How to Be Brave(34)

“Now, you had an actual standards-driven assignment due today.” He drops his voice to a whisper. “But please, don’t tell anyone about this. It’ll destroy my reputation.”

Ah, that old Marquez. He’s a laugh a minute.

I shuffle through my backpack to dig out my paper. We were assigned a one-page proposal previewing our chosen artist and our motivation for choosing him or her for our midyear project. Today, we’re meeting with Marquez individually to get approval. I’ve titled my project “Parallel Uplifts: An Exploration of Lee Mullican, California Painter.” I printed out copies of a few of his paintings, in case Marquez isn’t familiar. I don’t expect that he is. My mom always talked about how he was one of the most underrated painters of the twentieth century. She thought it was a crime that no one, except for the art historians on the West Coast, had heard of him.

“You will all work on your sketches or paintings—or whatever you want, really, your math homework, your dating schedule, your nails—while I meet with you individually.”

Marquez calls people up one by one. He starts with Eddie Yang. Because our names both start with A, Daniel and I are going to be last up. Marquez’s sole purpose in life is to do things opposite of their normal order, even the alphabet.

My sketchbook is pretty full, so I spend half the class drawing in whatever empty spaces I can find and half the time working on my chemistry homework, which is like trying to learn Mandarin. I’ve never been so close to failing a class before, but chemistry seems to be my Achilles’ heel. Oxidation numbers and covalent bonds and complex ions. And crazy Zittel yelling at us if we walk behind his desk (“Do not invade my van der Waals space!”). When will I ever have to use this shit in my life?

I bet Daniel is good at chemistry. He’ll have to use it. I glance over at him. He’s busily painting at his desk (he creates these sorts of geometric mountain landscapes, and he’s pretty good at them). I should just go over there and ask him for help.

And I’m about to, but Marquez yells out, “Mr. Antell, come on up! You’re the next contestant on The Price Is Right!”

That’s weird. I should be next. Working from the bottom up, Askeridis should be before Antell. I wonder why Marquez skipped me.

Daniel sets down his paintbrush, picks up his paper, and heads to the front of the classroom. I overhear them talking about Paul Cézanne, Daniel’s chosen artist. I should have guessed from his stuff that he would choose a post-impressionist. Makes sense.

They’re chatting and laughing and getting all chummy-chummy. I look at the clock. Only three minutes left until the bell. I guess I won’t have time to meet with Marquez today. Sucks. I was actually looking forward to hearing his opinion.

Daniel gets the thumbs-up from Marquez and goes back to his seat.

The bell rings. Marquez turns his head toward me, winks, and points his index finger, like he’s looking down the barrel of a gun. “I have not forgotten about you, Miss Askeridis. I’d like you to stay for a few minutes, if you can.”

My heart drops. Shit. Am I in trouble? I’ve been trying not to miss his class. Why does he want to talk to me?

Everyone packs up around me and disperses out the door. I take my stuff over by Marquez’s desk and sit down. As Daniel passes by me, he presses my shoulder again (siiigh) and whispers, “Good luck!”

“Thanks,” I say. Dear Lord, I think I need it. I’m about to get busted for all the cutting.

Then Daniel adds, “Don’t forget about Saturday!”

Yes! Zero to eighty in 8.2 seconds. How is it humanly possible to be simultaneously terrified of the imminent consequences about to be imparted by an angry teacher and elated to the point of dizziness?

“I’m tying a ribbon around my finger so as not to forget,” I muster like a total dork. A ribbon? Around my finger? Liss is right. I am eighty.

“Great,” he says as he follows the last few students filing out the door.

Holy hell. I’m a wreck. I’m shaking with dread and excitement and nervousness.

I place my paper on Marquez’s desk, but he doesn’t sit down. Instead, he picks up his keys and says, “I’d like to walk with you for a few minutes, if we can, Georgia.”

“Um, okay.”

“I want to talk to you in private, but we’re not allowed to meet with students alone in our classrooms—lawsuits and such, you know.”

“Oh, right.”

“I thought we could go out to a bench and talk about your art.”

My art? What art? My feeble attempts at creative expression? And he doesn’t want to talk about my delinquency?

“Sure.” I shrug. It’s like forty degrees out, but what do I know? I pick up my paper, zip up my coat, and put on my hood.

He locks up, and we head outside.

It’s only been a few minutes since the last bell of the day, but already the campus has emptied out. The winter cold makes people disappear.

We sit on a bench right outside the front door.

“Show me what you got.” Up close, I can see that Marquez is older than I ever realized before. He smells old, too—not a bad old, just like aftershave and oranges. He kind of smells like my dad.

I hand him my paper. “Lee Mullican,” I say.

“Yeah? Of the Dynaton movement?” Whoa, he knows exactly who he is. My mom would have loved Mr. Marquez. “Well, that’s obscure. Why, may I ask?”