Bad Blood at Madden High

Chapter 5

The art teacher, Miss Marlowe, didn’t waste any time. As soon as Anderson walked into the room, she thrust a set of brushes into his hand and led him to an easel. “Paint,” she instructed.

“Anything in particular?” Anderson asked.

“Yes. Anything, and in particular.”

Water colors. Not Anderson’s best medium, but one he was very familiar with and one which he approached with appreciation. His mother, rest her soul, had taught him first with watercolors, and his fondest memories not spent on a bicycle were of time spent with his mother, some water colors, and the music of James McMurtry.

The five brushes in his hand were Arches brushes, all round, varying in size from 00 to 6. Not bad, thought Anderson. He was impressed that a public high school would have brushes of such quality, not to mention expense, and he wondered if Miss Marlowe hadn’t supplemented the art budget with money of her own. It was well-known that art programs were often the first to be cut, and it was further known that many teachers spent considerable quantities of their own money to make sure their students had what they needed for a quality education. If you can tell a man by his gun, perhaps you can tell an art instructor by the brushes she provides her students, and Anderson was certain that was the case here. The brushes were not new, but they were obviously well-cared-for. He could love a teacher like this, he decided.

The easel to his right was unoccupied, but at the easel to his left was stationed one of the loud girls from his homeroom. He nodded at her, adding a “Hello.”

“Hi. You’re the new guy in homeroom, right?”

“Yes.”

“I’m Beth,” she said. She had big, round eyes of light brown, full lips, and too much makeup. Her black hair, tied up on her head in a knot, had been highlighted a bit too aggressively, but it was nice hair and Anderson was sure it would be close to perfect if she’d stop putting weird chemicals in it.

“Brooks Anderson,” said Anderson. “How are you doing?”

“Psssh!” said Beth. “I am sooooo not good at art. I don’t know why I’m here.”

“You think art classes are for people who are good in art?” asked Anderson.

“Of course. Who takes band? People good at music. Who takes painting? People who are good at art.”

“But if you were already good at art, what would you need an art class for?”

“It’s not about teaching you to be good at art,” she said. “It’s about putting yourself in situations where you can succeed. And I can’t succeed at this.”

“What is your definition of success? Grades?”

“Grades would work for me.”

“What if you get a bad grade but you learn to paint something that you like the looks of?” asked Anderson.

“You mean a painting that I would really like?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, my GPA is screwed anyway, so I guess that would be cool.”

“Let me tell you something,” said Anderson. “If you approach this with an open mind and a positive attitude, there’s no reason you shouldn’t be able to paint something decent by the end of the semester. End of the year at the latest.”

“You don’t know me,” said Beth. “I can’t even draw a straight line.”

“What are you trying to paint right now?”

“I don’t know. You got a suggestion?”

“How about something that doesn’t have any straight lines, for starters?”

Beth laughed. “You’re funny. How come you’ve been quiet all day and now you’re all talkative and stuff?”

“I feel pretty comfortable in front of an easel,” confessed Anderson. “I’m still the new kid, so I haven’t found my groove yet. But here,” he paused, taking a slow look across the room, “here, I’m right at home.”

“You do a lot of painting?”

“Once upon a time, I did. It’s been a while.”

“What are you going to paint?” asked Beth.

“I think I’ll close my eyes and paint the first thing I think of,” said Anderson. “Why don’t you do the same thing?”

“That’s too scary!” she said. “If I try to paint whatever I think of, there’s no way it will look right.”

“Can anyone see what’s in your brain?” asked Anderson, who ten minutes ago would have guessed he could see right through her brain, but was reassessing this judgment.

“Of course not.”

“Then nobody will be able to tell you it’s wrong. Just paint something and forget about if it’s recognizable or not. Just get some paint on the paper and move the colors around. You might surprise yourself, and if nothing else, you will get familiar with the brushes, water, and paint, and that will give you a head start for next time.”

“Brilliant advice. I couldn’t have put it better myself,” interrupted Miss Marlowe. “Beth, sweetie, just get the paint on the paper. Try different amounts of water, different pressures with the brush, and different mixtures of paint. If it looks like a huge, happy mess when you’re done, you’ll have done the assignment exactly the way I was hoping.” She turned to Anderson. “Brooks, it sounds like you’re already quite familiar with the medium. Just paint anything you wish for today, so I can see what you’ve got.”

“I wouldn’t mind seeing what you’ve got,” said Anderson without thinking.

“Um, what?” asked Miss Marlowe.

Anderson thought quickly. “You know, I’d like to see your work. I can tell from these brushes that you don’t settle for mediocrity; I’ll bet that’s also evident in your work.”

“We’ll discuss my work another time,” said Miss Marlowe. “But of course I would be a hypocrite not to share it. Now get that brush moving.”

Anderson got to work. For the first time since tying his Fat Possum to the rack, he relaxed. For the first time all morning, he was unconcerned about the people around, unencumbered by thoughts of his new environment, and unfettered by the expectations of anyone but his own muse. He let go.

Forty-five minute later, he was interrupted. “Brooks, I did it.”

