Still Life with Tornado by A.S. King

and I explained how I did it, which was probably a mistake. By the end of the day, Miss Smith produced an electric hot plate that she stored on the shelves behind her desk. By the end of the week, all the art clubbers had bent Plexiglas projects, too. They said they planned on painting theirs. Carmen twisted a tornado out of a large triangle and planned on drawing the things within. My project still seemed boring to me. There’s only so much an artist can do with Plexiglas. I had a week before the final project was due.
    So I changed my project. This time, I didn’t tell anybody what I was doing. I started to weave a basket out of thin wire. I had stainless steel wire, brass wire, and copper wire. My fingers were still a bit scarred from the Plexiglas bending, so when the wires bit into my fingers until I bled, I barely felt it. I went into
the zone
when I wove. It was far more interesting than working with plastic. The faster I wove, the more I went into
the zone.
The more I was in
the zone,
the more I wanted to make something other than a basket. I sat staring at what I’d done so far. I stopped weaving. I opened my sketchbook and started drawing. I knew what this project could become. I knew it could be great. And when Carmen said, “Are you weaving a basket?” I lied to her. I said, “Yes.”
    But I wasn’t really weaving a basket. I was weaving a headpiece. I wove a curved rectangle about five by eight inches and wove in complicated designs and threaded in decorations like beads and other flotsam. Everyone was so busy bending Plexiglas and decorating it with pop art dots, Miss Smith didn’t even notice I’d changed mediums. I did most of the final touches at home so no one would steal my idea.
    When I was done weaving, instead of clipping off the extra wires that acted as warp spokes, I turned them to the sky and made them into shapes and curlicues and other things and spread them out so it looked like you were wearing the sun on your head. I spent the final weekend sewing a lining into the headpiece. Stitch by stitch, I knew this was the coolest thing I’d ever made. My hands were a mess—fingers red with old burns and pricks and a few tiny blood blisters from pinching myself with wire snippers. As I sewed the black felt and padded it out with stuffing, I felt tired—like an artist should feel after pouring her soul into a piece. I felt quiet, at peace, and not like the chattering art club every day in class. I polished the wire when I was done, and I put it in a box to take to school for the day we would unveil our final projects.
    All the other students still just had their curvy Plexiglas projects. Carmen’s tornado was the best of the lot. She even cut some thin strips of Plexiglas and bent them to represent wind.
    They got As.
    I got an A+.
    Miss Smith was wowed. She said she wanted my headpiece in the annual art show. She said, “This is really awesome, Sarah! This could win!” I remember feeling humble because artists should be humble. I looked at my hands. I picked at the scabs on my fingers.
    I could see the art club seniors getting all worked up over it—feeling sorry for themselves and feeling like their projects were better—but mine was original.
    Either way, the headpiece never made it to the art show.
    That was how they showed me my place.
    â€¢Â Â Â â€¢Â Â Â â€¢
    I wonder how the world showed Alleged Earl his place was in the alcove. I don’t think anybody should have to sleep on the street. I don’t think anybody should have to dig in the trash for food. It seems wrong in every possible situation. If he’s poor, someone should help him. If he’s mentally ill, someone should help him. What kind of place do we live in where so many people have to live on the street?
    Doesn’t make any sense except that people have to show other people their place. And Alleged Earl’s place is in the alcove.