AN: Haha, since my sentence-- I MEAN SENIOR YEAR-- of high school is ALMOST done (17 days!), I decided that we had WAY too much fun in AP Art to just forget about it. So this is my dedication to the memory. This year was HELL ON EARTH, but I wouldn't give it up for the world! (: I hope that if some of us Art Kids read this, they recognize their character, even though names, personalities, and works have been changed to "protect" the innocent. Yeah, right, when have WE ever been innocent? ;)

Dedicated to: Mrs. Shaw (for being an awesome teacher, even though we hit some rough patches, and for never giving up on us), Patrick (for being one of the best guy friends I've ever had), Cece (for looking past our, well, past, and not holding grudges), Tony (for naming this novel... and never letting us forget the definition of "gestalt"), and everyone else that made AP Art... AP Art. I love you guys! Good luck on portfolios!! :D

Gestalt: A Novel

R.M. Sanders

Day 1

When you walk into an art room, loving it as much as I do, a sense of calm washes over you. A sense of security. You’re home.

--

I had had the teacher before; a short, corpulent woman of about 50 or so. She had these wild ideas that matched her equally unorthodox clothing (I’m talking scarves out the ass, one day wearing some bright yellow tracksuit, the next showing up with chains and heavy make-up). She was opinionated, intelligent, and outspoken. If she didn’t like something, she told you. If something was seriously wrong with your picture, she pointed it out and told you to fix it. But she wasn’t all-bad by any means! Mrs. Bunker was a great lady. We saw eye-to-eye on a lot of things. She ran the Young Democrats club, of which I was an active member. She would also coach the class, trying to make them the best artists they could be.

It’s not until I sling my messenger bag on the table that I notice there are only two chairs at the table. So, we’re gonna be spread out. The thought doesn’t sit well with me. I’m a friendly guy and everything, but… my friendly exterior only goes so far. I’m really uncomfortable around guys I don’t know, even though it should be the other way around. But the gals and I get along great! Especially Meredith Deering and I. She’s my best friend. And I know that she’s taking this class. Why wouldn’t she? She’s a great artist, with a flair for flowers and birds.

So when she walks through the door, I’m not surprised to see her pretty little face break out into a smile as she strides toward me, confidence radiating in her every step. She had cut her hair over the summer. Now the brown fringe was short, choppy, fading to a lighter brown. She had bangs now, too. How cute.

“Hey Mery!” I gather her into my arms, squeezing tightly. “This class is going to be fucking amazing! Do you know anyone else who’s takin’ it?”

Meredith shakes her head, “I had heard that Ingram signed up, but I don’t know if she got in. Dexter and Adina, too.”

Ingram Hardy is Meredith’s best friend, but they’re complete opposites. Meredith’s really quiet and… almost cute, you could say, but Ingram has a really morbid, sarcastic sense of humour. And she has these really awful cat-eye glasses. I was in this class for fashion design, so I know. But Ing was a good gal, and I really liked her. Her and Mery got along really well, too, and I was glad that Mery had a friend that she could giggle about boys with and wear make-up with (even though I have a fondness for eyeliner) and talk about how hot monsieur un tel was or something.

Dexter Hargrave is Mery’s other best guy friend. He has incredible fashion sense (which would make sense because he’s the only other guy who does fashion design here), with his dressy-casual attire. Sometimes he really goes all-out, too, which is really awesome to see. He’s a sweet kid, and we talked a little bit. Mostly over MySpace.

Last but not least, Adina Spurling. The kid… is an angel. He never gets in trouble, never drinks, never drugs, never whores. He’s a teacher’s wet dream. Smart, that kid. Insanely smart. And he’s got these huge blue eyes that just melt your fuckin’ heart. You can’t stay mad at him. He’s really sweet, too, which totally makes him the object of every girl’s fantasies (and even some of the guy’s, if I may be so bold). He’s practically perfect, which kind of irks me, but… yanno, what can you do?

“Well, that’s good. I mean, I don’t wanna be stuck in here with a bunch of fuckasses,” I grin as I sit down, Meredith across from me. She nods, but doesn’t say anything more. I know that she doesn’t like to talk about other people. The way I see it, though, is who really gives a shit? Everyone talks about everyone in high school.

It’s, like, a rule.

“OHMIGAWD!!” A sharp squeal echoes off of the cinderblock walls, signaling Ingram Hardy’s entrance into the studio. Meredith whips around, flying gracefully off of the stool-slash-chair and into Ingram’s awaiting embrace. I smile (not in the least bit sardonic, I swear) and finger a wave. Ing flips me the bird.

Tough love, yanno?

“Move over, jackass,” Ing smirks as she shoves out of my chair. I topple to the floor (un)gracefully, sighing and opting to stand beside the table, since there’s no other chairs. “So, has anyone heard the news yet?”

“What news?” Meredith asks as Ingram begins working on a sketch she obviously had been in the middle of in her third block. It’s of a long, way exaggerated guy holding a dove. His arms are too long, his legs are too long, and he’s totally not in proportion at all. But Ingram was always sketching exaggerated humans, angels, demons, animals, or whatever else striked her fancy. She was good at it, too. And she was always sketching.

Ingram regards her sketch, made a few darker lines, and didn’t meet our eyes, “Dinah Hopper is pregnant.”

