The Banana Split Affair (6 page)

“Well,” Chris said a bit nervously, “I’ll give it my best shot. That’s all I can do. Wish me luck!”

“Good luck!” Susan exclaimed, patting her sister on the back.

I really mean it, too, she thought as she watched her sister walk away toward the art studio. I’m already waiting for fifth period to be over so I can find out what happened! One thing is certain: I hope that Chris-as-Susan has better luck in catching Keith West’s eye than Susan-as-Susan has!

Chris sat at a desk covered with a pad of thick-textured paper, a plastic cup filled with water, a handful of fine brushes, and three tubes of watercolor paint. She eyed the art materials warily.

How on earth am I going to get through the next forty minutes of Susan’s art class? she wondered. Not only do I have to figure out exactly what to do with those strange things that are as foreign to me as Indian fossils. I also have to convince Mr. Smith, the art teacher, and the fifteen students in this class that I’m the talented, well-trained Susan Pratt.

“Today I’d like you to try something different,” Mr. Smith was saying. “Something that will stretch your creativity a little bit more than the more standard kinds of projects you’ve been working on so far this semester.”

A murmur of excitement swept through the room. Chris’s frown only deepened.

Terrific, she thought morosely. I’m about as creative as a marble statue. Here I’d hoped I could get by with a mishmash of colors that I could pass off as expressionism. But no, today has to be the day that Susan’s art instructor decides to get fancy.

“As you all know, you can walk into any art supply store in the country today and buy any tube of water paints you want. Companies like Windsor and Newton have done us the service of manufacturing every shade in the rainbow. And not only green, purple, and blue, either. Take blue, for example. You could buy yourself a tube of cerulean blue, cobalt blue, turquoise blue, bimini blue, peacock blue.... The list is practically endless. Being able to choose from so many different kinds of blues makes the artist’s job that much more simple.

“But what would you do if you had to mix your own colors? If all of a sudden the art-supply companies disappeared from the face of the earth and you had to go back to primitive times when people were forced to develop new shades by mixing what was available?”

“I know what
I’d
do,” a male voice called out from the back of the room. “I’d switch my major to chemistry!”

The class, including Chris, laughed.

“Sorry, Phil, you won’t get off so easily.” Mr. Smith smiled. “Not today, anyway.

“Now, you’ll all notice that besides the usual supplies for watercolor painting, I’ve placed three tubes of paints on each desk. As you can see, they are the three primary colors: red, blue, and yellow. Who’d like to tell me what’s so special about the primary colors?”

“All colors are made up of mixtures of them,” a girl volunteered.

“At least in theory!” added Phil.

“Not only in theory, Phil. It also happens to be true in reality. What I want you to do today is make a painting using as many colors as you would under ordinary circumstances. But the trick is to mix them all from the three tubes of paint you’ve been given.”

“Mr. Smith, will you be available after school today for extra help?” quipped a boy in the front of the room. Once again everyone laughed.

Chris felt a little bit relieved. At least the rest of the class is as nervous as I am about this assignment, she thought. Maybe no one else knows how to approach this either. Too bad Susan—the
real
Susan—isn’t here today. This sounds like just the kind of project she’d love. She’s always coming up with these impossible ideas on her own, just to challenge herself. She sighed. As for me, I prefer to take the easy way out of things.

As she gingerly picked up a paintbrush, Chris was glad to see that once Mr. Smith’s short lecture ended, students felt free to wander around the classroom to discuss the project and look at one another’s work. There was a comfortable atmosphere in the room that was unlike anything she had ever experienced in any other class.

No wonder Susan is so enthusiastic about her art courses, Chris thought. I can see that something like this could really get to be fun. That is, if you have some kind of knack for it. Which I certainly don’t.

She continued to stare at the blank sheet of white paper. There was nothing really difficult in Mr. Smith’s assignment, she knew. It was meant to be an experiment, a learning assignment. But somehow she couldn’t manage to get started. She realized she was afraid.

