wants to use the prints of our linoleum cuttings for silk screening. We’ve already dug out a picture with a St. Anthony’s theme. “Now’s the time to perfect it,” she says.
Nelson shakes his foot and taps his thumb on the table while he’s trying to think of what else to do. I give him a couple subtle looks, but he doesn’t get it.
“Hey, Nelson,” I say eyeing his foot and hand. “Do you mind?”
He looks down at his moving body parts and his eyes get wide. “Whoa, sorry!” He stops fidgeting immediately.
“It’s all right,” I say. “But I can’t concentrate when the table’s shaking.”
“I can’t concentrate at all.” He leans a bit closer to me. He smells good. Like vanilla and Elmer’s glue. I’m surprised at how all of a sudden I want to breathe in the scent of him. “How was Bryce Hensley’s house?” he asks. “As swag as you expected?”
“Yeah, it –” I stop and think. To be honest, I can’t remember a thing about Bryce’s house. I was too concentrated on Kevin and his stories. “—it was pretty big.”
“Uh huh.” Nelson taps his pencil on his lips. “Hey, hold still a second.”
I do and suddenly his hand is flying across his paper. After a few quick strokes he holds the sketch up. “What d’ya think?”
I frown and say, “Doesn’t look like me.” He’s drawn a girl. Pretty. With upturned lips, deep-set eyes and a strong jut of the chin. She’s got straight hair like mine, but ...
Nelson looks at the paper and then back at me. “Looks just like you.”
“Whatever.” I go back to my linoleum square, adding detail. After a couple minutes, I feel Nelson leaning towards me again.
“You suck,” he says.
“Excuse me!?” My voice gets high, but I stifle a laugh.
Now he turns into a Rocket Pop: his hair blue, his face red, his neck white. “No,” he pleads, shaking his head. “I didn’t mean you suck as in you suck and can’t draw but as in you suck because you’ve already got something near perfection and I’m still struggling with how to make mine work.”
I stare at him.
He looks down at his black fingernails. “I mean, you really don’t suck, ever. Far from it.”
“Okay, Nelson.” He glances up from his hands and I punch his arm. But before I can pull my hand back, he grabs it and squeezes it with his own. He only touches me for a second; the weight of his fingers is warm on my knuckles, then gone. But my heart rate kicks up and every little bit of me tingles.
What the hell?
I whip my hand back and focus on deepening the lines of my design. I don’t look back at Nelson the rest of the hour.
I just listen to my pulse pounding in my ears.
We make ‘stained glass’ in the after school program out of colored tissue paper and black cardboard. All the kids cut their own design and glue tissue paper to it. Then Angie and I tape them up to the large window in the snack room.
The window faces west, and the sun is shining in just as we hang the mosaic of designs. The room is bathed in purple, blue, yellow and red.
“Wow.” Seven-year-old Selena sucks in her breath as the colors dance on her skin. “Look. I’m pretty.”
I tug on one of her braids. “You already were, kiddo.”
But she’s right, the colors make everything appealing. It feels other-worldly. Like the far side of the rainbow.
I stand with her in the middle of the room, laughing at the collage of colors on our arms.
We pretend we are caterpillars, turned into butterflies.
At night I read the how-to sections in the books on astral projection. It’s all about deep relaxation. About keeping control while letting go. I figure it shouldn’t be too hard for me since I’ve done it before – accidentally, but still. So I try it. And try it. And try it.
No matter what the websites say, this isn’t something that can be learned in fifteen minutes.
At 2:00 a.m., I’m wiped. Relaxing is hard work. Frustration crawls under my skin, but I’m just too tired to
Nelson shakes his foot and taps his thumb on the table while he’s trying to think of what else to do. I give him a couple subtle looks, but he doesn’t get it.
“Hey, Nelson,” I say eyeing his foot and hand. “Do you mind?”
He looks down at his moving body parts and his eyes get wide. “Whoa, sorry!” He stops fidgeting immediately.
“It’s all right,” I say. “But I can’t concentrate when the table’s shaking.”
“I can’t concentrate at all.” He leans a bit closer to me. He smells good. Like vanilla and Elmer’s glue. I’m surprised at how all of a sudden I want to breathe in the scent of him. “How was Bryce Hensley’s house?” he asks. “As swag as you expected?”
“Yeah, it –” I stop and think. To be honest, I can’t remember a thing about Bryce’s house. I was too concentrated on Kevin and his stories. “—it was pretty big.”
“Uh huh.” Nelson taps his pencil on his lips. “Hey, hold still a second.”
I do and suddenly his hand is flying across his paper. After a few quick strokes he holds the sketch up. “What d’ya think?”
I frown and say, “Doesn’t look like me.” He’s drawn a girl. Pretty. With upturned lips, deep-set eyes and a strong jut of the chin. She’s got straight hair like mine, but ...
Nelson looks at the paper and then back at me. “Looks just like you.”
“Whatever.” I go back to my linoleum square, adding detail. After a couple minutes, I feel Nelson leaning towards me again.
“You suck,” he says.
“Excuse me!?” My voice gets high, but I stifle a laugh.
Now he turns into a Rocket Pop: his hair blue, his face red, his neck white. “No,” he pleads, shaking his head. “I didn’t mean you suck as in you suck and can’t draw but as in you suck because you’ve already got something near perfection and I’m still struggling with how to make mine work.”
I stare at him.
He looks down at his black fingernails. “I mean, you really don’t suck, ever. Far from it.”
“Okay, Nelson.” He glances up from his hands and I punch his arm. But before I can pull my hand back, he grabs it and squeezes it with his own. He only touches me for a second; the weight of his fingers is warm on my knuckles, then gone. But my heart rate kicks up and every little bit of me tingles.
What the hell?
I whip my hand back and focus on deepening the lines of my design. I don’t look back at Nelson the rest of the hour.
I just listen to my pulse pounding in my ears.
We make ‘stained glass’ in the after school program out of colored tissue paper and black cardboard. All the kids cut their own design and glue tissue paper to it. Then Angie and I tape them up to the large window in the snack room.
The window faces west, and the sun is shining in just as we hang the mosaic of designs. The room is bathed in purple, blue, yellow and red.
“Wow.” Seven-year-old Selena sucks in her breath as the colors dance on her skin. “Look. I’m pretty.”
I tug on one of her braids. “You already were, kiddo.”
But she’s right, the colors make everything appealing. It feels other-worldly. Like the far side of the rainbow.
I stand with her in the middle of the room, laughing at the collage of colors on our arms.
We pretend we are caterpillars, turned into butterflies.
At night I read the how-to sections in the books on astral projection. It’s all about deep relaxation. About keeping control while letting go. I figure it shouldn’t be too hard for me since I’ve done it before – accidentally, but still. So I try it. And try it. And try it.
No matter what the websites say, this isn’t something that can be learned in fifteen minutes.
At 2:00 a.m., I’m wiped. Relaxing is hard work. Frustration crawls under my skin, but I’m just too tired to
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