Slated by Teri Terry

Author:Teri Terry
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub, azw3
Tags: to-read
ISBN: 9781408319475
Publisher: Hachette Littlehampton
Published: 2012-05-02T22:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER THIRTY ONE

* * *

Phoebe’s robin is on the front wall in the art studio. No other pictures hang there. Many are displayed on the sides, the back, but never the front. She hasn’t signed her sketch; no one but us would know whose it is. Instead of barking at us to hurry, Mr Gianelli is silent as we file in and scan our cards, for this: our first class since Phoebe was taken. Everyone sees her sketch of the robin, and falls silent also.

He must know. I glance towards the door; Mrs Ali stands there. She still shadows me between classes most of the time, though it is obvious I know how to get around. She is keeping tabs on me: will she always? Ben and Amy don’t have anyone in their footsteps.

Mrs Ali glances around the room; she can sense something is up, looks from face to face. She stays.

‘Class, today I want you to think about something: the importance of connecting with what you put on paper. Take our friend Mr Red Breast, here. See the care, the connection; it takes an ordinary moment and moves it beyond, makes you be better than you are, finds the artist within. The communication between you, and your subject, yes? Give and take. How you see your subject, in a way nobody else can.’

And he stands back, so he is with us: all eyes are on Phoebe’s sketch. Everyone, together, studying the drawing. The robin that trusted her, hopped closer and closer. Phoebe’s smile as she sketched, murmuring at the robin, him chirping back. Seconds tick by: to a minute of silence, then two.

He shakes his head sadly, and returns to the front of the class.

‘Today, draw something or someone you care about, that makes you feel something; feel anything. Good or bad, I don’t care. Go! Get started.’

He slumps at his desk. Movements begin around the room; small, unhurried. Paper smoothed. Pencils, charcoals selected. All as if waking from a dream, a trance.

I lean over crisp, white sheets. Out of the corner of my eye I track Mrs Ali. Hers are thoughtful, puzzled; she departs.

Gianelli looks older today, the lines about his eyes more pronounced; his skin as grey as his hair. A silent protest at one of his students being taken, but we all know what he did just now, the risk he took. I see him slip a flask out of his pocket, tilt it into his tea. Then start a sketch of his own.

Without thought or question, I use my left hand. Turned in my seat a little so I can see the door, in case Mrs Ali comes back.

Draw someone I care about; someone who makes me feel something…

Quick and smooth strokes. A subject I haven’t tried before, but there is no trial and error with my left hand: it is right the first time. His thoughtful eyes. Strong chin, dark hair that is more wavy than curly, just below his ears: Ben.

Where are you? He wasn’t in biology this morning.

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