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Authors: Ann M. Martin
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embarrassed about the real reason I was barricaded in the apartment, that I almost said, "Yes, I am sick." But I didn't want to scare Richie by making him think I was contagious, so instead I replied, "New York makes me a little nervous." "Another antiurbanist?" said Richie.
"Huh?" "Never mind. Listen, don't you know what a fantastic place this city is?" "Two people were murdered last night." "Two out of eight million. That means your chances of being . . . urn . . . hurt are one in four million." "Oh." "Have you been to New York before?" "Yeah. A couple of times." "Did you really see the city? Did you walk through the museums — the smaller ones, like the Frick Collection or the Pierpont Morgan Library? Have you seen Gracie Mansion or taken a walking tour of Greenwich Village? Have you been to the Vietnam Veterans Memorial? Have you walked through Chelsea or the Village, or tasted cannoli or sushi or a cheese blintz?" "I've had a bagel," I said. "Does that count?" "Dawn, Dawn, Dawn." "Richie, Richie, Richie." We laughed. Then Richie went on, "New York is a great place. Except that so many people don't know it. Either they're afraid, so they don't come into the city. Or they're not afraid, and they come into the city, but all they do is go from one Gap to another. And maybe stroll through Central Park. But that is not discovering the city. I've lived here all my life — " "Have you ever been mugged?" I interrupted him.
"No! And I go out exploring every chance I get. That is, when my ankle's in one piece. Did you know there's a whole museum about firefighting? Do you know all the famous peo pie who've lived in New York — from Greenwich Village to Harlem?" Richie was more familiar with the city than anyone I'd ever met, including Mary Anne. He made it sound so exciting that I even considered leaving the apartment. Well, maybe the next day . . .
Claudia.
Chapter 12.
I don't know why I thought I would like Wednesday's art classes any better than I had liked Monday's or Tuesday's. But I kept hoping. I thought that if I worked really, really hard, I would finally do something to please Mr. Clarke. Mallory certainly pleased him — with her sloppy, childlike drawings — but so far, he had not said a single nice thing about my work. I was beginning to wonder if Mr. Clarke was such a great teacher. Maybe he couldn't recognize good work. Or maybe he could — and, after all this time, I was a flop.
We had spent two entire days (four classes) drawing those boxes. I don't ever want to see another pile of cartons. I am not kidding. Even if it means never moving out of my room at home. You can imagine how thankful I felt when, on Wednesday, we took our trip to Rockefeller Center.
Mal and I arrived at Falny slightly early on Wednesday. We didn't want to miss anything. And we wanted to look like dedicated art students in case Mr. Clarke arrived before his class did.
He didn't.
Mal and I sat alone in the room until the other students showed up. Then Mr. Clarke entered. "Are you ready to brave the subway?" he asked with a grin.
"Oh, goody. The subway," I said to Mal. "I just love the subway. Honestly." "I know you do." Mal smiled.
"... attention to perspective, dimension, and line," Mr. Qarke was saying.
I realized I wasn't listening to him, which probably was not a good move.
I resolved to pay attention.
Twenty minutes later, Mr. Clarke and our class were squeezing into a subway car. The car was crowded to begin with. Eighteen extra bodies only made things worse. But I didn't mind. Then I thought of something.
"Imagine if Dawn were h — " I started to say to Mal.
Mal didn't hear me. She was busy talking. To McKenzie Clarke.
Mr. Clarke had squeezed himself between Mallory and another student. Now he and Mal were discussing horses. Mr. Clarke liked to sketch them and Mal liked to read about them. But she had trouble drawing them.
"It's their hind legs," said Mr. Clarke. "The hind legs are difficult." "So are their heads. Hey, has your
"Huh?" "Never mind. Listen, don't you know what a fantastic place this city is?" "Two people were murdered last night." "Two out of eight million. That means your chances of being . . . urn . . . hurt are one in four million." "Oh." "Have you been to New York before?" "Yeah. A couple of times." "Did you really see the city? Did you walk through the museums — the smaller ones, like the Frick Collection or the Pierpont Morgan Library? Have you seen Gracie Mansion or taken a walking tour of Greenwich Village? Have you been to the Vietnam Veterans Memorial? Have you walked through Chelsea or the Village, or tasted cannoli or sushi or a cheese blintz?" "I've had a bagel," I said. "Does that count?" "Dawn, Dawn, Dawn." "Richie, Richie, Richie." We laughed. Then Richie went on, "New York is a great place. Except that so many people don't know it. Either they're afraid, so they don't come into the city. Or they're not afraid, and they come into the city, but all they do is go from one Gap to another. And maybe stroll through Central Park. But that is not discovering the city. I've lived here all my life — " "Have you ever been mugged?" I interrupted him.
"No! And I go out exploring every chance I get. That is, when my ankle's in one piece. Did you know there's a whole museum about firefighting? Do you know all the famous peo pie who've lived in New York — from Greenwich Village to Harlem?" Richie was more familiar with the city than anyone I'd ever met, including Mary Anne. He made it sound so exciting that I even considered leaving the apartment. Well, maybe the next day . . .
Claudia.
Chapter 12.
I don't know why I thought I would like Wednesday's art classes any better than I had liked Monday's or Tuesday's. But I kept hoping. I thought that if I worked really, really hard, I would finally do something to please Mr. Clarke. Mallory certainly pleased him — with her sloppy, childlike drawings — but so far, he had not said a single nice thing about my work. I was beginning to wonder if Mr. Clarke was such a great teacher. Maybe he couldn't recognize good work. Or maybe he could — and, after all this time, I was a flop.
We had spent two entire days (four classes) drawing those boxes. I don't ever want to see another pile of cartons. I am not kidding. Even if it means never moving out of my room at home. You can imagine how thankful I felt when, on Wednesday, we took our trip to Rockefeller Center.
Mal and I arrived at Falny slightly early on Wednesday. We didn't want to miss anything. And we wanted to look like dedicated art students in case Mr. Clarke arrived before his class did.
He didn't.
Mal and I sat alone in the room until the other students showed up. Then Mr. Clarke entered. "Are you ready to brave the subway?" he asked with a grin.
"Oh, goody. The subway," I said to Mal. "I just love the subway. Honestly." "I know you do." Mal smiled.
"... attention to perspective, dimension, and line," Mr. Qarke was saying.
I realized I wasn't listening to him, which probably was not a good move.
I resolved to pay attention.
Twenty minutes later, Mr. Clarke and our class were squeezing into a subway car. The car was crowded to begin with. Eighteen extra bodies only made things worse. But I didn't mind. Then I thought of something.
"Imagine if Dawn were h — " I started to say to Mal.
Mal didn't hear me. She was busy talking. To McKenzie Clarke.
Mr. Clarke had squeezed himself between Mallory and another student. Now he and Mal were discussing horses. Mr. Clarke liked to sketch them and Mal liked to read about them. But she had trouble drawing them.
"It's their hind legs," said Mr. Clarke. "The hind legs are difficult." "So are their heads. Hey, has your
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