Parting Gifts

Reviewing my answers one last time, I set my pencil down and stretched. Exams were finally over. I glanced at the clock.

The school year was almost over as well.

I didn't want to get upset over it, though I knew I would. I was in tears when I left Mr. Ungaro's room, for God's sake. But now, with the time left of sixth period ticking away, I was finding it hard to contain myself.

Getting up from my chair, I walked about the art room, soaking it in. The peach walls were completely covered in artwork, tips, and mini-biographies of various artists. I passed the bookshelves and the rows upon rows of student boxes, filled to the brim with paintings and sketches. I passed pottery wheels and sinks, and took a last wistful look at the supplies before finding myself in front of Mr. Pribble's desk.

He stared at me.

I stared back.

“What do you need?” he asked.

I blinked and everything came back. Kids were running back and forth and the noise was excruciating on the ears. I'd been so lost in my thoughts that I'd failed to notice it all. “Um, nothing. Just... spacing out. Are we getting our comics back today?”

“Oh, yeah. They're over here...”

He walked to a large pile of comic strips and pulled out mine. It wasn't hard to find; it had been paper-clipped together, the papers including character designs, clothing designs and evaluations, an introduction, a glossary of all the Japanese terms I'd used (not because I'm an otaku, damnit — it was to keep the feeling of the setting), a detailed cover, and the actual comic. I was quite proud of my extra effort. I took the bundle from him with my thanks.

“It was very good,” he remarked. “I wish I could've seen the rest of it.” Yes, my comic was only a page of the entire first volume of my series. Sue me.

“Yeah,” I replied, “the other parts need a bit more refining.”

“Try to finish it over the summer, maybe. I want to see it when it's done,” he suggested.

I nodded. “Okay.”

I began to walk away when he added, “By the way, I found this in a student's box earlier. I suppose they didn't want it — it's completely empty. I think you could use it.” I turned around and he held out a sketchbook to me. I stared for a moment, a bit thrown off — honestly, what do teachers ever give you besides horrid report cards? — but squealed with delight the moment I figured out what was going on.

“Thank you very much!” I said in an unusually gleeful voice (really, I was overreacting). I bowed and took the sacred item from him, returning to my seat with a thousand ideas on what to do with it.