Better Than Running at Night (23 page)

"Did you?"

"Depends on what you mean by resist," he said in a cocky tone that made me want to punch him.

"I don't think I want to know what
you
mean by it."

"Well, I'll tell you, we didn't go all the way."

"Great. That makes me feel better." My voice was flat.

"It should. Because I could've," he said. "But anyway, the thing that sucks is she got an A and I got a B."

"Were her paintings good?" At this point I was talking just to make conversation, not to get information.

"No!" he wailed. "They were so primitive and pasty looking!"

"Do you think Fritz knew?"

"He must have."

"How do you think he found out?"

"I think Maura Bustier told him."

"Why?"

"I think she was jealous that I only painted one of her."

I let out a brief laugh. A mocking laugh.

"It's not funny."

"It sort of is."

"I obviously can't talk to you about anything serious."

"I guess not."

After we hung up my fake smile faded and I lay down flat on my
stomach. I pounded the mattress with my fists and my feet like a bad swimmer. And I buried my face in my pillow to muffle my scream.

Friday, Gregg treated us to a field trip.

Only about half the class showed up on any given day, because of Gregg's nonattendance policy. And it was never the same people. But it seemed like everyone came for the field trip.

Gregg marched us up to the admissions building, where Ryan Brakee was exhibiting again.

"This guy's a genius, as far as I'm concerned," Gregg announced on our way up the hill. That day he was wearing John-Lennon-style frames. He seemed to have a different pair of glasses for every day of the week.

Sam put his heavy hand on my shoulder. "Try not to barf," he whispered.

The door to the admissions gallery was labeled Brakee: A One-Man Show. The room was empty except for a cubed metal vault in the center of the room. There were small windows on two sides of the cube. We had to take turns peeking through the glass. Inside, the walls were white. Ryan was crouching, gaping at us. There was just enough room for him to stand and to walk about five paces in every direction.

Gregg circled the cell and the tattooed students followed him. His stubble made a scratchy sound as he rubbed it thoughtfully with his fingers.

"One month," he said. "How many of us would have the balls to lock ourselves up for a month?"

The groupies shook their heads.

"I wish," mumbled the guy with the blue mohawk.

"I'd like to lock Gregg up for a month," I whispered to Sam. My lips were really close to his ear.

I took another peek.

A guy dressed in black came in and walked briskly over to the vault with a rattling garbage bag. He kneeled and unlocked a trap door at the bottom of one of the walls. Out of the bag he pulled a shining bedpan and a tray of cafeteria food and he slid them through the slot. Then he locked it back up and left.

Ryan pretended not to notice.

Gregg was watching the scene from the window opposite mine.

Ryan picked up a pencil that lay on the ground and crawled an-imalistically toward a wall. There he scrawled SCHOOL SUCKS!

"Here we have it!" Gregg cheered. "True art."

As much as I disagreed with that statement, I do have to say, Ryan had come up with a pretty good trick for getting out of doing homework for a month.

Since Gregg didn't believe in homework, I made up my own assignments. Over the weekend I drew a self-portrait, using a mirror in my room. I wanted a critique, but I didn't want to bring it to Gregg. So on Monday, a half-hour before class began, I found Ed.

I had looked up his classroom on the schedule. He was in the Garage again. None of his students were there yet when I walked in with my drawing rolled up.

"Ellie!" he shouted. "What a blast from the past! This is just like old times, when you used to walk in that very door!"

"Hi Ed," I said. "I've missed you."

"Oh, no need to flatter me!" he yelled. "How's your new class?"

"Well," I sighed, walking closer, "it's not what I'd expected when I came here. Rolling on the floor and screaming."

Ed stopped beaming.

"One of those," he said.

"Yeah."

"The administration thinks we need more variety in our faculty," he said. "But to me it seems like variety in quality."

"It's just not for me," I said. "Maybe a few years ago it would've been. But not now."

"Are you doing any work outside of class?"

"That's why I came to see you," I said. "I was wondering if you'd still give me critiques even though I'm not your student."

He brightened up again.

"Certainly! Certainly! I'd be delighted!" he shouted. "What've you got here?!"

He pointed at the roll.

"It's a self-portrait." I unrolled it.

"It sure is!" he said. "A lot of emotion too! A brooding expression on that face!"

"Really?"

"Yes," he said. "Self-portraits are very telling."

"I know you don't have time right now to talk," I said. "But I was wondering if you could give me assignments so I don't forget how to draw this semester."

"Sure I will!" he yelled. "What do you want to draw?"

"The figure," I said. "But the problem is I can't afford to hire a model on my own and I don't want to ask my dad for money for this."

"Well, you know, Ellie," Ed said, "the best model anyone can use is free. And I think you've already found her."

"You mean me?"

He nodded vigorously.

"But even for nudes?"

"Only if you're comfortable with that," he said. "You can do it
for practice, and just show me ones with clothes. Whatever you want, I'd be happy to help."

"I'll think about it."

"Why don't you bring me a drawing in two weeks and we'll talk!" he shouted. "Here's my number!" He jotted it down on a piece of paper from his shirt pocket. "Call me and we'll set up a time!"

