Wingspan(Paranormal, Young Adult) MAJOR EDITING**

twenty four

My next class was not much better and halfway through it I felt utterly worthless as I considered putting down the pencil, conceding to my shortcomings and handing my drawing over, ready to accept what grade I was given.

Maybe I was being irrational and the very idea that if I did really well would mean I belonged, and after doing this one thing I uncovered any secretly hidden treasure trove of abilities and could now use them to pass the semester. With crystal cut intensity my state of mind was purely focused on innovation and development. Like the new drug is a quantum leap in the fight against cancer. Doing good meant I would be safe, untroubled, and wanted.

The truth was, I was a gutless coward who couldn't handle what people had to say about me and that's why after four attempts of drawing I crumble the page into a perfect trashcan paper ball, then duplicating the process all over again only to repeat the same mistakes with enough anticipation that this one would be my mega-death to have been relinquished, therefore circumvented.

I snorted.

Today's objective was to capture the essence of the model - my reflection of the person who sat in the desk across form me. It was my job to conjure intense emotion onto weighted paper. 

Since the assignment was 'getting to know your neighbor', what was supposed to be a fun welcome back repertoire that jumped us into the swing of things, I was busy trying to create emphasis on Wesley's hair because I'd speculated it was the main spotlight of his overall appearance. He had the wavy thing going for him that I suspected didn't come from bedhead.

How splendidly mind blowing life would get for me if I did good. Like the tender aged rose-colored ground plan to first finish college and then get married and have a family. Because you couldn't suck at anything for that long without seeing results, right?

Effect and return would win over, and if the good guys never gave up, they, too, would be in the clear. Boy did I prove myself wrong on that one.

Simply put, capturing finesse by depicting smooth fine lines did not come privy to me. There was no heads or tails about it. Drawing, for a lack of better words, was a hand-eye coordination that, for all its intents and purposes, tipped the scales from dreamer to full blown decorated exhibitionist. And I was a spectator. 

While cruising through the lecture without interruption, I didn't have it in me to confess art, in the generalist of terms, was a lost form I grew uncultured to. By the end of the hour I drew a portrait of Wesley that did no justice.

Not for the first time today the professor's words fell off me like a sticky hand toy that slid down the wall instead of clinging to it as commercially advertised. 

Shaped into large squares, individual desks were stacked into cubes of four, the corners perfectly latched together, an invisible T cross in the middle was the only telltale of where they aligned.

I had the severe disadvantage of being the only girl in a group. Nonetheless, as luck would have it, a turn-of-events shifted to my favor and things balanced themselves accordingly when I got to class and saw who I would be sitting with. Mason, Wesley, and Jason.

A legitimate artist, Mr. Honeycott, was a point example of how our world shapes who we are andhow we are shape our world.

Today he wore a loose white linen shirt with strings pulled open in the front, exposing cool air to his dark, curly chest hair. The tail of the over-sized shirt was tucked in to his leather pants that went underneath a small blue velvet vest, and, as if he didn't have enough clothes on, his footwear of choice was a burgundy pair of knee-high boots that created a Sir Lancelot medieval-esque look. On anyone else it would have seemed just plain silly.

Perhaps the reason why he could pull off such a bold outfit was the neatly trimmed beard with hard lines and black dreadlocks marginally dyed orange and purple on the ends that enhanced hisover-the-top image. He wasn't bad looking. A little old, but nice.

Nevertheless, he was a round-about-teacher in spite of his uniquely odd mannerisms, which I would later find characteristically endearing.

"As we fulfill our quest to enhance our natural creative abilities, both our inner and outer worlds become infinitely fascinating! Life is art, and each of us is a work of art in progress," Mr. Honeycott insisted. I almost believed in the hype. Until I realized I was hopeless in that department.

"Remember, it's all about preserving the integrity of the model that you see before you." He should know. Growing up in a melting pot of cultures and religions, Mr. Honeycott learned to develop his own creative language and technique rather than study art after setting off on his journey to self-discovery at age 18.

It took self discipline not to feel completely inferior to someone as successful as Mr. Honeycott, who would be grading my portrait. And if the other students felt totally lacking in comparison and shy about displaying their stuff, well, they didn't show it. There were portraits on walls that looked like a professional had done them with their names underneath so that everyone would know whose was which. A sensitive soul, Ginette Honeycott was not beyond venting his emotions through his art. And he regularly encouraged us to do the same...... 

"If my heart is broken because of a girlfriend or I am happy because I realize how beautiful my son is, all these emotions are translated into my canvas or sculpture. As an artist, your prerogative is to communicate through art the powerful mystery of your existence with all its contradictions and drama," he liked to say.

Mr. Honeycott voiced extensively the importance of perceiving with the eyes how to recognize or understand skillful art as being distinct or different because, and as he explained it, that was the only true way to gain tasteful judgement in order to discover with certainty through examination if something was good or not.

Wearing a long sleeve shirt with the buttons undone, showing off a large shark tooth necklace and fine black pants, Josh sits next to me. He's drawn a rather impressive sketch of Mason.

I'd been keeping my eye on him when I thought he wasn't looking, and I had to admit I felt stifled. Everyone else in the class seemed so in synch that I had to wonder what I could do to fit in.

When it came down to it I was all thumb and wrist.

When I had my back turned, josh leaned in close, just barely so that his broad shoulder touched mine, and whistled. "Wow. You were not joking," he antagonized, making a grab for my sketch book with large, fast hands. A dark twinkle of humor set in his eyes that made me believe he was just playing with me.