He looked up from his work, glancing at Beth’s paper.

“I just tried to paint the first thing in my mind, and it was this!”

“This” was a red flower surrounded by green leaves or grass, he couldn’t tell which. The greens were of several different shades and opacities, each shooting up past the red flower and curving outward or off the page. It was rudimentary stuff, but it didn’t stink. He could see why Beth was taking such pleasure in it.

“What made you focus on just the green for most of the painting?” he asked.

“Well, that was Miss Marlowe’s suggestion. I painted the flower first, and then she suggested the grass.”

“It looks terrific,” he said. He meant it.

“Well, Miss Marlowe actually guided my hand on this leaf and this one,” she said, indicating two graceful curves.

“Still. The rest is quite nice.”

“Thank you! Oh my god, I can’t believe I painted something that looks like what it’s supposed to look like!”

“Congratulations. See? You’re going to enjoy this class, and you’re supposedly not an art person.”

“Hey, yours is super-nice, too. How did you get the sunset to look like that?”

“Beats me,” Anderson said modestly. “I guess I just did it.”

“Well, it’s nice. What’s that thing in the foreground?”

He looked at his painting. In the background, sinking behind maroon mountains, was the sun. Most of the middle ground was dusty sand, like one sees in movies where people walk across long deserts. He had tried to use the white of the paper as much as possible here, indicating the kind of washed-out look beaches often had in photographs. In the foreground was a gigantic Shimano derailleur, floating over the sand like a visiting craft from some other planet. The shadow he’d painted beneath the derailleur had been the most challenging piece of the picture, and he wasn’t quite pleased with it. “It’s a derailleur, a bike part,” he said.

“Oh, you ride a bike?” Beth asked.

“Yes.”

“Cool!” The bell rang, and Miss Marlowe instructed students to wash out their brushes and move their paintings to the clothesline in the back of the room.

“Nice work, Brooks,” she said to him as he returned his brushes to the brush caddy on the long counter beneath the window.

“Thank you,” said Anderson, “but I don’t think that’s anything to be especially proud of,” he flicked his eyes in the direction of the painting.

“Not that,” said Miss Marlowe. “I’m talking about being nice to Beth. You really helped her, and I treasure that spirit more than any skill with a brush.”

“Yes ma`am,” he said. “See you tomorrow.”

“No, not tomorrow. Tomorrow is an extended ‘A’ Day. That means you have your first three classes only, and they’ll each be twice as long as today’s classes were. So see you Wednesday, when we’ll have twice as much time for paint.”

Chapter 6

At the front of Miss Nohara’s room was a circle of desks, one of which remained unoccupied. Anderson took it quietly, looking at his teacher rather than at his new schoolmates. “Sorry I’m late,” he said.

“Oh, you’re not late,” said Miss Nohara. “We haven’t even begun yet.”

Anderson allowed himself to look around, since circle-sitting made that a completely normal behavior. He recognized a few of the girls from his lunch table and two nerdy-looking guys from his biology class.

“I hate getting-to-know-you activities,” said Miss Nohara. “So we’re doing something alittle different. Everyone please take three of these,” she instructed, passing a stack of index cards around the room. “Upon them, you will write one question. New students, you will write questions about life at J. Madden High School, which the old-timers will answer. Old-timers, you will write questions—not too personal!”—about the new students. We’ll take turns sharing. And I know I don’t have to remind you all, but for clarity’s sake, I will: Respect differences, and silence indicates agreement. So if you disagree, you need to speak up.”

Anderson jotted down three quick questions, which he put into the galosh Miss Nohara passed around for the new students’ index cards. The old-timers put their cards into an obnoxiously large sombrero.

“Okay, here’s how this goes,” said Miss Nohara. “We’ll make all the old-timers do one question each to start, then we’ll do the new students. You can answer any way you wish, but you only get to take a pass on one question all afternoon, so use your pass wisely.”

She passed the galosh to the girl on her left, who withdrew a card, and said, “I’m Maria, and the question is, ‘Where do I go for a good latte?’ Oh, that’s easy. The Village Idiot is just down the street, and you’ll usually see lots of Madden students there. The bathrooms are clean and the people who work there are either students here or former students, so they’re totally tolerant of people who buy one drink and sit at a table for four hours.”

“Nicely done, Maria,” said Miss Nohara. “Does anyone have anything to add to that?”

“Yes. I’m Chris,” said one of the nerdy guys from Anderson’s biology class. “and there are a few more options. I like the Cuppa Mud, which is a little bit further away, but has power outlets near just about every table. If you want to plug your laptop in, you have no trouble at Cuppa Mud, and the WiFi is free.”

“Thanks, Chris,” said Miss Nohara. “Let’s pass the galosh to the next old-timer.”

The next hour went much the same way, and Anderson found himself enjoying both the activity and the company. These were clearly carefully-picked students who had something interesting to say and who knew how to say it. There were six new students in the room, and most of them seemed to relax in this friendly company. One guy, who’d introduced himself as Craig and was obviously a wrestler or swimmer or both, seemed to feel uncomfortable, but he smiled when it was his turn, he shared what he was asked, and if he didn’t want to be there, he seemed perfectly able to handle the situation.