Afraid! Christine Pratt? The girl who had given speeches to an entire auditoriumful of attentive students when she ran for student council office? Who had tried out for every club from cheerleading to debating to drama? Who had dated nearly every team captain, boys that most girls were too shy even to smile at? Yet as much as she tried to convince herself that there was nothing frightening about mixing a bunch of paints, she couldn’t bring herself to get started.

“What’s the matter, Susan?” Mr. Smith had been strolling around the classroom, glancing over people’s shoulders and offering suggestions. “I’m surprised that you haven’t gotten started yet. This is the kind of thing I would have expected you to throw your whole self into. Are you having trouble getting inspired?”

“I guess so, Mr. Smith. I seem to do better with the more structured kind of projects.”

“Nonsense! This is really no more difficult than anything else we’ve done this semester. I suspect that you’re just a bit shaky about confronting something as freewheeling and loose as this. But an artist can’t always rely on the conventional methods. Sometimes you have to search to find the medium that best expresses what it is you want to communicate. To be able to find that medium, you must be able to step beyond the ordinary limits. That’s what separates the true artist from someone who just plods along doing things that have already been done. Try loosening up!”

Loosening up! Chris started at Mr. Smith’s words. Why, that was what she was always telling Susan! “Be more daring. Don’t be so conventional! The safest way of approaching things is not always the best way!”

And here she was, the daring free spirit, held back by the same kind of fear. The fear of letting go, of experimenting, of possibly failing. So there was a little bit of that human weakness in her, too! It was painful to acknowledge but a lesson worth learning. From now on, besides recognizing it in herself, she would stop accusing Susan of being so timid. The only difference between them was that their fears were brought on by unrelated situations.

“Why don’t you take a walk around the classroom, Susan?” Mr. Smith suggested in a friendly tone. “You might be able to conquer your ‘artist’s block’ by looking at what some of the other students are doing.”

“That’s a good idea,” she sighed. Then she brightened. Not only would she get to see how other people were managing to mix their paints; she would also have the opportunity to talk to Keith West, her sister’s secret crush.

She stopped beside several desks, peering at people’s palettes and asking questions about their techniques before pausing before what she had ascertained must be Keith’s desk. Blond hair, green eyes, an expression of total absorption in his work.

“Hi, Keith,” she ventured, hoping that her sister’s description was accurate enough for her to pick him out of the whole class.

The boy looked up from his painting and blinked hard, as if his thoughts had been so far away that he needed a few seconds to get used to the fact that he was back on Planet Earth once again.

“Oh, hi, Susan. How’s it going?”

Chris couldn’t help noticing that he turned a bright shade of pink when he saw her. Was he just shy around girls, or was Susan Pratt someone special to him? She was also surprised to see that he was rather good-looking. She had assumed that her twin wasn’t a very good judge of that kind of thing, but Susan, she discovered, had a good eye after all. There was something pleasing about his even features and cautious smile. The round tortoiseshell glasses he wore also suited him well. They added an air of dignity to a boy who was smart and serious but also had many more dimensions to his personality that lurked just below the surface.

“Things aren’t going too well, I’m afraid. I haven’t gotten started yet”

“You? Why not?”

She shrugged. “This isn’t the kind of thing I’m used to doing. Mr. Smith says I have an ‘artist’s block’ I have to get over. What he means is that I’m chicken to try something I’ve never done before.”

“How could you possibly be afraid of anything?” Keith looked at her with genuine astonishment, his paintbrush poised in the air, “Why, you’re the very best artist in the school! If not the entire state!”

“I’m so pleased to hear that you think so!” Chris was happy for her sister. At least, that was her immediate reaction. Then she realized that she was blushing over Keith’s compliment and it was
Chris
who was flattered, not
Susan.
Ridiculous! she immediately scolded herself. You’re Susan, remember? Keith has never even met the real Chris Pratt. Don’t go getting all confused now just because a boy with sincere green eyes and a gentle way of speaking has said something nice to you!

She forced herself to stay aware of the role she was playing.

