The Portrait

Her mornings were mechanical. The high, weedy alarm triggered a chemical reaction in her brain, jarring her body into motion. Her consciousness stepped back and let her body take over as her legs jerked to the bathroom. Left, right, over her backpack. Third door on the left. Wash face, scrubbing out sleep and tumbling scraps of dream. Her conscience was the first to awake. It nagged her guiltily until her mind’s eye fluttered open and blinked at her reflection. Scalloped eyes stared blearily back from under a tangle of hair small creatures would mistake for a pile of hay. It’s a bird hazard, she thought, half asleep, like the rings on coke cans. She stumbled downstairs. John had woken up before her, and in his daily teenage hormone surge downed the last of the milk. Again. My parents should invest in a cow.

And at six fifty-nine am she raced the bus to the end of her driveway, umbrella turning inside out like the skeleton of a buttercup. It sighed before her, and struggling with her umbrella, she managed to get through the door collapse into a seat. From a canopied trail a car poked its nose into the street. A slender boy stepped out and tossed stiff blonde hair, backpack slung over a shoulder. The car slithered back like an eel into its hole. Her neighbor Shaun, taut and lithe, slid into a seat behind her. She sighed. A guy that graceful shouldn’t be allowed, she thought, staring at her square hands. She leaned back and let the motion of the bus rock her. It may have sounded like she was in a tin can under a faucet, but the rain was comforting while she was in the warm cocoon of the bus. Her mind longingly crawled toward slumber, but the bus had other ideas. It wheezed to a stop, propelling her gently into the seat ahead. She groaned.
“Hey, Sophie, what are you doing out in the daylight? Aren’t you gonna melt?”
“Shut up, Shaun.”
“When did you get to bed?”
“Nine.”
“Whoa, so we’re not a night person, either,” he patronized. “Maybe we’re just not a person.”
Suddenly very much awake, she grabbed her pack and headed off the bus.
“We are not anything, Shaun.”

The eraser hissed in Ms. Knit’s hand, deftly destroying the chalky face that had peered so lifelike from the blackboard seconds ago. Easy come, easy go. Shaun stared in dismay as his pencil twitched frantically in his hand, trying to catch the remains in his book.
“That, folks, concludes our portrait unit. Lesson seven art form—a portrait of someone close to you—is due Tuesday.” She streaked the chalk from her hands on the board. Shaun looked at his pad in dismay. An eye, an ear, caught in a spider web-like scrawl.
“Joel, man, out of all the classes to fail. Civics, physics,math—it’s going to be the pansy art class.”
“Shut up, Shaun.” Joel carefully slid his pencils into a case.
“You know, it feels like I just heard that. Déjà vu! Oh, no, never mind, I did.” He shoved his junk into his backpack. A page tore. “Damn!”
“So you’re not Picasso, chill,” Joel said, bending to lend his friend a hand with his scattered sheets. He held the last one away from his face, critically eying the disjointed features. “Well… Maybe Picasso.” Shaun swiped it back sheepishly.
“I should stick with still life. Soup cans and fruit baskets.”.
Joel grinned. “It’s your specialty. Everything dies around you.”
Shaun ignored him. “Nah, tell you what. We should pick the ugliest kids in school. This way when we screw them up, no one can tell.”
“It’s not a self-portrait, it’s a close friend,” he quipped, and got shoved. “C’mon, man. We’ll do each other.” The bell rang and the boys ran out the door, getting out into the hall seconds earlier to spend precious minutes avoiding their next classes. Across the hallway, band let out.
“That’s not a bad idea,” mused Shaun. “Maybe we can.”
“No.” Joel sighed. “Believe me, if it was that easy… It has to be outside of class. Lord knows we’ve done everyone in it. Don’t you have any other friends?”
“Yeah, ones I want to keep. Heads up!”
Joel ducked as a trombone swiped over his head. “Crazy band kids.”
“Hey!” Sophie jabbed him playfully with the butt of her clarinet. “Most of us use cases.”
“And the rest of you prefer to lance them around in case a knight wanders by.”
“What, Joel, chivalry?” She cast a withering glance in Shaun’s direction. “Hmph. None here.” She swerved off to stash her instrument in a locker. Shaun pulled a couple kids in front of him and lingered behind.
“Hmph. That’s a cute noise.” Joel noticed Shaun sulking. “What’s with you two, man?”
“Shedumpedme.”
“What! But you—!” The hall began to drain, sucking them into the mundanity of math class.
“I know. Later.”

She reminded him of summer picnics; her round eyes the same sky that hugged the earth, hair the sweet corn silk that littered the blanket after everyone had eaten. Sitting behind her, he thought of curling his fingers around it and wondered if it had the same fresh scent. Instead he curled his fingers around his pencil, a darker yellow. Her hair was frizzed a little on top. She reached up reflexively to rake it down, half in thought. His pencil darted, catching the movement; her slight frown at the numbers slashed on the board, her eyes repeatedly drawn to the open window.

Joel, Shaun, and Sophie ride the bus home. They worry about pop quizzes, bad hair days, and relationships. Art projects. That night one boy’s pencil taps the desk while the other’s taps into a well of inspiration. Sophie poises in front of a mirror with her clarinet, tapping scales while her mind tugs at closed doors. They go to bed, and then wake up again. A week passes.

Her Wednesday morning is mechanical. Sophie allows her limbs to grope for clothes in the darkness. Then her backpack, in the closet; her clarinet, by the door. With grim triumph she pours her milk before John preys on the fridge and feeds her cat. At seven oh one the bus clatters by with a vengeance as Sophie peers out the window. For the third time this week, John throws her backpack into the back of his truck and takes off down the gravel road towards their school.

First period art. One by one, the students slip out of class to hang their portraits on the wall. Shaun tapes his in the corner, making sure his signature is cramped and hidden. No way I can put my name on something like this he thinks, but she’ll still see it. Shaking his head, he goes back to class and pushes a reluctant Joel out. Neither boy has shown his friend his piece.

Sophie hurries down the art wing, red late pass in hand. Her red shoes echo conspicuously in the empty hall, and she can feel her face flush red, too, just to fit in. She’s about to push into the band room, but the irking feeling that she’s marched right by an old friend stops her. She walks carefully backwards, examining the Art II semester portraits taped on the cinderblock wall. She recognizes somebody’s grandfather, a boy from English Lit, and the Pillsbury Doughboy. There, at the end of the row, is the picture that caught her eye. Sophie smiles at herself with charcoal lips. She lifts the edge of the paper, but there is no signature. Mystified, she goes to class.

Seven hundred doors clash in metallic symphony as class releases. The art students flow into the band students and stream off into their next classrooms, not even glancing up with the routine – except for two.

In his next class, Shaun tries to draw the Pillsbury doughboy. Maybe will like the actual cookies better, he scowled.