Page 24 of Absorbed

“Messiness is part of what makes it so wonderful. Usually kids get in trouble for being messy. Plus you have to enjoy it quickly; that’s part of the fun. I like teaching art for the same reasons.”

“You are like the opposite of my mom. She doesn’t like messes. And she never buys popsicles anymore.”

“Have you asked why?”

Stacey shook her head. She could feel Ms. Moreno’s eyes on her as she slurped the side of her popsicle, but instead focused her attention on their paintings. She could see how Ms. Moreno had achieved the look of a full bush of roses, but each flower was different: a small tight blossom, another large and in full bloom, the third in profile with much darker hues. “I like that darker rose of yours the best.”

“Your roses are beautiful also, Stacey.”

“Thanks, but I get what you meant. I’m more drawn to your painting.”

“That’s why your self-portrait won first place, you know.”

Suddenly the sweetness in Stacey’s belly turned sour. “Huh?”

“So many students submitted beautiful artwork, but yours captured a real sense of what it’s like to be a teenage girl. The loneliness. The self-doubt and insecurity. Especially that you had crumpled the page. That spoke volumes.”

The only sound for the next minute was Stacey chewing on her popsicle stick. When it cracked and splintered between her teeth, she took it from her mouth and mumbled, “I was mad at you.”

“For taking it out of the trash and submitting it?”

“Yeah. It was really embarrassing.” She looked down at the broken and stained popsicle stick in her lap.

“I’m sorry. I wish you’d said something. I would have pulled it from the art show.”

“I was afraid you’d lower my grade if I said anything.”

“I’m sorry you thought that. I only wanted you to know how much I admired your work. I thought it deserved acknowledgement. I should have asked you.”

Stacey shrugged.

“Your feelings matter,” Ms. Moreno said. “Your feelings are important. No one should punish you for expressing them.”

Stacey’s jaw twitched. She looked up, feeling angry all over again. Desperate to change the subject, she softened her voice. “Does yours have a joke?”

“My popsicle stick?” Ms. Moreno asked. She turned it over and lifted it to read it under the overhead fluorescent light. “Uh, yeah. ‘How is a bad joke like a dull pencil?’”

“It has no point.”

“Right.” She smiled, then nodded. “What’s yours?”

“Why was the artist hauled to jail?”

Ms. Moreno shrugged.

“To face the mosaic.”

Ms. Moreno chuckled. “Does it really say that?”

Stacey shook her head and showed her teacher the decimated popsicle stick. “It says ‘Why’d the banana’ and ‘Because it.’ I can’t read the rest.”

“Hmmm… Why’d the banana…split?”

“Because it was in sundae school,” Stacey said.

“Because it saw the ice scream.” Ms. Moreno lifted her hands to her face and held her mouth in an “O” like the Edvard Munch painting.

“Because it was sick of being bunched up.” Stacey squeezed her arms and shoulders together like she was in a confined space.

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