“Oh, I’m not so good,” she said modestly, lowering her eyes. “I just work at my art projects really hard.”

“Come on, Susan, you don’t have to admit it. We both know how talented you are. What about all those awards you’ve won?”

“There haven’t been
that
many....”

“What about the principal choosing
your
painting out of the entire school’s entries to put up in his office?”

“I don’t know. Maybe I was just lucky.”

Chris remembered when Susan had been awarded that honor, of course. But she hadn’t been aware of just how important it was. Or of how proud her sister must have felt. I guess having a lot of friends—especially a lot of boyfriends—is even less important than I thought, she mused. Having a talent and being rewarded for it is pretty impressive. I just never thought about how special my sister really is.

“Anyway,” she said, anxious to get away from the embarrassing subject of herself, “I happen to think you’re quite an artist, too. You’re terrific. Much better than I am. And whether it’s recognized or not, I think
you’re
the best.”

This time Keith turned beet red. “Well, gee, I, uh, guess it doesn’t really matter I mean, a true artist doesn’t paint for other people. He—or she—paints for himself. To soothe something burning inside so fiercely that it has to be communicated to the rest of the world.”

“That’s nice,” Chris said dreamily. “I never really thought about it that way.”

There was a short silence. As Chris was wondering whether the conversation was over, whether she should go back to her desk and leave Keith to his work, he placed his brush in the glass of water on the corner of his desk.

“Who’s your favorite artist?” he asked. He spoke the words so quickly that it was obvious to Chris that he was trying to prolong their time together.

Unfortunately, Chris suddenly drew a complete blank. She didn’t know very much about art as it was. And now that the pressure was on to play the role of her knowledgeable sister and impress Keith, she totally forgot what little she did know.

“Uh, it’s hard to say. There are so many I like....”

“Yeah, me too. But I especially like the impressionists.”

“Funny you should say that,” Chris said quickly. “I like them, too.”

“I love their use of color.”

“I do, too.” Chris started to get fidgety as Keith’s comments got deeper. She hoped she would be able to hold her own in this discussion. She knew that Susan would have had no trouble at all.

“Which impressionist painter do you like best?”

“Oh, I, uh, I always liked, uh ...”

“I like Renoir,” Keith interrupted. He didn’t seem to notice the difficulty she was having with his simple questions.

“I
adore
Renoir!” she cried. “That’s my very favorite painter!” Chris was glad she was fast-thinking enough to use the word “that,” since she had no idea of whether this artist named Renoir was male or female.

“He’s really terrific.” Keith nodded. “I could look at his paintings forever.”

“He’s the greatest,” Chris agreed, relieved that she had at least discovered that Renoir was a man.

After another brief hesitation, Chris said, “Well, I guess I should get back to my desk. The period’s almost half-over, and I haven’t even started yet.”

“You know, I’m glad we had this chance to talk,” Keith said, smiling shyly. “I’ve seen you in this art class every day for the last two months, but you’ve always seemed so absorbed in what you were doing that I never had the nerve to speak to you before. But now I see that not only are you a wonderful artist; you also know a lot about art!”

Again Chris was pleased at his compliment. The fact that she had barely gotten by in her conversation with Keith about painters didn’t matter. “Well, good-bye, I guess.” She was surprised to discover that she was reluctant to pull herself away.

She went back to her desk, ready to tackle her paints. But as she became absorbed in squeezing blobs out onto a palette, she felt something nagging at her. A peculiar sense of confusion.

It was obvious to her that contrary to her twin’s belief, Keith had been noticing her for some time. And not in any casual way, either. Keith West, as shy and quiet as he was, definitely had his eye on Susan Pratt.

It had been her mission to discover that and to encourage any interest he might have in Susan. But now that that had been accomplished, there was something else bothering her. What was it? she wondered, trying to ignore her feelings and concentrate on art class. There’s something odd going on here, and I won’t be able to think straight until I figure it out.

All of a sudden Chris dropped her brush. It fell across her blank sheet of paper, leaving a bright red streak across the white surface.