Jumped by Rita Williams-Garcia Page A

didn’t matter how much my teachers loved me or how well I did, it all came down to the number of days. “We love you, Trina, but you’ve had too many days out. What can we do?”
    The guidance counselor truly loved me. “Trina,” she said, “you’re gifted.”
    Yes, yes. I know.
    â€œYou have a talent for beauty. Color.”
    You can’t miss that.
    â€œI’ve been talking to your teachers and we agree that you have an aptitude for art.”
    No one had used a word like that for me. Aptitude. She didn’t have to explain it. I got it. I have the habilidad . I am apt to make beauty and color.
    â€œLook at this brochure. This is your new school.” Her last few words played like music. She said, “They have an art program.”
    The brochure was made of heavy, high-gloss paper. When the guidance counselor put it down before me, the crease made a loud croc against the desk. It was serious paper. Of course they show the school building and kids smiling on the cover, and now that you go here you know that those kids must have been cutting. And then you open the brochure and like the heavy slick feeling of the paper. It isn’t throwaway paper. Inside they have all the high school things: the basketball team, the student government, the science lab, and tucked in the corner, the art program. A man with too much hair and a mustache is showing a girl how to draw. I didn’t know at the time it was Mr. Sebastian, but I put my face where the girl’s face was. Next year some girl would see my face in the new brochure on serious high-gloss paper and wish she were me.
    I knew this was the right place from the beginning. Everyone was like, “Hey,” when they saw me coming down B Corridor. And the school has this art program where Mr. Sebastian calls the classrooms studios. C Corridor outsideour studio is the gallery. When we’re painting or sketching or sculpting we’re artists. When he needs to get us quiet we are “Class,” in that flat duck-quack voice. We like being artists. It’s a different feeling than being a math or biology or social studies student. Mr. Sebastian plays music while we work. A lot of strings and horns and piano fighting for air, but we’re used to it. He gives us a different language in that class and he expects us to use it. Like, you can’t say “That’s deep.” You have to say “That has texture” and “Those colors are vibrant.” You have to use the artist language. “When you’re in Spanish class, you speak Spanish, yes?” he says. “Well, we speak art in the studio.”
    It was hard, speaking art, in the beginning. The first few weeks when we were getting to know each other Mr. Sebastian stayed on my case for using “pretty” and “cute” and “nice.” Pretty , cute , and nice don’t belong in the studio. But I don’t care. I’m nice, I like pretty, and cute never hurt anybody.
    â€œHey, Trina.”
    Princess Di wave. “Hey.”

26
Ignore
LETICIA
    Leticia: Its on.
    Bea:     OMG!!!
    Leticia: At 2:45. Coming?
    Bea:    
    Leticia: R U Coming?
    Bea:     Did U tell her?
    Leticia:
    Bea:     Did U tell her?
    Leticia:
    Bea:     TSha tell her.
    Leticia:
    Bea:     TSHA!!!

27
Bing, Bang, Boom
DOMINIQUE
    B ING, BANG, BOOM . B ING, BANG, BOOM . Six triangles on my essay. Black ink dug deep in the margin. Bing, bang, boom. A chain of black triangles. Didn’t know I was doing it. Making them. Linking them. Can’t stop myself. Why stop now? Might as well go to the end. Down to the last line. Seven. Eight. Bing, bang, boom.
    It doesn’t matter which book we read. The Red Badge of Courage or Of Mice and Men . She asks the same questions. We write the same essay. At least I do. It’s all the same triangle:
Point