.”
Sam nodded.
