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and gently sets down an enormous book. "Picasso." He whispers like a priest. "Picasso. Who saw the truth. Who painted the truth, molded it, ripped from the earth with two angry hands." He pauses. "But I'm getting carried away." I nod. "See Picasso," he commands. "I can't do everything for you. You must walk alone to find your soul." Blah, blah, yeah. Looking at pictures would be better than watching snow drift. I open the book. Picasso sure had a thing for naked women. Why not draw them with their clothes on? Who sits around without a shirt 775 on, plucking a mandolin? Why not draw naked guys, just to be fair? Naked women is art, naked guys a no-no, I bet. Prob- ably because most painters are men. I don't like the first chapters. Besides all the naked women, he painted these blue pictures, like he ran out of red and green for a few weeks. He painted circus people and some dancers who look like they are standing in smog. He should have made them cough. The next chapter steals my breath away. It takes me out of the room. It confuses me, while one little part of my brain jumps up and down screaming, "I get it! I get it!" Cubism. Seeing beyond what is on the surface. Moving both eyes and a nose to the side of the face. Dicing bodies and tables and guitars as if they were celery sticks, and rearranging them so that you have to really see them to see them. Amazing. What did the world look like to him? I wish he had gone to high school at Merry weather. I bet we could have hung out. I search the whole book and never see one picture of a tree. Maybe Picasso couldn't do trees either. Why did I get stuck with such a lame idea? I sketch a Cubist tree with hundreds of skinny rectangles for branches. They look like lockers, boxes, glass shards, lips with tri- angle brown leaves. I drop the sketch on Mr. Freeman's desk. "Now you're getting somewhere," he says. He gives me a thumbs-up. 779 RIDING SHOTGUN I am a good girl. I go to every single class for a week. It feels good to know what the teachers are talking about again. My parents get the news flash from the guidance counselor. They aren't sure how to react — happy because I'm behaving, or an- grier still that they have to be happy about such a minor thing as a kid who goes to class every day. The guidance counselor convinces them I need a reward — a chew toy or something. They settle on new clothes. I'm out- growing everything I own. But shopping with my mother? Just shoot me and put me out of my misery. Anything but a shopping trip with Mom. She hates shopping with me. At the mall she stalks ahead, chin high, eyelids twitching because I won't try on the practical, "stylish" clothes she likes. Mother is the rock, I am the ocean. I have to pout and roll my eyes for hours until she finally wears down and crumbles into a thousand grains of beach sand. It takes a lot of energy. I don't think I have it in me. Apparently, Mom isn't up to the drag 'n' whine mall gig ei- ther. When they announce I've earned new clothes, they add that I have to get them at Effert's, so Mom can use her dis- count. I'm supposed to take the bus after school and meet her at the store. In a way, I'm glad. Get in, buy, get out, like rip- ping off a Band-Aid. 120 It seems like a good idea until I'm standing at the bus stop in front of school as a blizzard rips through the county. The wind chill must be twenty below and I don't have a hat or mittens. I try keeping my back to the wind, but my rear end freezes. Facing it is impossible. The snow blows up under my eyelids and fills my ears. That's why I don't hear the car pull up next to me. When the horn blows, I nearly jump out of my skin. It's Mr. Freeman. "Need a ride?" Mr. Freeman's car shocks me. It is a blue Volvo, a safe Swedish box. I had him figured for an old VW bus. It is clean. I had vi- sions of art supplies, posters and rotting fruit everywhere. When I get in, classical music plays quietly. Will wonders never cease. He says dropping me off in the city is only a little out of his way. He'd love to meet my mother. My eyes widen in fear. "Maybe not," he says. I brush the melting snow from my head and hold my hands in front of the heating vent. He turns the fan up full-blast. As I thaw, I count the mileage markers on the side of the road, keeping an eye out for interesting roadkill. We get a lot of dead deer in the suburbs. Sometimes poor people take the venison for their winter's meat, but most of the time the car- casses rot until their skin hangs like ribbons over their bones. We head west to the big city. "You did a good job with that Cubist sketch," he says. I don't know what to say. We pass a dead dog. It doesn't have a col- lar. "I'm seeing a lot of growth in your work. You are learning more than you know." 121 Me: "I don't know anything. My trees suck." Mr. Freeman puts on his turn signal, looks in the rearview mirror, pulls into the left lane, and passes a beer truck. "Don't be so