Page 27 of Writing Mr. Right

“Now, remember, not everybody is Grayson Perry,” the artist with loud purple streaks in her hair declares from the front of the room. Her name tag reads Penelope. “We’re not trying to be the next greatest pottery maker. We’re here to have some fun, so even if your creations don’t come out exactly like you’re hoping, don’t be too discouraged.”

I can’t believe Aashiq’s big idea of fun is pottery class. I’ve never been before, and it’s not exactly my idea of a good time. I’ve never been good at visual art.

For a split second, while he held the door open for me, I thought he might have brought me here to reenact that famous scene fromGhost, but to my disappointment, the room was filled with other people. Then I berated myself for the disappointment, because there’s no reason to be upset that we can’t reenact a very romantic scene from a famous movie. No reason at all.

The exhaustion from earlier hits me full force—it feels like my whole body is being pulled down to the ground. I think about voicing my concerns to Aashiq and telling him I want to go home, but based on the way he’s practically bouncing in his seat as the artist goes through the instructions, I can’t dampen his fun.

Aashiq raises his hand, and when Penelope calls on him, he asks, “What if you’ve never done this before?”

“This is a beginners’ class,” she informs him with an encouraging expression. “So we’re starting with the basics and notworrying too much about the end product. Now, if everyone could grab their aprons, we—”

Aashiq’s hand shoots into the air again, and the wrinkles around Penelope’s eyes tighten. “Yes?”

“How many classes do you need to take in order to be good?” he asks.

“Well, as many as it takes for you,” Penelope responds. “Every artist is different, especially within specific mediums. It might take you one or two classes to pick it up, or it might take multiple classes for you to get it. The whole point is we’re here to have fun, not worry about how perfect our work turns out.” She clasps her hands together. “Now, if you’d all like to grab the aprons, they’re over—”

Aashiq lifts his hand once again, and this time I see the irritation glint in Penelope’s eyes. Still, she’s a professional, and she calls on him again. “Yes? What is it this time?”

“Oh, nothing.” Aashiq drops his hand into his lap. “I just wanted to tell you I like your hair. It really brightens your face. It’s very lovely.”

The tension in Penelope’s face relaxes. “Oh,” she says. “Well, thank you.” She tries her best to put her “business” face back on, but her expression is lighter as she says, “Let’s get started, shall we?” She gestures to the wall where the aprons are. “Please get your aprons and then take a seat again so we can begin,” she says all in one breath, as if worried Aashiq will interrupt again.

As we slide off our stools and head over to the rack, I pinch the material of Aashiq’s shirt and pull him closer. “You think you could try and rein in the questions?”

He furrows his brows. “Why?”

“Because they’re clearly annoying the teacher. And you’re wasting the time they’ve allocated for the class.”

“Asking questions is not wasting time,” he counters. When we get to the rack, he grabs an apron, but to my surprise, he turns me around and loops it over my head. His fingers workto secure the tie at my back, and I pretend like the action isn’t making me squirm. “It’s important to be curious!” he adds. “Especially when it comes to art. No good art ever comes from not being curious.”

“There’s a difference between being curious and pissing off the teacher,” I point out, even as my heart thumps against my ribs. Once I feel the pulling at my back stop, I turn around in time to see Aashiq pulling an apron over his own head. “Also, bring down the excitement a little. People are staring at us.”

“Okay, I can do that,” he chirps. He finishes his own tie, then flashes a huge grin and basically skips back to his seat.

I watch his retreating form for a long moment. “Yeah, sure,” I mumble under my breath, but I follow him anyway.

Once we’re all sitting in front of our wheels, Penelope takes her place at the front of the class. She dunks her hands into her bowl of water, then picks up a slab of clay and holds it up for us all to see. “We’re going to start by smacking our clay. Throw it firmly from hand to hand, smacking it into a ball shape.”

This time, I raise my hand. “How perfect does it have to be?”

“Oh, not perfect at all, dear!” she responds in a sweet voice, which is a jarring juxtaposition for someone who looks like she stepped off the cover of a punk album. “This is just to get us started.”

I chew my tongue. “Okay, thanks,” I say in a tight voice. That wasnotthe answer I wanted. As a writer, I’m so used to having everything ready to go before I even start writing, and everything has to be perfect. Why waste time I already don’t have meandering around with something imperfect when I can figure out a way to make things perfect from the beginning?

Aashiq’s already tossing his ball of clay around between his palms. I dip my hands into my bowl of water and pick up my clay. The mud-like substance that comes off the clay when the water touches it feels funny against my skin, but I dutifully smack my clay until it’s vaguely ball-shaped. Actually, it’s morelike an oval. I wet my fingers and go again, trying to smooth the edges out so it’s more like a sphere. Except every time I run my hands along the clay, it just becomes more and more oval-shaped. Frustration lines my gut. I peek over at Aashiq, who proudly stares at his clay ball. It’s not perfectly spherical, but it’s better than mine.

“Once it’s rounded, you want to throw the ball of clay down as close to the center of the wheel as you can.” Penelope demonstrates by smacking her own clay right in the middle of her wheel. “Then press it into a conical shape.” Her fingers massage the clay until the rounded parts become flat at the edges.

Everyone confidently tosses their clay down onto their wheels, including Aashiq, but I hesitate. I bite my bottom lip, squinting one eye as I try to level my hand so it meets the center perfectly. Once I’m sure it’s aligned perfectly, I throw my clay down…

…and it’s justslightlyoff-center.

I gnash my molars. Great.

Aashiq leans over and elbows me in the side. “Hey, are you okay?” he whispers. “You’re all red, like you’re going to blow up.”

I relax my face, and some of the tension leaves my body. “Yeah, I’m fine,” I grumble, even though the fact that my clay isn’t in the middle is still pissing me off.

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