"I will."

"My students will be here soon. I'd better get my act together!"

"Okay," I said. "Thanks for your help."

"Anytime, Ellie! Anytime!"

He waved good-bye with both hands as I left.

Instead of going to Gregg's class, I went home and pulled the shades.

I got out a big piece of paper, about half my size, and taped it to a board on my easel. Then I sat on the edge of my desk in front of the mirror.

I started to draw myself, just sitting there.

I drew right through lunch. But in the middle of the afternoon I quit. It just wasn't as interesting as Ed's drawings. It wasn't "revealing," like he said self-portraits usually are. Plus, there were so many folds in my sweater and jeans and they kept moving. I couldn't get them right.

I took off my clothes. Not all of them at first. I left on my bra and underwear. But when I started drawing them in, I looked like a Victoria's Secret ad.

I sat there, entirely naked, in front of a blank sheet of paper. I needed a good pose. I tried shifting my legs, my arms, my head. Finally I settled on one foot up on the desk, with the other leg relaxed. My head rested on the raised knee and my hands held that foot. My hair fell over my face.

I sometimes had to draw with my left hand so I could see what my right hand looked like. I had to take breaks to keep my limbs from going dead. And it was really hard to draw my head and at the same time hold it in the right position. But Ed was right; I was a more reliable model than anyone I could've hired. Plus there was no one around to distract me, which was more relaxing than being in a class.

I had a good feeling about this drawing, so I decided to take it slow. I got the basic shapes roughed in, and set it aside for the next day.

The seniors in the painting department were putting on a show. I was a little worried that the work would be so intimidating I'd be afraid to start painting again.

When I showed up, the room was packed. People in clear plastic jumpsuits were serving hors d'oeuvres. Some of the girls wore pasties and G-strings, but mostly they were all naked underneath the plastic.

A voice behind me said, "I hear that guy over there is a student's father!"

I turned around. Ralph was pointing at a naked guy with a beer gut in one of the plastic suits. Well, he was naked, but he looked like he was wearing a hair suit under the plastic. Curly gray hair covered his body—except his head, which was bald. He had a beard, but he'd shaved his neck all the way down to his collar line. He was handing out pigs-in-blankets.

"Ralph!" I said. "What's going on here?"

"One of the apparel seniors made the outfits. Not very creative, are they?"

"They're no papier-mache tree."

"I'm telling you, Ellie, you and I could make a whole line of apparel based on wearing your insides on the outside. I've been thinking about this ever since that Valentine's party. I can see the label now: Insides Out. We could even have the seams showing, like they were sewn on the wrong side. It would be way more interesting than this amateur plastic stuff." He gestured at the hors d'oeuvres servers. "I mean, the only thing these outfits say is: Hey, look at me! I'm naked ... but not really!"

A girl with flower-shaped pasties walked over and offered us some mini-quiches.

We each took one.

"It would be better if they'd painted the pasties to look like real nipples," Ralph whispered.

"Right," I said, laughing. "Have you looked around yet?"

"Yeah." He shrugged. "Pretty disappointing. I'll walk with you."

The first painting was of a dragon getting its head cut off, breathing its last breath of fire in a knight's face. The next one was a white wall with a bloody handprint. It wasn't even painted well. Another was a huge self-portrait with a tear the size of a telephone dripping from the eye. There were only two naturalistic figure paintings. They hung side by side in the darkest corner of the room. Nate's work was way better than both of them.

"Ooh, look at those titles," I said.

"
In a Pensive Mood,
" Ralph read, "and
Melancholy Maiden.
" He opened his mouth and stuck his finger inside, pretending to make himself throw up.

"Tell me about it." I laughed.

"What are your paintings like, Ellie?"

"They used to be like this," I said, gesturing to the paintings that surrounded us.

"I can't imagine that."

"Good," I said. "I haven't painted since the end of high school. But I think I want my paintings to look like Ed's drawings."

"Wow," he said. "I liked those. I can't wait to see your paintings. Let me know when you're ready to show them. Maybe I'll design an outfit for your opening. We could print one of your paintings on fabric and make it into a dress, so it looks like you're the figure in the painting."

"Ralph," I said, "the way things are going now, I probably
will
be the figure in the painting."

I stopped going to Gregg's class regularly. Once I showed up after not having gone in for a week and Gregg didn't say anything about it. That day he had us sitting on the floor in a circle talking about what we do to make art a part of our daily lives. He was taping our answers with a video camera.

"You start," he said, aiming the camera at me.

Maybe this was his way of acknowledging my absence.

"I've been drawing every day."

"
And?
"

"And that's it."

"What do we say to that, class?"

Everyone put their hands to their faces and made farting noises. Blue mohawk guy made armpit farts. I guess it was a trick Gregg had taught them while I'd been away. The only one not doing it was Sam.

"Any other old farts here?" Gregg asked, scanning the ring of farters with his lens. "Hang on. Hang on a second." He put the camera on the floor between him and the guy with the blue mohawk. "These damn things are in the way. I can't focus." He removed his thick round tortoiseshell glasses and put them beside the camera.