hard on yourself. Art is about making mistakes and learning from them." He pulls back into the right lane. I watch the beer truck fade into the snowstorm in the side mirror. Part of me thinks maybe he is driving a bit too fast, what with all the snow, but the car is heavy and doesn't slip. The snow that had caked on my socks melts into my sneakers. Me: "All right, but you said we had to put emotion into our art. I don't know what that means. I don't know what I'm supposed to feel." My fingers fly up and cover my mouth. What am I doing? Mr. Freeman: "Art without emotion is like chocolate cake without sugar. It makes you gag." He sticks his finger down his throat. "The next time you work on your trees, don't think about trees. Think about love, or hate, or joy, or rage — whatever makes you feel something, makes your palms sweat or your toes curl. Focus on that feeling. When people don't express themselves, they die one piece at a time. You'd be shocked at how many adults are really dead inside — walking through their days with no idea who they are, just waiting for a heart attack or cancer or a Mack truck to come along and finish the job. It's the saddest thing I know." He pulls off the exit and stops at the light at the bottom of the ramp. Something small and furry and dead is crumpled by the 122 storm sewer. I chew off a scab on my thumb. The Effert's sign blinks in the middle of the block. "Over there," I say. "You can drop me off in front." We sit for a moment, the snow hid- ing the other side of the street, a cello solo thrumming from the speakers. "Um, thanks," I say. "Don't mention it," he an- swers. "If you ever need to talk, you know where to find me." I unbuckle the seat belt and open the door. "Melinda," Mr. Freeman says. Snow filters into the car and melts on the dashboard. "You're a good kid. I think you have a lot to say. I'd like to hear it." I close the door. HALL OF MIRRORS I stop by the manager's office, and the secretary says my mother is on the phone. lust as well. It will be easier to find a pair of jeans without her around. I head for the "Young Ladies" section of the store. (Another reason they don't make any money. Who wants to be called a young lady?) I need a size ten, as much as it kills me to admit that. Every- thing I own is an eight or a small. I look at my canoe feet and my wet, obnoxious anklebones. Aren't girls supposed to stop growing at this age? When I was in sixth grade, my mom bought me all these books about puberty and adolescence, so I would appreciate 123 what a "beautiful" and "natural" and "miraculous" transfor- mation I was going through. Crap. That's what it is. She com- plains all the time about her hair turning gray and her butt sagging and her skin wrinkling, but I'm supposed to be grate- ful for a face full of zits, hair in embarrassing places, and feet that grow an inch a night. Utter crap. No matter what I try on, I know I'll hate it. Effert's has cornered the market on completely unfashionable clothes. Clothes that grandmas buy for your birthday. It's a fashion graveyard. Just get a pair that fits, I tell myself. One pair — that's the goal. I look around. No Mom. I carry three pairs of the least offensive jeans into the dressing room. I am the only person trying anything on. The first pair is way too small — I can't even get them over my butt. I don't bother with the sec- ond pair; they are a smaller size. The third pair is huge. Ex- actly what I'm looking for. I scurry out to the three-way mirror. With an extra-large sweatshirt over the top, you can hardly tell that they are Ef- fert's jeans. Still no Mom. I adjust the mirror so I can see re- flections of reflections, miles and miles of me and my new jeans. I hook my hair behind my ears. I should have washed it. My face is dirty. I lean into the mirror. Eyes after eyes after eyes stare back at me. Am I in there somewhere? A thousand eyes blink. No makeup. Dark circles. I pull the side flaps of the mirror in closer, folding myself into the looking glass and blocking out the rest of the store. My face becomes a Picasso sketch, my body slicing into dis- secting cubes. I saw a movie once where a woman was burned 124 over eighty percent of her body and they had to wash all the dead skin off. They wrapped her in bandages, kept her drugged, and waited for skin grafts. They actually sewed her into a new skin. I push my ragged mouth against the mirror. A thousand bleed- ing, crusted lips push back. What does it feel like to walk in a new skin? Was she completely sensitive like a baby, or numb, without nerve endings, just walking in a skin bag? I exhale and my mouth disappears in a fog. I feel like my skin has been burned off. I stumble from thornbush to thornbush — my mother and father who hate each other, Rachel who hates me, a school that gags on me like I'm a hairball. And Heather. I just need to hang on long enough for my new skin to graft. Mr. Freeman thinks I need to find my feelings. How can I not find