When the hour was up, Miss Nohara said, “Well, I think an hour is definitely enough time for us, even if we didn’t get through all the questions. New students, did you feel this was a worthwhile activity?”

Anderson spoke up. “Ma`am? I just want to say I’m grateful. This was my favorite thing all day.” The others nodded their heads.

“Old-timers, would you be willing to do this again? Perhaps in a week?”

The others nodded, but Maria said, “Miss Nohara, I think maybe a whole week is too long to wait. New students have lots and lots of new questions in the first few days, and yeah, I know they can just come up and ask us now that they sorta know us, but let’s do this again in a few days.”

“Anyone?” asked Miss Nohara.

“I think Maria’s right,” said Chris. “Let’s do it Thursday.”

“Thursday’s no good for me,” said Miss Nohara. “Faculty meeting.”

“Let’s do it Wednesday, then,” said Maria. “Or is that too soon?”

“No, I think Wednesday would be nice,” said Miss Nohara. “And if we want to do it again or not, we can decide that then. No pressure on anyone to continue. So have a good afternoon, and I’ll see most of you tomorrow or Wednesday. Remember, tomorrow is extended A.”

The students gathered their bags and filed out of the room, almost all of them headed straight for the exits. “You got a ride home?” asked Chris.

“Oh, yeah,” said Anderson. “My ride’s chained to the bike rack.”

“Okay, cool,” said Chris. “I’ll see you, then.”

“Hey,” said a girl who’d been walking with them. Anderson couldn’t remember her name. “I’m riding a bike home, too. What do you have?”

“Gary Fisher,” said Anderson.

“Really? Which one?”

“Fat Possum.”

“Whoa! That’s awesome! How the heck did you afford that?”

“Worked my tail off all summer.”

“That’s terrific. I’m just riding a Kona Clydesdale.”

“That’s not a cheap bike. What was that, eleven hundred?”

“Around there. My dad paid for half of it.”

“Sweet. So you know where the good singletrack is?”

“I think some friends and I could show you some good stuff,” she said. “You have plans Saturday?”

“I don’t reckon so.”

“Reckon. That’s funny. Anyway, yeah. I’ll see if anyone’s interested in riding Saturday and let you know later this week, okay?”

“Sounds good,” said Anderson. “And, I’m sorry, but what was your name again?”

“Summer,” said the girl with a little giggle. Anderson loved it and hated it when they did that. It was impossible not to get turned on by it. “Summer Pak.”

“Brooks Anderson,” said Anderson, even though he was pretty sure she knew his name. “You on your way home?”

“Yes. I have a few things I was supposed to get done before the first day of school and if I don’t get them done today, my parents will toast me.”

“Well okay, then. I think I’ll ride down to that Village Idiot and scope it out,” said Anderson. “Let me know about a ride if it happens.”

“Sure. If not this weekend, then definitely soon,” said Summer. “I don’t take this out in the dirt every so often and she gets moody.”

“I know the feeling.”

—-

Locale: Starbucks Kapalama
Word count, this selection: 2607.
Cumulative word count: 7718.
Words left: 42,282.
Ahead or behind pace: - 8952 words.
Consumables: 1 bottle of water, 1 grande nonfat latte.
Spirits: Tired but satisfied.
Tunage: My new NaNo playlist. The part I heard while writing this selection was

Symphorce, “Touched And Infected”
Kamelot, “Elizabeth: II. Requiem for the Innocent”
Pallas, “For The Greater Glory”
Helloween, “Follow The Sign”
Symphorce, “Your Blood,”“My Soul”
Evergrey, “Unforgivable”
Power of Omens, “With These Words”
Royal Hunt, “Day In Day Out (New Version)”
Dream Theater, “The Root Of All Evil”
Insania, “Forever Alone”
Metallica, “Disposable Heroes”
Metallica, “For Whom The Bells Tolls”
Blind Guardian, “I’m Alive”
Enchant, “The Lizard”
Lana Lane, “Seasons”
Nightwish, “Sacrament Of Wilderness”
Dream Theater, “Lie”
Enchant, “Follow the Sun”
Skyclad, “Any Old Irony?”
Skyclad, “A Clown of Thorns”
Heimdall, “Then Night Will Fall”
Avantasia, “Farewell”
Porcupine Tree, “Idiot Prayer”
Dream Theater, “Panic Attack”
Stratovarius, “Full Moon”
Dark Suns, “The Sun Beyond Your Eden”
Dark Suns, “The Neverending”
Wuthering Heights, “Lost Realms”
Metallica, “Tuesday’s Gone”
Enchant, “Monday”
Angra, “Evil Warnings (Different Vocals)”
Vanden Plas, “Cold Wind”
Mull Muzzler, “Venice Burning”
Evergrey, “I’m Sorry”
Metallica, “Helpless”

Yes. I seem to write best with progressive metal and power metal playing in my ears. With a little bit of thrash.