Jumped by Rita Williams-Garcia Page B

of No Return
Rising Action
 
Falling Action

 
Bang
 
Bing
 
Boom
    I felt bad for Lennie in Of Mice and Men . Lennie was set up. He had to do what he did. Even if it was an accident, it had to go down like that. It was all set in motion from jump. I put that down in my essay. Wrote it out, piece by piece. The rising action. How George set Lennie up. How he was supposed to have Lennie’s back but he didn’t. That was all Steinbeck. Steinbeck set Lennie up. Made him big, dumb, and too strong for his own good. Made him like soft things. Made him kill every soft thing he touched. What choice did Lennie have? What else was he going to do when that soft blonde flit came shaking her blonde curls in his face? Putting her blonde curls in his hands for him to grab. Big, strong, and dumb. Kill every mouse, every puppy, every soft thing. Steinbeck did that. Made Lennie too strong, too dumb, and Lennie couldn’t stop himself. It had to play out that way. Point of no return. He didn’t have no one looking out for him. Not really. Not George. Not Steinbeck. No one. Then who comes and tells him to close his eyes? Tells him to dream about the rabbits. Soft rabbits. And Lennie’s crying, man. Big, dumb, strong, and crying like a weak little bitch. And who takes him out? Who pumps a Luger full of lead into Lennie? Who? The one who’s supposed to be his boy. And I wrote that down in the essay. All of it. I laid it out under falling action. Bing, bang, boom .

28
Truth in Art
TRINA
    â€œA RTISTS , WHEN YOU HAVE A SHOWING , let the work speak for itself. The patrons will study, admire, question, like, or strongly dislike. Let them. It’s art.”
    I stand out in the gallery, shining like one hot, bright star, loving my artwork. Mr. Sebastian forgot to say love. How can you not love what I’m giving? Harriet Tubman has never worn a more colorful dress. “I Have a Dream” never looked so dreamy. How’s this for the language of art?: All of my art has a point of view, and look! Just look. Pretty, pretty, mmmwack ! Pretty. Sorry, Mr. Sebastian: Pretty, bonita , and linda are the right words!
    â€œThat doesn’t look like Malcolm.”
    I gasp. “Bite your tongue, it does.”
    Ivan and I go back and forth—does, does not. His artis good if you like cartoons, Japanese kids with big eyes, and comic book heroes.
    Ivan is little-brother cute so I have to tease him. He blushes too easily. I sing, “Someone’s eyes are gree-een. Someone’s eyes are gree-een.” He says I’m tripping but I’m no stranger to the jealous, green-eyed monster. What?
    I say, “You wish you could create like this.”
    He accuses me of sniffing paint fumes. Funny. Too funny. But he’s staring at my belly and he isn’t looking for my appendix scar. What did I tell you?
    I wouldn’t want to peek inside his sketch pad. I don’t want to see his drawings of me. Even worse, drawings of us. I can imagine what he has us doing. But I’m used to little boys. I know he’s deep down suffering for me. I can’t do nothing about that. Face it. If I treat him to the famous Trina shaky-shake, we will have a disgusting puddle of boy right at the gallery underneath my magnificent showing. Instead I respect him as an artist and share my process.
    I tell him how I took a big picture of Malcolm from the library. Then I hit ENLARGE on the photocopier. Then I took it home, and with my special mix—sorry, secret—I painted over the face. Then, when it dried, I took the face and cut it up. You know. Cubes. Rectangles. Picasso. Then I painted the different parts of the face in black and redbecause Malcolm was assassinated, you know, so blood is red, his hair was red, so red was my theme. Anyone who rents the movie X will see my point of view right away.
    Ivan says, “That’s wack.”
    Oh my God! My face is turning colors. I’m hot and sweating and it