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Authors: Heather Hepler
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look back down at my work. If I mind my own business, they’ll leave me alone. I try to brush out the ridges by going across them as Miss Beans showed us. I start on another ridge, happy that I’m finally starting to figure out something.
That feeling lasts about seven seconds.
I hear it first, then feel it. The tub of gesso that I’m using is upended on my table and the paint slowly spills into my lap. Charity stands in front of me, watching, waiting to see what I’ll do. What I do is just sit there. She smiles slightly and continues toward the supply closet.
“Oh, Pen Knee,” one of the Lindseys says from the back table. “What happened?”
Miss Beans turns and looks at me, first at my face and then at the pool of gesso spreading under my feet. I stand up, watching it roll down my legs. Unfortunately, Tally is in the library picking up some art books for Miss Beans, so I’m alone in my soggy mess. Miss Beans walks over and hands me a stack of paper towels, which I use to try to mop up the front of my jeans. Charity is standing by the supply closet, smirking. I feel the heat behind my eyes. I have to blink fast to make the tears stay inside. The only thing worse than their seeing me with paint all over is their seeing me cry about it.
“Start cleaning up, class,” Miss Beans says. She watches the back table as they put tops on their tubs of paint and stack their canvases on the drying rack. I keep wiping my chair and then the floor—anything to keep my face hidden. I know my eyes are red. I’ve always admired girls who can cry prettily, all shiny eyes and flushed cheeks. With me it looks like I have just had a terrible reaction to a bee sting. My eyes get all red and puffy and my nose starts running like mad.
The bell rings and everyone heads out for lunch. I hear a burst of laughter from the Lindseys and their leader once they hit the hall.
Miss Beans walks over to me and I concentrate on her paint-splattered clogs. “Want to tell me what happened?” I shake my head and stand up. “Come on into my office,” she says. I follow her, trying to ignore the squishing in my sneakers.
She stops at her desk and looks at me for a moment before leaning down to pull out a cardboard box. Inside is a big mound of clothes. “Take whatever you want,” she says. “I’ve learned to expect accidents in art class.” The way she says “accidents” lets me know that she knows it wasn’t really an accident. She leaves the office and closes the door behind her so I can get changed. I peel my still damp jeans off my legs and try to wipe away the goo that seeped through them. I just want to be away from here. I want to be back in my old life, where no one dumped paint on me and where the best thing going isn’t some Hog festival and where people like Charity and the Lindseys would be eaten for lunch.
“Is Penny still here?” I recognize Tally’s voice out in the classroom.
“She’s just getting changed,” Miss Beans says.
I rifle through the box until I find a pair of jeans that might work. They’re too big, but I find a scarf and slip it through the belt loops. I stuff my socks and jeans into a plastic bag I find in another box under Miss Beans’s desk. I have to pull my still damp shoes on, but at least my legs are mostly dry. I blow my nose and blot at my eyes, trying to catch the blue mascara before it streaks my face.
“Nice,” Tally says as I open the door. “Very bohemian.”
I smile slightly and walk to my table. I keep my head down, trying to make my hair hide my face. I pick up a paper towel and bend to wipe the gesso that splashed up the legs of my chair, but Miss Beans stops me.
“Go have lunch, Penny,” she says. “I’ll get it.”
“Thanks,” I say, picking up my notebook. Tally and I walk over to my new locker. After the penny incident, I asked to switch. I pull out my lunch. The idea of eating nauseates me, but I feel like if I don’t do the next thing, I’m going to really
That feeling lasts about seven seconds.
I hear it first, then feel it. The tub of gesso that I’m using is upended on my table and the paint slowly spills into my lap. Charity stands in front of me, watching, waiting to see what I’ll do. What I do is just sit there. She smiles slightly and continues toward the supply closet.
“Oh, Pen Knee,” one of the Lindseys says from the back table. “What happened?”
Miss Beans turns and looks at me, first at my face and then at the pool of gesso spreading under my feet. I stand up, watching it roll down my legs. Unfortunately, Tally is in the library picking up some art books for Miss Beans, so I’m alone in my soggy mess. Miss Beans walks over and hands me a stack of paper towels, which I use to try to mop up the front of my jeans. Charity is standing by the supply closet, smirking. I feel the heat behind my eyes. I have to blink fast to make the tears stay inside. The only thing worse than their seeing me with paint all over is their seeing me cry about it.
“Start cleaning up, class,” Miss Beans says. She watches the back table as they put tops on their tubs of paint and stack their canvases on the drying rack. I keep wiping my chair and then the floor—anything to keep my face hidden. I know my eyes are red. I’ve always admired girls who can cry prettily, all shiny eyes and flushed cheeks. With me it looks like I have just had a terrible reaction to a bee sting. My eyes get all red and puffy and my nose starts running like mad.
The bell rings and everyone heads out for lunch. I hear a burst of laughter from the Lindseys and their leader once they hit the hall.
Miss Beans walks over to me and I concentrate on her paint-splattered clogs. “Want to tell me what happened?” I shake my head and stand up. “Come on into my office,” she says. I follow her, trying to ignore the squishing in my sneakers.
She stops at her desk and looks at me for a moment before leaning down to pull out a cardboard box. Inside is a big mound of clothes. “Take whatever you want,” she says. “I’ve learned to expect accidents in art class.” The way she says “accidents” lets me know that she knows it wasn’t really an accident. She leaves the office and closes the door behind her so I can get changed. I peel my still damp jeans off my legs and try to wipe away the goo that seeped through them. I just want to be away from here. I want to be back in my old life, where no one dumped paint on me and where the best thing going isn’t some Hog festival and where people like Charity and the Lindseys would be eaten for lunch.
“Is Penny still here?” I recognize Tally’s voice out in the classroom.
“She’s just getting changed,” Miss Beans says.
I rifle through the box until I find a pair of jeans that might work. They’re too big, but I find a scarf and slip it through the belt loops. I stuff my socks and jeans into a plastic bag I find in another box under Miss Beans’s desk. I have to pull my still damp shoes on, but at least my legs are mostly dry. I blow my nose and blot at my eyes, trying to catch the blue mascara before it streaks my face.
“Nice,” Tally says as I open the door. “Very bohemian.”
I smile slightly and walk to my table. I keep my head down, trying to make my hair hide my face. I pick up a paper towel and bend to wipe the gesso that splashed up the legs of my chair, but Miss Beans stops me.
“Go have lunch, Penny,” she says. “I’ll get it.”
“Thanks,” I say, picking up my notebook. Tally and I walk over to my new locker. After the penny incident, I asked to switch. I pull out my lunch. The idea of eating nauseates me, but I feel like if I don’t do the next thing, I’m going to really
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