Read Online Hickville Confessions: A Hickville High Novel by Mary Karlik - Free Book Online
Authors: Mary Karlik
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And yeah, he’d made a horrible ordeal bearable. And that was the problem. If she’d learned one thing in Chicago, it was that no guy ever did anything nice without expecting something in return.
Her body tensed beneath his touch.
“You okay?”
“Your arm hurts my skin,” she lied.
He dropped it like he’d been burned. “I’m so sorry.” They walked side by side but she was able to put some space between them. He stopped a few feet from the door to the Art room. “This is where I peel off.”
Not that Ryan minded, but it was weird that he’d stop in the middle of the hall ten feet from the room. “Thanks for walking me.” She made it a point to ignore those dimples and the way his hair had flopped across his forehead. She couldn’t help but notice that his face had an uncomfortable, almost panicked look. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah. It’s the Art room. Long story.” He ran a hand through his hair, making it look even sexier. “So, I’ll see you after class.” He turned and practically ran from the art department.
Mr. Smith stood outside, shaking his head when he saw her. “Ryan Quinn. They did a number on you.”
They?
“How’d you know what happened?”
“We got an email. It must hurt.”
“I’ve felt better.”
She relaxed as soon as she entered the room, where the smell of cheap manila paper, crayons, and paint was her aromatherapy. This was her place to just be. Mr. Smith always had some weird assignment that seemed completely pointless, but somehow in the end, she was always touched by it. It was like sitting in church and feeling like the homily was just for her.
Church. How could a group of supposed good girls have turned out to be so whacked?
When class started, Mr. Smith walked around the room with his right arm folded across his chest and left elbow propped on the arm. “The theme so far this year has been focused on unlocking your creativity and finding your voice. Open your sketchpads. I had planned to have you draw where you are now—in the moment. But sometimes, I think we need to see the future to get through the day. Your assignment today is to draw your future. Don’t hold back. The only rule is that you must write an artist statement first.”
Ryan raised her hand. “How can we write it first? I mean, our art is an expression of what we’re feeling. So how can we be free to express that, if we are confined by thoughts that aren’t gelled until the piece is set free?”
“I challenge you to look at it the other way around. Writing an artist statement first gives you direction and frees you to focus in that direction. But, I’ll compromise. Write your statement. After you finish your drawing, if you want to edit your statement, you can write a new one. But, I must have both.”
Ryan tried to focus on her future. What did she want? What were her dreams? She knew she wanted to go to college and major in art. That was a given. She didn’t want to focus on life after that. She didn’t want to focus on life next year. Her future was tomorrow, next week, next month. Would her face heal? What would happen when she saw the PC girls again?
On the corner of her sketch paper she wrote:
The future is… now.
She sketched a self-portrait with her hands covering her face, her fingertips just below her eyes. Each pinky nail had a heart in the center. The other nails spelled out survivor. The fountain was in the distance behind her, where five faceless girls stood in a cross formation, their hands poised in prayer position.
Mr. Smith called time on the assignment. They held their sketchpads up for the rest of the class to critique. One of the girls had drawn herself at the Eiffel Tower, while another had drawn a fighter jet. John, the lone guy in the class, drew himself as a superhero. Mr. Smith went around the entire room discussing each drawing before he got to her. “Ryan, tell us about your work, beginning with the artist statement.”
She pointed to the
Her body tensed beneath his touch.
“You okay?”
“Your arm hurts my skin,” she lied.
He dropped it like he’d been burned. “I’m so sorry.” They walked side by side but she was able to put some space between them. He stopped a few feet from the door to the Art room. “This is where I peel off.”
Not that Ryan minded, but it was weird that he’d stop in the middle of the hall ten feet from the room. “Thanks for walking me.” She made it a point to ignore those dimples and the way his hair had flopped across his forehead. She couldn’t help but notice that his face had an uncomfortable, almost panicked look. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah. It’s the Art room. Long story.” He ran a hand through his hair, making it look even sexier. “So, I’ll see you after class.” He turned and practically ran from the art department.
Mr. Smith stood outside, shaking his head when he saw her. “Ryan Quinn. They did a number on you.”
They?
“How’d you know what happened?”
“We got an email. It must hurt.”
“I’ve felt better.”
She relaxed as soon as she entered the room, where the smell of cheap manila paper, crayons, and paint was her aromatherapy. This was her place to just be. Mr. Smith always had some weird assignment that seemed completely pointless, but somehow in the end, she was always touched by it. It was like sitting in church and feeling like the homily was just for her.
Church. How could a group of supposed good girls have turned out to be so whacked?
When class started, Mr. Smith walked around the room with his right arm folded across his chest and left elbow propped on the arm. “The theme so far this year has been focused on unlocking your creativity and finding your voice. Open your sketchpads. I had planned to have you draw where you are now—in the moment. But sometimes, I think we need to see the future to get through the day. Your assignment today is to draw your future. Don’t hold back. The only rule is that you must write an artist statement first.”
Ryan raised her hand. “How can we write it first? I mean, our art is an expression of what we’re feeling. So how can we be free to express that, if we are confined by thoughts that aren’t gelled until the piece is set free?”
“I challenge you to look at it the other way around. Writing an artist statement first gives you direction and frees you to focus in that direction. But, I’ll compromise. Write your statement. After you finish your drawing, if you want to edit your statement, you can write a new one. But, I must have both.”
Ryan tried to focus on her future. What did she want? What were her dreams? She knew she wanted to go to college and major in art. That was a given. She didn’t want to focus on life after that. She didn’t want to focus on life next year. Her future was tomorrow, next week, next month. Would her face heal? What would happen when she saw the PC girls again?
On the corner of her sketch paper she wrote:
The future is… now.
She sketched a self-portrait with her hands covering her face, her fingertips just below her eyes. Each pinky nail had a heart in the center. The other nails spelled out survivor. The fountain was in the distance behind her, where five faceless girls stood in a cross formation, their hands poised in prayer position.
Mr. Smith called time on the assignment. They held their sketchpads up for the rest of the class to critique. One of the girls had drawn herself at the Eiffel Tower, while another had drawn a fighter jet. John, the lone guy in the class, drew himself as a superhero. Mr. Smith went around the entire room discussing each drawing before he got to her. “Ryan, tell us about your work, beginning with the artist statement.”
She pointed to the
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