The Life You Love

Chapter 3/Part 2

I somehow get through the Shakespeare fan club and at break I resign myself to the library. We were lucky at Sparrowell, with being a fairly new school our library was in good condition and in recent years a bunch of students helped give the place a well needed make-over: no prison-grade grey walls but a nice bright red feature wall and mural, painted by one of the advanced higher art students at the time. I spent any time I could in here, mostly Tuesday mornings as I didn't have class until after break but since I couldn't drive and didn't want to walk, I took the school bus at the usual time and just hung out in here. I was sat admiring the room, looking at the stack of new books that had been delivered when there was a small clunk on the table next to me, bringing me back to reality.

'You look like you could use a cuppa, dear.' Oh, I do love Jem. Jemima is our school Librarian, and she's been here nearly as long as Mr Stevenson. When she was ten years old she picked up a brand new book, To Kill A Mockingbird, which she loved so much that she decided to shorten her name in honour of it. She hasn't gone by Jemima since. She tells this story to every new visitor to the library so who knows how many times I've heard it. This is one of the reasons I love this place. I'm nothing special to any of the teachers, unlike Amelia, but Jem loves the fact I'll talk to her whenever I'm here about books and I help her out every now and then. Plus, she always knows when I need a cup of tea to keep me going. The other great thing about Jem is she knows if you want to talk to her or not, and today I just want to have my cup of tea and rest my head for a bit. What I would give for a nap. All too soon the bell rings and I'm making my way to double art. I couldn't complain too much about it as I had only taken the class to avoid taking PE or a science and not taking a subject apparently isn't allowed – but you know, taking one that you deliberately fail in is fine? I'm not saying I hate the subject and just sit and do nothing - I enjoy the class. I find painting and drawing therapeutic but the theory is a bore. When I got to class, Mr Goff had set up his easel, as well as the classes standing ones and that meant we were getting a demonstration of one technique or another. I'd rather have two hours of portfolio work, two hours of being lost in my own creativity not two hours of looking at what he does and copying it on my own canvas. I groan, audibly, to which Mr Goff laughs. He is well aware I'm not in this subject to pass.

'Come, Elissa, we won't be standing all lesson – I promise. And I believe you're going to like this one.' He gives a genuine smile and I wonder what on earth he has up his paint-splattered sleeve. That's one thing I love about Mr Goff, he doesn't care, and he's just so laid back about everything. On the first day of term, we walked into class and he stood up, wearing jeans and a t-shirt and then from under his desk, grabbed one of those packets that shirts come in. He unwrapped it whilst telling us he had bought the £30 shirt brand new, and that it was especially for this class as he has one for each class he teaches. I'm pretty sure the whole class had the same thought: okaaaaay. Weirdo. He then began to carefully put the shirt on and do the buttons up before heading over to the easel at the front of the room. He swiftly began splattering paint all over the canvas and his new shirt. He dipped his brush in some water to clean it and then used his £30 shirt he had so carefully put on to dry it, leaving a nice streak of blue paint over the stomach. We were all too shocked to even gasp. What was he doing? We soon came to learn the shirt was for part of a project he was working on – memoir of art class – I think he named it. Each class had their own shirt so that only the materials they used ended up on it. It was crazy – he was crazy. We loved him. That was why I was wary about him saying I would like the lesson. He does many a weird thing and I'm not sure I was in the mood for it. I need not have worried, today we were learning about artist's signatures and he wanted to teach us about Van Gogh by reinventing Starry Night – the one painting Mr Goff knows I love. By the end of the class I'm feeling invigorated - even though I was lied to and we did stand the whole lesson. I even stay over lunch to do some finishing touches. When the bell rings for fifth period I've completed my painting and Mr Goff puts it on his wall of student artwork he particularly likes. I also like it so I hope I'll get it back at the end of the year. I say goodbye and thank you to Mr Goff for the lesson and letting me gate crash his lunch and head off to French, ready for what every Mme Laurent has to throw at me. Heck, I'm even ready to deal with Alex Reynolds.

I was not ready to deal with Alex Reynolds.

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I think this is where I started going off a million tangents so I do apologise, but hey, we're here for the banter not a great piece of literature lmao