A Different Blue(61)

subservience. Her body formed an arc, her arms stretching beyond a head which nearly kissed the

ground into hands that curled into fists clenched in supplication. As with all my pieces, it was

completely abstract, the suggestion of the woman merely that, a hint, a possibility. Some might

simply see the highly-glossed wood, shaped into long lines and provocative hollows. But as I had

carved, all I could see was Joan. All I could hear were her words. “To live without belief is a

fate worse than death.” My Joan of Arc. And that was the one Wilson had purchased.





About a week later I walked into Wilson's classroom and stopped so suddenly the people walking

behind me collided like human dominos, creating a little traffic jam in the doorway. I was

jostled and complained about as my disgruntled classmates made their way around my inert form.

My sculpture was sitting on a table in the center of the room. Wilson stood by his desk, talking

with a student. I stared, willing him to look up, to explain what his game was. But he didn't.

I made my way slowly to my desk, front and center, putting me directly in front of the sculpture

I had created with my own hands. I didn't have to look at the long lines or gleaming wood to

know where I had patched a worm hole or cut more deeply than I had planned. I could close my

eyes and remember how it had felt to form the suggestion of womanly curves bowed like Atlas with

France on her back.

“Blue?” Wilson called from where he still stood by his desk. I turned my head slowly and

looked at him. I didn't think the expression on my face was especially friendly. He didn't react

to my glare but calmly asked me to “come here, please.”

I approached carefully and stopped in front of his desk, my arms folded.

“I want you to tell the class about your sculpture.”

“Why?”

“Because it's brilliant.”

“So?” I ignored the pleasure that flooded my chest at his pronouncement.

[page]“You named it ‘The Arc.’ Why?”

“I was hungry . . . thinking about McDonalds, you know?”

“Hmm. I see. As in the golden arches.” A small smile twitched at the corners of Wilson's

mouth. “You haven't written more than a paragraph in your personal history. Maybe there are

other ways to share who you are. I thought maybe this piece was about Joan of Arc, which would

make it especially relevant. Consider it extra credit . . . which frankly, you need.”

I considered retorting with the famous line, 'Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn.' But that

wasn't true. I did. In a very small corner of my heart, the thought of talking about my

sculpture filled me with elation. But the rest of my heart was terrified.

“What do you want me to say?” I whispered, the panic oozing out and ruining my tough girl

posture.

Wilson's eyes softened, and he leaned toward me across the desk. “How about I just ask you some

questions and you answer them. I'll interview you. Then you won't have to think of things to

say.”

“You won't ask me anything personal . . . about my name or my dad . . . or anything like that,

will you?”

“No, Blue. I won't. The questions will be about the sculpture. About your uncanny gift.

Because, Blue, your work is brilliant. Tiffa and I were blown away. She can't stop talking about