them? They are chewing me alive like an infestation of thoughts, shame, mistakes. I squeeze my eyes shut. Jeans that fit, that's a good start. I have to stay away from the closet, go to all my classes. I will make myself normal. Forget the rest of it. GERMINATION We've finished the plant unit in biology. Ms. Keen drops ten- pound hints that the test will focus on seeds. I study. How seeds get planted: This is actually cool. Some plants spit their seeds into the wind. Others make seeds yummy enough 125 drink cranberry-apricot juice. Too bad I can't buy stock in the juice company — I am watching a trend in the making. Are they talking about me? They're certainly laughing enough. I chomp my sandwich and it barfs mustard on my shirt. Maybe they're planning the next Project. They could mail snowballs to the weather-deprived children in Texas. They could knit goat-hair blankets for shorn sheep. I imagine what Heather might look like in ten years, after two children and seventy pounds. It helps a little. Rachel/Rachelle takes a seat at the end of my table with Hana, the exchange student from Egypt. Rachel/Rachelle is now ex- perimenting with Islam. She wears a scarf on her head and some brown-and-red gauzy harem pants. Her eyes are ringed with black eyeliner thick as crayon. I think I see her looking at me, but I'm probably wrong. Hana wears jeans and a Gap T-shirt. They eat hummus and pita and titter in French. There is a sprinkling of losers like me scattered among the happy teenagers, prunes in the oatmeal of school. The others have the social power to sit with other losers. I'm the only one sitting alone, under the glowing neon sign which reads, "Complete and Total Loser, Not Quite Sane. Stay Away. Do Not Feed." I go to the rest room to turn my shirt around so the mustard stain is hidden under my hair. 128 SNOW DAY- SCHOOL AS USUAL We had eight inches of snow last night. In any other part of the country, that would mean a snow day. Not in Syracuse. We never get snow days. It snows an inch in South Carolina, everything shuts down and they get on the six o'clock news. In our district, they plow early and often and put chains on the bus tires. Hairwoman tells us they canceled school for a whole week back in the seventies because of the energy crisis. It was wicked cold and would have cost too much to heat the school. She looks wistful. Wistful — one-point vocab word. She blows her nose loudly and pops another smelly green cough drop. The wind blasts a snowdrift against the window. Our teachers need a snow day. They look unusually pale. The men aren't shaving carefully and the women never remove their boots. They suffer some sort of teacherflu. Their noses drip, their throats gum up, their eyes are rimmed with red. They come to school long enough to infect the staff room, then go home sick when the sub shows up. Hairwoman: "Open your books, now. Who can tell me what snow symbolized to Hawthorne?" Class: "Groan." 129 Hawthorne wanted snow to symbolize cold, that's what I think. Cold and silence. Nothing quieter than snow. The sky screams to deliver it, a hundred banshees flying on the edge of the blizzard. But once the snow covers the ground, it hushes as still as my heart. STUPID STUPID I sneak into my closet after school because I can't face the idea of riding home on a busful of sweaty, smiling teeth sucking up my oxygen. I say hello to my poster of Maya and my Cubist tree. My turkey-bone scupture has fallen down again. I prop it up on the shelf next to the mirror. It slides back down and lies flat. I leave it there and curl up in my chair. The closet is warm and I'm ready for a nap. I've been having trouble sleeping at home. I wake up because the covers are on the floor or be- cause I'm standing at the kitchen door, trying to get out. It feels safer in my little hideaway. I doze off. I wake to the sound of girls screaming, "Be Aggressive, BE-BE Aggressive! B-E A-G-G-R-E-S-S-I-V-E!" For a minute there, I think that I've tripped into the land of the truly insane, but then a crowd roars. It is a basketball game, last game of the season. I check my watch — 8:45. I've been asleep for hours. I grab my backpack and fly down the hall. The noise of the gym pulls me in. I stand by the door for the last minute of the game. The crowd chants down the last sec- 130 onds like it's New Year's Eve, then explode from the stands like angry hornets at the sound of the buzzer. We won, beating the Coatesville Cougars 5 1-50. The cheerleaders weep. The coaches embrace. I get caught up in the excitement and clap like a little girl. This is my mistake, thinking I belong. I should have bolted for home immediately. But I don't. I hang around. I want to be a part of it all. David Petrakis pushes toward the doors in the middle of a group of friends. He sees me looking at him and detaches him- self from his pod. David: "Melinda! Where were you sitting? Did you see that last shot? Unbelievable!! Unbefreakinglievable." He drib- bles an imaginary ball on the ground, fakes left,
