Dave at Night by Gail Carson Levine Page B

for a head, and she only took up a quarter of the page. I wished he’d given us more time.
    Mr. Hillinger threaded his way between the desks, stepping over our drawings. “Fine, Alfie. Harvey, interesting. I tell everyone they should see what my orphans . . . Nice and big, Eli. Mike, my sister is not a violin, although . . . Ah.” He stopped at my desk. “. . . You caught some of the gesture. Very good. What’s your name?” I saw him notice the bump on my head and my bandages.
    â€œDave Caros.”
    â€œExcellent, Dave. You have the beginnings of an eye. Now, Ira, let me see . . .”
    He said something about lots of drawings, but he didn’t say anybody else had an eye or the beginnings of one.
    At the front of the room again, he said, “Gesture drawings. You showed the . . . what the model—Miss Hillinger—was doing. Here. Look. Perhaps I can . . .”
    In front of me, Ira was trying to draw on Danny’s arm. Danny was pulling away and both of them were giggling.
    â€œHow often does he come?” I asked Mike.
    â€œMondays and Fridays.”
    Mr. Hillinger tacked a sheet of paper to Mr. Cluck’s corkboard. “Two minutes, Louise.” He handed his watch to one of the twins. “Fred, when I say ‘go,’ start. Then say ‘stop’ when two min . . . Ready, Louise? Give me a hard one. It won’t matter if I—”
    â€œAll right, Siggy.”
    Some kids snickered at the nickname, Siggy.
    â€œMarvelous model, my . . . She has . . .”
    Miss Hillinger put one hand on her hip and bent over. With the other hand she seemed to be reaching for something on the desktop—under her feet. The pose made her look like an old lady with a backache, picking something up from the floor.
    â€œGo.” Mr. Hillinger stared at her for a moment. Then, with a single line, he drew the curve of her back and her rear end and the back edge of her trousers.
    It just took him a few seconds—whoosh, and there it was. Everybody stopped talking.
    â€œIt helps if . . . anatomy, but you . . . Someday I’ll teach . . .” He used the side of the crayon to shade in the arm she’d put on her hip, which was sticking up in the air. He kept talking while he worked, but now he was talking to himself. “More shading . . . mass of hair . . . Can’t see her face . . . Now the arm—use a line . . . Vary pressure, make it interesting . . . Negative space . . .” He stopped drawing Miss Hillinger, even though she wasn’t all drawn in, and drew in the top of the desk and part of the blackboard. When he got to the edge of the page, he kept going, drawing out onto Mr. Cluck’s corkboard. He went out a few inches and then went back to the paper. “No fingers, as I told . . . other arm goes . . . Nice pose . . .”
    When Fred said, “Stop,” Mr. Hillinger was drawing in the side of the desk.
    It was like magic. I was grinning, and I wanted to clap. I looked around. Lots of kids were smiling. Eli was. Fred and Jeff were. Mike was drawing violins.
    â€œThis is the gesture. Feel her trying to reach . . . And weight, she has weight. Now you . . . Turn over your paper. And remember, big. Fill your page. We want . . .”
    Miss Hillinger stretched, with her arms going straight up—and she stayed that way.
    I tried to think about everything he’d told us: to make her big, to get the gesture, not to worry about fingers or noses. If she was going to be big, her waist should land in the middle of the page. I started there. Her chest swelled up from her stretching. I made it round, and I used the length of my crayon to do her arms, two fat lines going straight up, and two short lines going sideways for her hands. I did her legs the same way.
    â€œYou may stop, dear,” Mr. Hillinger said.
    â€œYou made her legs too short, Dave,” Harvey said from behind me. “She looks like a dwarf.”
    â€œHe made