Read Online The Vigilante Poets of Selwyn Academy by Kate Hattemer - Free Book Online
Authors: Kate Hattemer
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arabesque.
“Look at the figure and find a new form,” Dr. Fern said in her calm, meditative way. “Find another shape to draw. Not a torso, not a leg. Something outside your symbol set.” Her voice was like a yoga teacher’s. Art class was one of my favorite times of day. I’m no Bronzino, but I like drawing. The times you don’t have to think are when you get in your best thinking.
It had been a crazy week. As soon as I bought into Luke’s idea that kTV was ruining the school, I found evidence everywhere. Like, when I eavesdropped on my classmates’ conversations? They were all about
For Art’s Sake
. You used to overhear people debating the merits of
Aida
versus
Rigoletto
. Or you’d walk down the hall and hear, “Dude, I
know
, Prokofiev is the
shit
.” But now? The subject of every conversation was reality TV.
Dr. Fern gave me a chuck on the back of my neck and I snapped back to attention.
“Pull his knee back,” she said, fussing with Herbert. “You need to forget this is a body. Focus only on the angle between back and leg.”
I started to sketch again. I was grateful to have an art teacher who actually taught, unlike, say, Ms. Gage, whowafted around the classroom with her long gray hair held up by two paintbrushes, exhorting us to
feel
the lines, to
breathe
the shading. I still wasn’t good, but I’d gotten better in Dr. Fern’s class.
Part of that was because I drew during every Morning Practice these days, unless I had to cram for a private trumpet lesson. Not that there’d been much Morning Practice lately. It was supposed to be inviolate, ninety minutes of artistic freedom. Yet kTV would need background footage, so they’d barge into the studio just as you had hit that fugue state of cross-hatching, and Trisha Meier would be cussing out her cameramen, never dropping the toothy grin. Or they’d need audience shots, so we’d all be herded into the theater and have to watch Miki Frigging Reagler do a soft-shoe number six times, cheering and laughing on demand.
“They’re ruining the school,” I murmured to Herbert.
He looked balefully back at me.
“Luke’s right. Wait till I tell you about the
Selwyn Cantos—
”
Dr. Fern was walking toward me. “Ethan, I have a question. How are you going to get into a good art college if you can’t focus for an hour-long class?”
Dr. Fern, I have an answer. I’m not going to get into a good art college.
“Back leg needs to come out even farther. Now, sketch
quickly
. This is an exercise, not a masterpiece.”
Dr. Fern has always been kind enough to pretend I’m good at art. (Either that or she’s the most sarcastic person on the face of the earth.) I think Herbert knew the truth. Every timeDr. Fern corrected his posture, I felt more kinship with him. He was like me, the hapless clunk amidst the graced.
What I’d been about to tell Herbert was that last Friday, an issue of the
Selwyn Cantos
had come out. It had made Luke froth at the mouth. Really. He’d been reading it over lunch, and he’d just taken a big gulp of milk when he hit the unsigned review of
For Art’s Sake
. He’d spurted bubbles of rage.
Once he’d controlled the milk situation, Luke read key phrases aloud. “ ‘
For Art’s Sake
is well made and gripping, with the allure of teenage stars devoted to making it in the most unmakeable professions of all.’ ” His face was becoming more dangerous with every sentence. “ ‘Heartthrob Miki Reagler steals the show with his adorable tap-dance routine—’ ”
“Heartthrob?” I said. I was clutching my fork like a spear.
“Here’s something for you, Ethan. ‘Foxy ballerina Maura Heldsman grabs attention with her
pas de deux
both on and off the stage.’ ”
“Foxy?” I sputtered.
“ ‘She’s a talented dancer who’s also talented at flashing her sass—’ ”
“Wait,” said Elizabeth. “Her
sass
, or her—”
“Because she doesn’t really have an—” added Jackson.
“Keep
“Look at the figure and find a new form,” Dr. Fern said in her calm, meditative way. “Find another shape to draw. Not a torso, not a leg. Something outside your symbol set.” Her voice was like a yoga teacher’s. Art class was one of my favorite times of day. I’m no Bronzino, but I like drawing. The times you don’t have to think are when you get in your best thinking.
It had been a crazy week. As soon as I bought into Luke’s idea that kTV was ruining the school, I found evidence everywhere. Like, when I eavesdropped on my classmates’ conversations? They were all about
For Art’s Sake
. You used to overhear people debating the merits of
Aida
versus
Rigoletto
. Or you’d walk down the hall and hear, “Dude, I
know
, Prokofiev is the
shit
.” But now? The subject of every conversation was reality TV.
Dr. Fern gave me a chuck on the back of my neck and I snapped back to attention.
“Pull his knee back,” she said, fussing with Herbert. “You need to forget this is a body. Focus only on the angle between back and leg.”
I started to sketch again. I was grateful to have an art teacher who actually taught, unlike, say, Ms. Gage, whowafted around the classroom with her long gray hair held up by two paintbrushes, exhorting us to
feel
the lines, to
breathe
the shading. I still wasn’t good, but I’d gotten better in Dr. Fern’s class.
Part of that was because I drew during every Morning Practice these days, unless I had to cram for a private trumpet lesson. Not that there’d been much Morning Practice lately. It was supposed to be inviolate, ninety minutes of artistic freedom. Yet kTV would need background footage, so they’d barge into the studio just as you had hit that fugue state of cross-hatching, and Trisha Meier would be cussing out her cameramen, never dropping the toothy grin. Or they’d need audience shots, so we’d all be herded into the theater and have to watch Miki Frigging Reagler do a soft-shoe number six times, cheering and laughing on demand.
“They’re ruining the school,” I murmured to Herbert.
He looked balefully back at me.
“Luke’s right. Wait till I tell you about the
Selwyn Cantos—
”
Dr. Fern was walking toward me. “Ethan, I have a question. How are you going to get into a good art college if you can’t focus for an hour-long class?”
Dr. Fern, I have an answer. I’m not going to get into a good art college.
“Back leg needs to come out even farther. Now, sketch
quickly
. This is an exercise, not a masterpiece.”
Dr. Fern has always been kind enough to pretend I’m good at art. (Either that or she’s the most sarcastic person on the face of the earth.) I think Herbert knew the truth. Every timeDr. Fern corrected his posture, I felt more kinship with him. He was like me, the hapless clunk amidst the graced.
What I’d been about to tell Herbert was that last Friday, an issue of the
Selwyn Cantos
had come out. It had made Luke froth at the mouth. Really. He’d been reading it over lunch, and he’d just taken a big gulp of milk when he hit the unsigned review of
For Art’s Sake
. He’d spurted bubbles of rage.
Once he’d controlled the milk situation, Luke read key phrases aloud. “ ‘
For Art’s Sake
is well made and gripping, with the allure of teenage stars devoted to making it in the most unmakeable professions of all.’ ” His face was becoming more dangerous with every sentence. “ ‘Heartthrob Miki Reagler steals the show with his adorable tap-dance routine—’ ”
“Heartthrob?” I said. I was clutching my fork like a spear.
“Here’s something for you, Ethan. ‘Foxy ballerina Maura Heldsman grabs attention with her
pas de deux
both on and off the stage.’ ”
“Foxy?” I sputtered.
“ ‘She’s a talented dancer who’s also talented at flashing her sass—’ ”
“Wait,” said Elizabeth. “Her
sass
, or her—”
“Because she doesn’t really have an—” added Jackson.
“Keep
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