right, then pulls up for a shot. David should stick to human-rights abuses. He goes on and on, a loose ball racing downhill. To hear him talk, you'd think they just won the NBA champi- onship. Then he invites me back to his house for celebratory pizza. David: "Come on, Mel. You gotta come with us! My dad told me to bring anyone I wanted. We can give you a ride home after if you want. It'll be fun. You do remember fun, don't you?" Nope. I don't do parties. No thanks. I trot out excuses: home- work, strict parents, tuba practice, late-night dentist appoint- ment, have to feed the warthogs. I don't have a good track record with parties. 131 David doesn't bother to analyze my reluctance. If he were a girl, maybe he would have pleaded or whined more. Guys don't do that. Yes/no. Stay/go. Suit yourself. See you Monday. I think it's some kind of psychiatric disorder when you have more than one personality in your head. That's what it feels like when I walk home. The two Melindas fight every step of the way. Melinda One is pissed that she couldn't go to the party. Melinda One: "Get a life. It was just pizza. He wasn't going to try anything. His parents were going to be there! You worry too much. You're never going to let us have any fun, are you? You're going to turn into one of those weird old ladies who has a hundred cats and calls the cops when kids cut across her back yard. I can't stand you." Melinda Two waits for One to finish her tantrum. Two care- fully watches the bushes along the sidewalk for a lurking bo- geyman or worse. Melinda Two: "The world is a dangerous place. You don't know what would have happened. What if he was just saying his parents were going to be there? He could have been lying. You can never tell when people are lying. Assume the worst. Plan for disaster. Now hurry up and get us home. I don't like it out here. It's too dark." If I kick both of them out of my head, who would be left? 132 A NIGHT TO REMEMBER I can't sleep after the game. Again. I spend a couple hours tun- ing AM radio to the weird bounces of night. I listen to jabber- jabber from Quebec, a farm report from Minnesota, and a country station in Nashville. I crawl out my window onto the porch roof and wrap myself in all my blankets. A fat white seed sleeps in the sky. Slush is frozen over. People say that winter lasts forever, but it's because they obsess over the thermometer. North in the mountains, the maple syrup is trickling. Brave geese punch through the thin ice left on the lake. Underground, pale seeds roll over in their sleep. Starting to get restless. Starting to dream green. The moon looked closer back in August. Rachel got us to the end-of-summer party, a cheerleader party, with beer and seniors and music. She blackmailed her brother, Jimmy, to drive us. We were all sleeping over at Rachel's house. Her mother thought Jimmy was taking us roller- skating. It was at a farm a couple of miles from our development. The kegs were in the barn where the speakers were set up. Most people hung at the edge of the lights. They looked like models 133 in a blue-jeans ad, thinthinthin, big lips, big earrings, white smiles. I felt like such a little kid. Rachel found a way to fit in, of course. She knew a lot of peo- ple because of Jimmy. I tasted a beer. It was worse than cough medicine. I gulped it down. Another beer and one more, then I worried I would throw up. I walked out of the crowd, to- ward the woods. The moon shone on the leaves. I could see the lights, like stars strung in the pines. Somebody giggled, hidden beyond the dark, quiet boygirl whispers. I couldn't see them. A step behind me. A senior. And then he was talking to me, flirting with me. This gorgeous cover-model guy. His hair was way better than mine, his every inch a tanned muscle, and he had straight white teeth. Flirting with me! Where was Rachel — she had to see this! Greek God: "Where did you come from? You're too beautiful to hide in the dark. Come dance with me." He took my hand and pulled me close to him. I breathed in cologne and beer and something I couldn't identify. I fit in against his body perfectly, my head level with his shoulder. I was a little dizzy — I laid my cheek on his chest. He wrapped one arm around my back. His other hand slid down to my butt. I thought that was a little rude, but my tongue was thick with beer and I couldn't figure out how to tell him to slow down. The music was sweet. This was what high school was supposed to feel like. Where was Rachel? She had to see this! 134 He tilted my face up to his. He kissed me, man kiss, hard sweet and deep. Nearly knocked me off my feet, that kiss. And I thought for just a minute there that I had a boyfriend, I would start high school with a boyfriend, older and stronger and ready to watch out for me. He kissed me again. His teeth ground hard against my lips. It was hard to breathe. A cloud cloaked the moon. Shadows looked like photo nega- tives. "Do you want