Read Online Faith, Hope, and Ivy June by Phyllis Reynolds Naylor - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Phyllis Reynolds Naylor
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about the room, commenting on the strokes, the shading, Ivy June knew that she probably had one of the easiest angles. She was drawing Mackenzie from the side, and it was a lot easier drawing the profile of a forehead, nose, and chin than it was to draw the face full front and get the shading just right.
“Excellent!” Miss Lorenzo said to some. “Great foreshortening there, Maria,” or, “Take another look at her left hand, Courtney. Check the proportions.”
When she came to Ivy June’s sketch, she studied it a moment, then said, “Your details are good, but look at the figure as a whole—the relaxed slump of the shoulder, for example. You’ll want to see the shape of the whole in your mind before you concentrate on details, but keep working.”
Ivy June stared hard at her sketch. The teacher was right. The whole pose was wrong on paper. In her drawing, the girl’s posture was stiff, unnatural, but she had great pleats in her skirt.
At the end of the period, when all the sketches were collected and propped along the chalk tray beneath the blackboard, Ivy June realized that while a few of the other drawings were as amateurish as her own, most were far more artistic, more natural, more original. Miss Lorenzo pointed out the features of the best work, and it was what she didn’t say about the others that said it all.
She was subdued over the lunch hour, and was glad for free time in the library later, when she could write home on the stamped postcards Mammaw had given her.
Dear Ma and Daddy (and Jessie, Howard, Ezra, and Danny) ,
I’m going to drop this myself in a mailbox I saw at the corner because I don’t want anyone to read it but you. I’m here, no car wreck or anything, and I have a bed to myself in the Combses’ big house. They’re nice people for the most part and we went to church on Sunday. The choir sang fine, but nobody opens their mouth very wide. Peter and Claire, the ten-year-old twins, are pretty funny sometimes. School is hard in some classes, easy in others. Hope the creek didn’t rise too much.
Love, Ivy June
Dear Papaw, Mammaw, and Grandmommy:
I’m here without a car wreck, but I miss you a lot. Mrs. Combs thanks you for the preserves and says blackberry’s her favorite. She has someone do the cooking for her because she’s been sick, but it’s nothing as good as yours. I’ve got a bed to myself and it’s a right big house here. Everybody’s nice to me except Catherine’s step-grandmother, Rosemary, but Catherine doesn’t like her either. I’ll mail this postcard myself so no one else will see it. Hope the creek didn’t rise too much.
Love and kisses, Ivy June
Despite her disappointment about the art class, Ivy June fell into the rhythm of the school day and the Combs household. Taking turns in the bathroom each morning with Catherine and Claire, riding to school with Catherine’s dad, or sometimes Mackenzie’s. Classes till three, then the ride home again—a snack in the kitchen, shooting baskets over at the clubhouse with Catherine, then dinner, and homework till almost nine. Ivy June treated herself to a bath each night, luxuriating in the hot water.
At Buckner she was in the general math class, not the advanced. The teacher was talking about interest rates. If the list price of a new car was $20,000, she said, and the dealer gave you eight years to pay it off at $350 a month, what was the rate of interest? How much would you actually end up paying for the car? The girls busied themselves with calculations at their desks and gasped as one by one they discovered that they would be paying $33,600 for a $20,000 car.
Ivy June tried to remember if anyone she had ever known had bought a new car at any price. Most of the cars that belonged to people in Thunder Creek had been sold and resold, so that by the time it got to you, you were maybe the third or fourth owner.
The last class of the day was science, with its unit on geology. Mrs. Baker was talking about the age of
“Excellent!” Miss Lorenzo said to some. “Great foreshortening there, Maria,” or, “Take another look at her left hand, Courtney. Check the proportions.”
When she came to Ivy June’s sketch, she studied it a moment, then said, “Your details are good, but look at the figure as a whole—the relaxed slump of the shoulder, for example. You’ll want to see the shape of the whole in your mind before you concentrate on details, but keep working.”
Ivy June stared hard at her sketch. The teacher was right. The whole pose was wrong on paper. In her drawing, the girl’s posture was stiff, unnatural, but she had great pleats in her skirt.
At the end of the period, when all the sketches were collected and propped along the chalk tray beneath the blackboard, Ivy June realized that while a few of the other drawings were as amateurish as her own, most were far more artistic, more natural, more original. Miss Lorenzo pointed out the features of the best work, and it was what she didn’t say about the others that said it all.
She was subdued over the lunch hour, and was glad for free time in the library later, when she could write home on the stamped postcards Mammaw had given her.
Dear Ma and Daddy (and Jessie, Howard, Ezra, and Danny) ,
I’m going to drop this myself in a mailbox I saw at the corner because I don’t want anyone to read it but you. I’m here, no car wreck or anything, and I have a bed to myself in the Combses’ big house. They’re nice people for the most part and we went to church on Sunday. The choir sang fine, but nobody opens their mouth very wide. Peter and Claire, the ten-year-old twins, are pretty funny sometimes. School is hard in some classes, easy in others. Hope the creek didn’t rise too much.
Love, Ivy June
Dear Papaw, Mammaw, and Grandmommy:
I’m here without a car wreck, but I miss you a lot. Mrs. Combs thanks you for the preserves and says blackberry’s her favorite. She has someone do the cooking for her because she’s been sick, but it’s nothing as good as yours. I’ve got a bed to myself and it’s a right big house here. Everybody’s nice to me except Catherine’s step-grandmother, Rosemary, but Catherine doesn’t like her either. I’ll mail this postcard myself so no one else will see it. Hope the creek didn’t rise too much.
Love and kisses, Ivy June
Despite her disappointment about the art class, Ivy June fell into the rhythm of the school day and the Combs household. Taking turns in the bathroom each morning with Catherine and Claire, riding to school with Catherine’s dad, or sometimes Mackenzie’s. Classes till three, then the ride home again—a snack in the kitchen, shooting baskets over at the clubhouse with Catherine, then dinner, and homework till almost nine. Ivy June treated herself to a bath each night, luxuriating in the hot water.
At Buckner she was in the general math class, not the advanced. The teacher was talking about interest rates. If the list price of a new car was $20,000, she said, and the dealer gave you eight years to pay it off at $350 a month, what was the rate of interest? How much would you actually end up paying for the car? The girls busied themselves with calculations at their desks and gasped as one by one they discovered that they would be paying $33,600 for a $20,000 car.
Ivy June tried to remember if anyone she had ever known had bought a new car at any price. Most of the cars that belonged to people in Thunder Creek had been sold and resold, so that by the time it got to you, you were maybe the third or fourth owner.
The last class of the day was science, with its unit on geology. Mrs. Baker was talking about the age of
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