Page 36 of The Glass Girl

Ms. Green pauses by my easel, watching as I move the charcoal around. I feel my fingers shake a little, knowing she’s watching me. But they were also shaking when I woke up.

“Are we good, Bella?”

My hand freezes over a branch. “I’m sorry, what?”

“The issue with submitting your presentation. I just want to make sure we’re back on even footing, you and me.”

“Um, sure. Okay.”

She studies my tree. “You had some trouble during the group talk yesterday.”

I swallow hard, not looking at her, trying to concentrate on my branches. “I guess.”

She speaks really slowly, which is something adults do when they know what they’re about to say is going to freak you out, or make you mad, or sad. It’s like by talking slowly, they think it will soften the blow. It never does, and my heart goesthump­thump­thump­thump­thump.

“I have to take some points off your individual participation grade because you didn’t contribute to the verbal requirement for the assignment. It wouldn’t be fair, otherwise, don’t you agree?”

What am I supposed to say? I can’t argue with her. I said two words, tops. Am I supposed to ask her to spare me because I freak when I have to stand up in front of people? I’m already standing on the thinnest patch of ice in this class, what with the slapping-the-desk thing.

“Dude, just let her do extra credit,” Lemon says, putting down his paintbrush. “She had a meltdown. That seems mental and not, like, lazy or something. I mean, you gave us an extension because I was sick, right?”

I give him a grateful smile, but not so big that Ms. Green can see, because that might piss her off.

“There’s no extra credit in my class, Rudy, and you had a doctor’s note.”

She looks back at me.

“I’m not trying to be mean, Bella. Just fair.”

My shoulders sag. My mother is going to kill me when she sees my quarter grades.

“It’s fine. Okay? It’s just fine.”

“Good. Let’s move on.” She steps closer to my easel. “I’m liking what you’ve done here with texture and the use of space. But I’m wondering, where are you?”

“What? I’m right here,” I say.

“No, I mean here,” she says, tapping my canvas. “Part of the assignment was to examine the process of self-portraiture. I’m not sure I’m seeing you here, unless you are the tree. Are you the tree?”

My face flushes with embarrassment. Beside me, Lemon giggles. “Be the tree, Bella.”

I look at Lemon’s painting and do a double take. What I thought for three weeks was just a mass of chaos isactuallya painting that appears tobeLemon: his smiling, dope-happy face made up of many colors. A mosaic of Lemon.

“I’m in the tree,” I say. “Just up high, where you can’t see it. I’m going to put that in, I swear. I just wanted to get the branches down, since they’re more elaborate.”

“There are a lot of branches.”

“Yeah.”

“I wonder how you’ll fit yourself in. You’ll be all tangled up.”

“Well, see, that’s what I’m working on, but you’re talking to me, so…” Honestly, real artists would never have gotten anything done if people were in their studio all the time, hovering around their marble and chisels and canvases and paints.

Ms. Green nods slowly. “Okay, Bella. I can’t wait to see it. We’ll have one more week after Thanksgiving break before projects are due.”

She moves on to Dawn, who’s doing collage for her self-portrait, cool stuff like yarn and paper and leather and buttons and seeds. Dawn’s looks really good, fun and interesting. Patty would probably love that on the wall at the diner.

Lemon says, “You totally weren’t going to put yourself in that tree, dude.”

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