to?" he asked. What did he say? I didn't answer. I didn't know. I didn't speak. We were on the ground. When did that happen? "No." No I did not like this. I was on the ground and he was on top of me. My lips mumble something about leaving, about a friend who needs me, about my parents worrying. I can hear my- self — I'm mumbling like a deranged drunk. His lips lock on mine and I can't say anything. I twist my head away. He is so heavy. There is a boulder on me. I open my mouth to breathe, to scream, and his hand covers it. In my head, my voice is as clear as a bell: "NO I DON'T WANT TO!" But I can't spit it out. I'm trying to remember how we got on the ground and where the moon went and wham! shirt up, shorts down, and the ground smells wet and dark and NO! — I'm not really here, I'm definitely back at Rachel's, crimping my hair and gluing on fake nails, and he smells like beer and mean and he hurts me hurts me hurts me and gets up 135 and zips his jeans and smiles. The next thing I saw was the telephone. I stood in the middle of a drunken crowd and I called 911 because I needed help. All those visits from Officer Friendly in second grade paid off. A lady answered the phone, "Police, state your emergency," and I saw my face in the window over the kitchen sink and no words came out of my mouth. Who was that girl? I had never seen her before. Tears oozed down my face, over my bruised lips, pooling on the handset. "It's OK," said the nice lady on the phone. "We have your location. Officers are on the way. Are you hurt? Are you being threatened?" Someone grabbed the phone from my hands and listened. A scream — the cops were coming! Blue and cherry lights flashing in the kitchen- sink window. Rachel's face — so angry — in mine. Someone slapped me. I crawled out of the room through a forest of legs. Outside, the moon smiled goodbye and slipped away. I walked home to an empty house. Without a word. It isn't August. The moon is asleep and I'm sitting on my porch roof like a frozen gargoyle, wondering if the sun is go- ing to blow off the world today and sleep in. There is blood on the snow. I bit my lip clear through. It needs stitches. Mom will be late again. I hate winter. I've lived in Syracuse my whole life and I hate winter. It starts too early and ends too late. No one likes it. Why does anyone stay here? 136 MY REPORT CARD: Social Life F Social Studies F Spanish D Art A Lunch D Biology D+ Algebra F Clothes F English D+ Gym D 137 FOURTH MARKING PERIOD EXTERMINATORS The PTA has started a petition to get rid of the Hornet as our school mascot. It was the cheer that got to them. They heard it at the last basketball game. "WE ARE THE HORNETS, HORNY, HORNY HORNETS! EVERYWHERE WE GO-OH, PEOPLE WANT TO KNO-OOW, WHO WE ARE, SO WE TELL THEM . . . WE ARE THE HORNETS, HORNY, HORNY HORNETS! (and on and on and on) The wiggles and shakes that accompany the cheer freaked out the Merryweather PTA. Freaked out PTAs all over the city when the Horny Hornet cheer was televised. The TV sports guy thought the song was cute, so he did a segment show- ing the "Hornet Hustle," with the cheerleaders shaking their stingers, and the crowd bumping and grinding their horny Hornet heinies. The student council started a counterpetition. The Honor So- ciety wrote it. It describes the psychological harm we have all suffered from this year's lack of identity. It pleads for consis- tency, stability. It's pretty good: "We, the students of Merry- weather High, have become proud of our Hornet selves. We 141 are tenacious, stinging, clever. We are a hive, a community of students. Don't take away our Hornetdom. We are Hornets." It won't be a real issue until football starts up again. Our baseball team always stinks. THE WET SEASON Spring is on the way. The winter rats — rusty brown $700 cars that everyone with sense drives from November until April — are rolling back into storage. The snow is melting for good and the pretty-baby shiny cars glitter in the senior parking lot. There are other signs of spring. Front lawns cough up the shovels and mittens that were gobbled by snowdrifts in Janu- ary. My mother moved the winter coats up to the attic. Dad's been mumbling about the storm windows, but hasn't taken them down. From the bus I saw a farmer walking his field, waiting for the mud to tell him when to plant. April Fool's Day is when most seniors get their acceptance or rejection letters from college. Thumbs up or thumbs down. It's a sick piece of timing. Tensions are running high. Kids drink pink stomach medicine from the bottle. David Petrakis My Lab Partner is writing a database program to track who got in where. He wants to analyze which advanced-placement classes the seniors took, their standardized test scores, ex- tracurricular, and GPAs to figure out what he needs to do to get into Harvard. 