an impoverished educational budget.” He took a sip from his Botticelli coffee mug and told Carl Yolanta to turn out the lights. Carl grinned at me and put his hands together like he was praying.
I bolted up.
I’d forgotten about
the test
!
Mr. Zeid had warned us about it last week—“all encompassing” was how he’d described it—the educational euphemism for a Real Beast. I hadn’t cracked a book because of Jonathan. My grade average would plummet.
Mr. Zeid passed out the test to quiet groans and wails. “Part one,” he announced. “In twenty-five words or less, tell me the artist, what you think he was trying to say, and the greatest strength of the painting.”
He kicked the slide projector from hell and the screen exploded with a Raphael fresco of four cupids circling a nymph, arrows drawn, ready to nail her into oblivion. I knew this one cold. I wrote that sometimes true love needs assistance and that the painting’s strength was in numbers, specifically, the multiple ambushing cupids, providing critical backup in case the lead one missed. I moved to the question sheets and was hurled into space: “What was the precept of art according to Pope Gregory the Great?”
My mind grew fuzzy. I knew Gregory the Great was sometime after Constantine, which told me very little about this guy’s artistic urges. Being a pope he probably had a hidden motive. Suddenly, I
saw
the answer from my art history textbook on page 118. I wrote with freedom: “Pope Gregory the Great believed that artistic images are useful for teaching laymen the holy word.”
Ha!
I turned to the next question like a lion tamer facing a gerbil. “Rubens’s ‘Head of a Child’ is probably the artist’s: (a) oldest daughter (b) granddaughter (c) niece (d) youngest daughter.” Normally I would have stabbed at something, but once again, the fantastic happened. My mind buzzed with the answer on page 415. I filled in “a” for oldest daughter and laughed.
“
Ms. McCreary.
” It was Mr. Zeid. “Let’s keep our chortling to ourselves, hmmmm?”
Right.
I sped through the test like it was a giant water-slide, keeping my chortling to myself. I’d never considered myself a candidate for a phenomenal memory, since I tend to blank on basics like where I put my car keys. I must have been studying subliminally all these months, and if I ever figured out how it worked I wasn’t telling anyone.
I filled in the last box on the last page—“(c) from a tomb in Thebes, around 1400 B.C. ”—and sat back in exultation.
Chortle. Chortle.
Jonathan fluttered down from somewhere and sat on my desk. “You’re welcome,” he said.
Of course.
I smiled gratefully.
“I’ve been watching that Terris fellow,” he said. “It could go either way.”
My soul sank.
“His heart is hard,” Jonathan explained. “That is one of the side effects you weren’t interested in learning about yesterday. A hard heart is never promising, because it signals something deep and foreboding at the individual’s root. I would not suggest going farther until we see the effect of—”
“
Please
,” I whispered, “go back and
do
something!”
Mr. Zeid caught that. “
Ms. McCreary
, would you care to share your enigmatic thoughts with the entire class?”
Never bring a cupid to school if you know what’s good for you. I shook my head as Jonathan flitted.
Mr. Zeid pressed his Doomsday buzzer; the test was over. Glum students passed their papers forward and buried their heads in their hands.
“I advise against any action right now,” Jonathan announced, and buzzed off.
Art History had ended. I told Mr. Zeid this was the finest test I’d ever had the privilege of taking. He sat down hard. I joined the teeming mass of Ben Franklin students thundering to sixth-period classes like lemmings bound for the sea. Peter Terris and Julia Hart were walking arm in arm in matching blue sweaters, oblivious to their surroundings. I approached them.
“Hi,
I bolted up.
I’d forgotten about
the test
!
Mr. Zeid had warned us about it last week—“all encompassing” was how he’d described it—the educational euphemism for a Real Beast. I hadn’t cracked a book because of Jonathan. My grade average would plummet.
Mr. Zeid passed out the test to quiet groans and wails. “Part one,” he announced. “In twenty-five words or less, tell me the artist, what you think he was trying to say, and the greatest strength of the painting.”
He kicked the slide projector from hell and the screen exploded with a Raphael fresco of four cupids circling a nymph, arrows drawn, ready to nail her into oblivion. I knew this one cold. I wrote that sometimes true love needs assistance and that the painting’s strength was in numbers, specifically, the multiple ambushing cupids, providing critical backup in case the lead one missed. I moved to the question sheets and was hurled into space: “What was the precept of art according to Pope Gregory the Great?”
My mind grew fuzzy. I knew Gregory the Great was sometime after Constantine, which told me very little about this guy’s artistic urges. Being a pope he probably had a hidden motive. Suddenly, I
saw
the answer from my art history textbook on page 118. I wrote with freedom: “Pope Gregory the Great believed that artistic images are useful for teaching laymen the holy word.”
Ha!
I turned to the next question like a lion tamer facing a gerbil. “Rubens’s ‘Head of a Child’ is probably the artist’s: (a) oldest daughter (b) granddaughter (c) niece (d) youngest daughter.” Normally I would have stabbed at something, but once again, the fantastic happened. My mind buzzed with the answer on page 415. I filled in “a” for oldest daughter and laughed.
“
Ms. McCreary.
” It was Mr. Zeid. “Let’s keep our chortling to ourselves, hmmmm?”
Right.
I sped through the test like it was a giant water-slide, keeping my chortling to myself. I’d never considered myself a candidate for a phenomenal memory, since I tend to blank on basics like where I put my car keys. I must have been studying subliminally all these months, and if I ever figured out how it worked I wasn’t telling anyone.
I filled in the last box on the last page—“(c) from a tomb in Thebes, around 1400 B.C. ”—and sat back in exultation.
Chortle. Chortle.
Jonathan fluttered down from somewhere and sat on my desk. “You’re welcome,” he said.
Of course.
I smiled gratefully.
“I’ve been watching that Terris fellow,” he said. “It could go either way.”
My soul sank.
“His heart is hard,” Jonathan explained. “That is one of the side effects you weren’t interested in learning about yesterday. A hard heart is never promising, because it signals something deep and foreboding at the individual’s root. I would not suggest going farther until we see the effect of—”
“
Please
,” I whispered, “go back and
do
something!”
Mr. Zeid caught that. “
Ms. McCreary
, would you care to share your enigmatic thoughts with the entire class?”
Never bring a cupid to school if you know what’s good for you. I shook my head as Jonathan flitted.
Mr. Zeid pressed his Doomsday buzzer; the test was over. Glum students passed their papers forward and buried their heads in their hands.
“I advise against any action right now,” Jonathan announced, and buzzed off.
Art History had ended. I told Mr. Zeid this was the finest test I’d ever had the privilege of taking. He sat down hard. I joined the teeming mass of Ben Franklin students thundering to sixth-period classes like lemmings bound for the sea. Peter Terris and Julia Hart were walking arm in arm in matching blue sweaters, oblivious to their surroundings. I approached them.
“Hi,
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