Gleanings: Stories from the Arc of a Scythe by Neal Shusterman

Author:Neal Shusterman [Shusterman, Neal]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Simon & Schuster Books for Young Readers
Published: 2022-11-08T00:00:00+00:00

* * *

“In light of this… situation,” the principal told them later that day, “the four of you are excused from the rest of your classes until your art project is complete.”

Which was the last thing that Morty needed. The other classes were much-needed distractions from the stress of the assignment. And when his parents found out—which of course they did—they called him in a controlled panic. All their guilt and regret at sending him to a boarding school overflowed, along with their fear for his life. He had to console them, and tell them it would be okay. He was the one whose life may have been in jeopardy, and yet he was the one consoling them.

By the next morning, everyone at school knew about the contest. Morty found that his schoolmates now avoided the four of them, as if they were not only marked for death, but that it might be contagious.

“So much for immortality,” mumbled Wyatt when they got to work planning their projects, and Wynter smacked him harder than usual.

“Don’t make this more difficult than it has to be,” she told him.

Morty fumbled through the brushes, sponges, and paints in the bins. There were pastels and pencils and inks. Felt markers in every color imaginable, all gone dry from disuse. Finally he reached for his familiar tubes of oils, only to spill the entire box.

Trina stooped to help him pick the tubes back up, and they bumped shoulders.

“I’m so clumsy,” said Morty.

“I wonder why,” said Trina. It was only when she grasped his hands in hers that Morty realized how hard he’d been shaking. “We’re gonna get through this,” she said.

Morty gazed at her. “How can you be sure?”

She gave him a slanted smirk and sang, “I just feel it.”

I just feel it was a catchphrase they resorted to when they were too lazy (or dumb) to explain why they chose a certain composition, or color, or technique. It reliably earned eye rolls from teachers—including Ms. Cappellino—and became their little joke over the years. Even little jokes could become history if you kept them going long enough.

Meanwhile, Wyatt clutched his tablet like a security blanket. He was frantically searching the Thunderhead’s art database. The Thunderhead itself was offering no assistance because this was a scythe matter now.

“I’m so screwed,” Wyatt muttered. “I can’t find anything to draw.”

Ms. Cappellino watched him for a full minute before he noticed.

“What?” said Wyatt, with bogus naivete. He knew precisely what was what with Ms. Cappellino. She glared at his tablet screen.

“Now might be a good time to step away from monkey mirrors, blind man’s goggles, and other digital bludgeons of conformity.”

But Wyatt wasn’t placated in the least.

“Why don’t you try something in oils?” she suggested.

“I have oils and watercolors and everything right here,” said Wyatt, indicating his tablet. “This should count just as much for the scythe.”

Wynter shook her head. “Screens emit light. Paint reflects it. It’s different.”

“And,” added Trina, “Pulling things from the Thunderhead isn’t exactly original, is it?”

“I’m just using the Thunderhead for inspiration,” said Wyatt, with exaggerated exasperation.

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