142 I've been going to most of my classes. Good girl, Mellie. Roll over, Mellie. Sit, Mellie. No one has patted me on the head, though. I passed an algebra test, I passed an English test, I passed a biology test. Well, hallelujah. It is all so profoundly stupid. Maybe this is why kids join clubs — to give them some- thing to think about during class. Andy Beast joined the International Club. I hadn't figured him for a deep interest in Greek cooking or French museums. He has abandoned the Martha table and hangs around and onto Rachel/Rachelle and Greta-Ingrid and all the other resident aliens. Rachel/Rachelle flutters her purple eyelashes at him like he's some kind of Uberdude. You'd think she'd have more sense. Easter came and went without much notice. I think it caught my mother by surprise. She doesn't like Easter because the date keeps shifting and it's not a big shopping holiday. When I was a kid, Mom used to hide colored eggs for me all over the house. The last egg was inside a big basket of chocolate rab- bits and yellow marshmallow chicks. Before my grandparents died, they would take me to church and I would wear stiff dresses with itchy lace. This year we celebrated by eating lamb chops. I made hard-boiled eggs for lunch and drew little faces on them with a black pen. Dad complained about how much yard work has to be done. Mom didn't say much. I said less. In heaven, my grandparents frowned. I sort of wished we had gone to church. Some of the Easter songs are pretty. 143 SPRING BREAK It is the last day of Spring Break. My house is shrinking and I feel like Alice in Wonderland. Afraid that my head might burst through the roof, I head for the mall. I have ten bucks in my pocket — what to spend it on? French fries — ten dollars' worth of french fries, ultimate fantasy. If Alice in Wonderland were written today, I bet she'd have a supersized order of fries that said "Eat me," instead of a small cake. On the other hand, we're rushing toward summer, which means shorts and T-shirts and maybe even a bathing suit now and then. I walk past the deep-fat fryers. Now that spring is past, the fall fashions are in the store win- dows. I keep waiting for the year when the fashions catch up to the seasons. A couple of stores have performance artists hanging at the front door. One guy keeps flying a stupid loop- the-loop airplane; a plastic-faced woman keeps tying and re- tying a shawl. No, now it's a skirt. Now it's a halter top. Now it's a head scarf. People avoid looking at her, as if they aren't sure if they should applaud or tip her. I feel bad for her — I wonder what her grades were in high school. I want to give her a tip, only it would be rude to ask if she has change for a ten. I ride the escalator down to the central fountain, where to- day's entertainment is face-painting. The line is long and loud — six-year-olds and their mothers. A little girl walks past 144 me — she's a tiger. She's crying about ice cream and she wipes her tears. Her tiger paint smears and her mom yells at her. "What a zoo." I turn. Ivy is sitting on the edge of the fountain, a giant sketch- book balanced on her knees. She nods toward the line of whiners and the face painters furiously coloring stripes, spots, and whiskers. "I feel bad for them," I say. "What are you drawing?" Ivy moves so I can sit next to her and hands me the sketch- book. She's drawing the kids' faces. Half of each face is plain and sad, the other half is plastered with thick clown makeup that is fake-happy. She hasn't painted any tigers or leopards. "The last time I was here, they were doing clown faces. No such luck today," Ivy explains. "Looks good, though," I say. "It's kind of spooky. Not creepy, but unexpected." I hand back the sketchbook. Ivy pokes her pencil into her bun. "Good. That's what I'm trying for. That turkey-bone thing you did was creepy, too. Creepy in a good way, good creepy. It's been months and I'm still thinking about it." What am I supposed to say now? I bite my lip, then release it. I pull a roll of Life Savers from my pocket. "Want a piece?" She takes one, I take three, and we suck in silence for a moment. 145 "How's the tree coming?" she asks. I groan. "Stinks. It was a mistake to sign up for art. I just couldn't see myself taking wood shop." "You're better than you think you are," Ivy says. She opens to an empty page in the sketchbook. "I don't know why you keep using a linoleum block. If I were you, I'd just let it out, draw. Here — try a tree." We sit there trading pencils. I draw a trunk, Ivy adds a branch, I extend the branch, but it is too long and spindly. I start to erase it, but Ivy stops me. "It's fine the way it is, it just needs some leaves. Layer the leaves and make them slightly different sizes and it will look great. You have a great start there." She's right. GENETICS The last unit of the year in biology is genetics. It's impossible to listen to Ms. Keen. Her voice sounds like a cold engine that won't turn over. The lecture starts with some priest named Greg who studied vegetables, and ends up with an argument about blue eyes. I think I missed something — how did we leap