Page 6 of The Art of Us

I’m spiraling.

Kal took a deep breath. Then he took a second one because the first hadn’t done what it was supposed to. Then a third.

“You okay, kid?”

The third one worked. “Yeah. ’S all good. You’re looking extra tanned today.”

Wasden didn’t really look tanned so much as burned. His skin had apparently taken a beating.

“Should’ve worn sunscreen,” Wasden said. “Did some fishing with my daughters after school yesterday,”

“It’s still winter, man.”

“With my girls, the sun is always shining. And, okay, though the sun was out, it was seriously cold, but no regrets. I’m stealing every minute I can before they grow up on me. You know what I mean?”

“Yeah. Gotta take moments while you’ve got ’em.”

Mr. Wasden placed a hand on Kal’s shoulder and gave a quick squeeze of solidarity before Kal made his way to his seat.

“Okay, class.” Mr. Wasden clapped his hands together, and everyone stopped what they were doing to listen. “We’re doing monster races today.” He reached into a bowl of the large artist trophy he kept on a pedestal at the front of the room. “Mara Washington?” He glanced around the room until he made eye contact with Mara, who was twirling the end of one of her ebony box braids and staring out the window. “Come on up.”

Mr. Wasden reached in again, his burned fingers crinkling the slips of paper together until they found one. “Kal Ellis.” Mr.Wasden looked at Kal and flourished a hand toward the front. “You’re up.”

Once both he and Mara had placed themselves in front of one of the posters, Mr. Wasden handed them each a compressed charcoal stick and told them the rules of his game. “It’s monster races. What that means is that you are all going to create a monster by shouting out characteristics. Mara and Kal here are going to sketch out what they hear you say. It’s totally up to their interpretation. And don’t limit yourselves to just physical characteristics. Talk about what these monsters are like on the inside. The things that go on inside our heads and souls affect us physically and can be drawn by a skilled artist. Everyone in this room is skilled enough to be capable of portraying internal characteristics. Okay!” He clapped his hands together again. “Let the races begin! Don’t be shy. Start shouting out characteristics.”

“Huge,” someone yelled.

“Horns,” someone else called.

“Fangs.”

“Claws.”

“Cruel.”

Kal let the bit of charcoal in his hand glide over the surface of the poster.

“Growling.”

“Hairy.”

“Striped.”

“Late for dinner.” That one brought laughter from everyone.

“Tail.”

“Scary and breathes fire.”

At this, without thinking, Kal drew a gun in the claws of his creature. He stopped so abruptly, the charcoal in his hand dropped to the floor with a clatter.

Breathe.

He took a deep breath. Another one. A third. People were still calling out words that sounded fuzzy and far away. They weren’t traumatized by what he’d drawn the way he had been. They didn’t know his past. They weren’t psychoanalyzing him, but simply playing the game.

Breathe.

He bent and picked up the charcoal.

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