smile like a hyena.
“Well, if you’re sure.” Mrs.Archer looks at me, hesitating.
“I’m sure.”
She leaves and I breathe easier. But I still can’t paint. Nothing’s coming. I’m afraid to let anything out on the paper, afraid to let her see the pain, the terror, the shadows that grip me.
Thirty minutes tick by—and all I’ve got is a ruined piece of watercolor paper.
Mrs. Archer comes back again and sits down beside me. “Kendra,” she says quietly, “what’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong, all right?” I say it too loud. People turn to look.
“Back to work, everyone. Class is almost over.” Mrs. Archer leans closer. “Is this about the … group that we’re both in? On Thursdays? Because if that’s what’s upsetting you, I’ll leave it.”
My eyes burn. I look up at her. She’s watching me in that kind way she does. Like she actually cares what I think— what I feel. “That’s okay,” I say. “You don’t have to do that.”
“But I will, if it makes you uncomfortable. I don’t want to encroach on your space there.”
I twist the lid on the paint tube, on and off, on and off. I have to ask. “Do you see me differently now?”
“Differently? What do you mean?” Mrs. Archer’s forehead wrinkles.
“Messed up. A head case. A total screw-up.”
Mrs. Archer stares at me, her mouth opening. “No, Kendra. I see you as strong. Courageous. An example for others.” She presses her hand flat against the workbench, her eyes bright like she’s holding in tears. “You stood up for someone else. And you faced things that hurt you. That shows me your strength—and your courage even more.”
“But don’t you even—I mean, you didn’t know someone had—hurt me … until that group.”
Mrs. Archer looks down at her hands. She folds them, then unfolds them. She looks back at me. “Kendra—I knew from your art. It’s so intense. And I knew from your behavior that you’d been through something painful, something that hurt you deeply. That’s why I encourage you so much—besides your being the most talented student I’ve ever had. I think you’ve got to get out whatever’s hurting you through your art, so it doesn’t twist you up inside.”
She looks at me like she’s trying to see if I’m listening. “And if my being in the art therapy group stops you from expressing yourself, I’ll leave. I care more about you than about my training; I can get that any time.”
I want to cry—and to laugh. Mrs. Archer still likes me!
“Don’t leave,” I say. “I want you there.” I smile at her, as much as I
can
smile. I’m ashamed of how I acted—but I feel closer to her, too. And if I hadn’t said anything, I’d never have known that things are all right between us. I’d never have known that it was
my
shame and fear I was seeing, not hers.
20
“I’m so glad,” Mrs. Archer says as she stands. “You’re a delight to work with.” I wonder how I could ever have thought she was judging me. She’s so much better than that.
She dismisses the class. I carry my sketchbook up to the front. When I’m sure no one is looking, I pull out the X-acto knife and slip it back onto the table, behind the paintbrushes. I look around fast, but Mrs. Archer is still talking with a student and everybody else is busy gathering their stuff and leaving.
I let out my breath. I didn’t feel right with a knife that wasn’t mine. Especially one from Mrs. Archer’s room.
Now that I’ve put it back, I can focus on art class. I choose my paints and paper carefully, humming under my breath. I know what I want to paint: Meghan.
I paint her over and over, but I can’t seem to get it right; I can’t seem to capture that tenderness and vulnerability that sits in her eyes, behind all the toughness. Mrs. Archer smiles at my work when she passes by, and I know she thinks it’s good. But it’s not good enough for me. I want it to be perfect.
I put my work away reluctantly at the end of class.
“Well, if you’re sure.” Mrs.Archer looks at me, hesitating.
“I’m sure.”
She leaves and I breathe easier. But I still can’t paint. Nothing’s coming. I’m afraid to let anything out on the paper, afraid to let her see the pain, the terror, the shadows that grip me.
Thirty minutes tick by—and all I’ve got is a ruined piece of watercolor paper.
Mrs. Archer comes back again and sits down beside me. “Kendra,” she says quietly, “what’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong, all right?” I say it too loud. People turn to look.
“Back to work, everyone. Class is almost over.” Mrs. Archer leans closer. “Is this about the … group that we’re both in? On Thursdays? Because if that’s what’s upsetting you, I’ll leave it.”
My eyes burn. I look up at her. She’s watching me in that kind way she does. Like she actually cares what I think— what I feel. “That’s okay,” I say. “You don’t have to do that.”
“But I will, if it makes you uncomfortable. I don’t want to encroach on your space there.”
I twist the lid on the paint tube, on and off, on and off. I have to ask. “Do you see me differently now?”
“Differently? What do you mean?” Mrs. Archer’s forehead wrinkles.
“Messed up. A head case. A total screw-up.”
Mrs. Archer stares at me, her mouth opening. “No, Kendra. I see you as strong. Courageous. An example for others.” She presses her hand flat against the workbench, her eyes bright like she’s holding in tears. “You stood up for someone else. And you faced things that hurt you. That shows me your strength—and your courage even more.”
“But don’t you even—I mean, you didn’t know someone had—hurt me … until that group.”
Mrs. Archer looks down at her hands. She folds them, then unfolds them. She looks back at me. “Kendra—I knew from your art. It’s so intense. And I knew from your behavior that you’d been through something painful, something that hurt you deeply. That’s why I encourage you so much—besides your being the most talented student I’ve ever had. I think you’ve got to get out whatever’s hurting you through your art, so it doesn’t twist you up inside.”
She looks at me like she’s trying to see if I’m listening. “And if my being in the art therapy group stops you from expressing yourself, I’ll leave. I care more about you than about my training; I can get that any time.”
I want to cry—and to laugh. Mrs. Archer still likes me!
“Don’t leave,” I say. “I want you there.” I smile at her, as much as I
can
smile. I’m ashamed of how I acted—but I feel closer to her, too. And if I hadn’t said anything, I’d never have known that things are all right between us. I’d never have known that it was
my
shame and fear I was seeing, not hers.
20
“I’m so glad,” Mrs. Archer says as she stands. “You’re a delight to work with.” I wonder how I could ever have thought she was judging me. She’s so much better than that.
She dismisses the class. I carry my sketchbook up to the front. When I’m sure no one is looking, I pull out the X-acto knife and slip it back onto the table, behind the paintbrushes. I look around fast, but Mrs. Archer is still talking with a student and everybody else is busy gathering their stuff and leaving.
I let out my breath. I didn’t feel right with a knife that wasn’t mine. Especially one from Mrs. Archer’s room.
Now that I’ve put it back, I can focus on art class. I choose my paints and paper carefully, humming under my breath. I know what I want to paint: Meghan.
I paint her over and over, but I can’t seem to get it right; I can’t seem to capture that tenderness and vulnerability that sits in her eyes, behind all the toughness. Mrs. Archer smiles at my work when she passes by, and I know she thinks it’s good. But it’s not good enough for me. I want it to be perfect.
I put my work away reluctantly at the end of class.
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