“What?!” I immediately dove into the conversation, grinning. “She’s that cheerleader-bitch, yeah?”

“She does gymnastics as well,” Ing looks as if she’s not paying a lick of attention to Mery and I, but she keeps the conversation going. “But, yes. There’s a rumour going around that she’s knocked up. And I heard that she’s taking this class.”

That strikes me funny. “She can draw?”

Ing shrugs. Nice answer. Way to go, Ing.

The bell rings, five times in succession, signaling that everyone was late for Advanced Placement Studio Art class. Because, I mean, we couldn’t have been the only ones in the class. Of course, as if on cue, two boys rush in, panting.

“We’re not late!” The first one screams, gripping a white sketchbook in his muscular arms. His shirt proudly bears our mascot and school name, causing me to raise an eyebrow at him. I know him. Well, actually. We went to junior high school together, and were pretty okay friends. Not the best of friends, but close. He’s a nice guy. His name is Blake Rimmer. (No jokes about his last name, please, he gets that enough already.)

The other guy (who I recognize as Chance Delacroix) grins to Blake, all long arms and goofy face. He’s a nice guy though; genuine. The times that I talked to him (which weren’t many, I can tell you that), I really enjoyed it. We occupy two total opposite sides of the political spectrum, and it’s refreshing to see things from a different perspective every once in a while. He’s super religious, too, but not in an over-bearing way, which is comforting.

They take the two seats at the table to my immediate right.

Immediately after Blake’s and Chance’s show, a whole throng of people wade into the classroom. Amongst them is Dexter and Adina, my two friends; some red-headed girl I don’t recognize; two guys that don’t register with me; and Dinah-fuckin’-Hopper.

“Speak of the devil,” Ingram’s hazel eyes follow Dinah across the room as she drags a chair over to the table Blake and Chance are sitting at. “Rude-ass bitch.”

“She doesn’t look pregnant to me,” Meredith raises a hand to her mouth, quietly studying Dinah.

“Who doesn’t look preggers?” Dexter stands beside me, grinning down to me. I motion to Dinah. “Ah, well, looks can be deceiving Mery. Remember that.” Dex grins, then leads Adina over to another table.

I scowl as I see the red-haired girl occupy a table all by herself, the black-haired boy I don’t recognize (I swear I’ve never seen him before in my life) takes the table that Dinah stole the chair from, and the other boy (a really thin guy with darkdarkdark brown hair and thick-rimmed black glasses) takes the last table. “Great, now where am I supposed to sit?”

Ingram doesn’t look up from her drawing as she states, “That brunet guy is cute. Sit with him.”

“I’m not gay, hello,” I flip her off, even though she’s not paying attention.

“Whatever, go strike up a conversation and if he’s straight, give him my number.”

Rolling my eyes (and taking a huge breath), I stalk over to the table with the thin guy sitting at it. I know I don’t have much time to strike up a conversation, ask to sit with him, and get to know him at least a little before Bunker gets in here, but… it’s worth a shot.

“Hey.”

He looks up and I notice that he’s got unusual coloured eyes: navy blue.

“Uh, my name’s Layke,” I extend my hand to him, and he grins. Running a hand through his short hair, he clasps mine.

“Steven Sciene, nice to meet you.”

“Layke Tolbert,” I repeat my name, smiling in what I hope is a casual, disarming way. Heaven forbid I fuckin’ scare him off. Most people are put off by my multi-coloured hair (right now it’s black with a strand of red in my bangs) and piercings (even though I only have three, for fuck’s sake), so I make sure that when I meet people, my true personality shows and I don’t freak them out… or something.

And then… silence. We drop our hands to the table, and I see that he’s got a couple of rolls of what looks like coloured tape in front of him. It looks like duct tape, but… they don’t make coloured duct tape! Or… do they?

I hop onto the seat that’s made more like a barstool and examine a purple roll from a distance, “Whatcha got there?”

“Duct tape,” Steven slides the purple roll to me, grinning.

Holy crap! It is duct tape!

“Where in the seven levels of Hell do you get coloured duct tape?” I ask, turning it over and over in my palms. It’s shiny, but dull at the same time, and the texture is rough and smooth all at once under my fingertips. It’s soft, but the cardboard in the center keeps it firm. Fascinating.

Steven shrugs, and my eyes are torn from the anomaly in my hands, “Wal-Mart.”

He’s a man of few words, and I think I like it. “Do you… do art with it?”

In answer, he pulls out a bouquet of hot pink, bright orange, and neon yellow flowers with lime green stems and a rack of black, blue, red, lime green, and silver ties. Holy fuckin’ shit.

“That is amazing, dude,” I immediately reach forward and grab the tie that’s a checkerboard of black and silver. One of my favourite colour combinations. “They look so awesome!” I throw it around my neck and admire how good it looks around my neck in the floor-length mirror behind me.

“Thanks.” Steven grins, taking back the tie and adding it back to his collection.

“So, tell me more about making things out of duct tape…”

But before Steven can answer me again, Bunker walks in, causing everyone to fall silent. Meredith, Ingram, and I all exchange looks (Ing’s actually looking up from her drawing for once). I see Dinah Hopper roll her stupid eyes and I want to rip them out of her head. Bunker notices, too, and smirks.

“Welcome, children, to HELL.”