Freedom of Sketch

Reaching for the Real World

Just a few doors down from The Lounge is the classroom. It's airy, bright, and inviting, decorated with colorful educational posters, student projects, drawings of cell division, the circulatory system with its map of red arteries and blue veins. Patients from the partial hospitalization program crafted large papier-mâché models of fish to hang from the classroom ceiling. Someone sculpted a battered-looking octopus from a balloon and eight streamers. The figures float, ghostlike, between the rectangular lights, riding the currents of the heating system. I am undersea, shipwrecked, indefinitely twisted within the paper coils of seaweed.

The furniture reminds me that this is not a normal classroom. The desks are bolted to the floor, and the chairs are legless blocks of plastic, weighted with fifty pounds of sand. But there are fun rugs and beanbags and shelves full of thick books. Planted in little plastic vases in a line on the windowsill are lucky bamboo, their spiral stems sprouting long, waxy leaves. Ms. Gabriel, the teacher, is a wide postmenopausal woman with a firm demeanor and warm smile. She's pear-shaped and favors denim jumpers, knee-high socks with sandals, and turtlenecks. We meet one-on-one before any sort of group teaching takes place. Evan sits in with us, just in case we don't get along or I'm suddenly struck with homicidal impulses.

"I got your school records faxed to me," Ms. Gabriel says, thumbing through a stack of papers. "Looks like you're doing pretty well."

I shrug. "Yeah. I don't understand why they're giving you my records; it's not like I'm even going to be here all that long."

Ms. Gabriel flashes me the same curious look the other staff give me whenever I suggest that I might be moving on after a couple of weeks. "I like to get to know my students," is all she says.

"Okay."

"You skipped second grade?"

"Yes."

"And you have remarkable artistic talent." She takes a closer look a tone of the papers. "How long have you been an artist?"

I never really know what to say when people refer to me as an 'artist'. It's just who I am; it's what I do to ensure my survival. My existence revolves around art. "A while," I answer.

Ms. Gabriel takes a sip from her ceramic "You Don't Scare Me, I'm a Teacher!" mug. "I'll tell you what, Shiloh," she says, flicking on her glasses. She wears them on a string of mismatched glass beads. "Your teachers from Caberwood High have agreed to send me your assignments and lesson plans. We'll do what we can - conference calls, even online video chat, if necessary - so that you don't get behind. I asked your mom to bring your books over."

I pick a loose thread from the hem of my gown. "Great."

"I have a couple of other high school seniors I work with, so you guys will be in your own little group. It'll be fun."

I roll the thread into a tiny ball and flick it to the floor. I don't say anything.

"Of course," Ms. Gabriel adds, "your health comes first and foremost. We'll go at your own pace. The last thing we want is for you to feel overwhelmed."

Too late.

"That sound good, Shiloh?"

I nod. I find another thread dangling from my sleeve. When I pull it, it keeps coming and coming and scrunches up the fabric. I wind it around my finger, pull hard, and snap! it breaks. I roll another thread ball between my fingers.

Ms.Gabriel glances at her Minnie Mouse wristwatch. "That's about it for now, so I'll let you go. It was nice to meet you."

"Nice to meet you, too," I mutter, and walk out of the room with Evan.