forty-four

So far today the sun is playing a trick where it’s shining so bright it looks like it’s supposed to be seventy degrees but then you go outside and it’s thirty.

It’s almost the end of the week. Thursday. The best day. All the anticipation of the weekend but none of the dread.

I’ve pretty much been skipping out on everybody, including Shelli, taking different routes to class. . . . I dunno. I just don’t really seem to know what to do about anything anymore so I’m hiding. If I could turn this ceiling into a blanket and crawl under it, I would.

We’re on seventies installations in Stoner Art Teacher’s class and, so far, all I’ve got is a bright white diorama shoe box and no clue what to do with it.

I guess the general idea is you’re just supposed to create a space where everybody walks in and has an emotional reaction.

I resolve to make a space where everybody walks in and is terrified.

Mostly right now my brilliant idea is sitting somewhere inside my head, hiding from me, and the only way to get it out seems to be to sit here and stare out the window.

Praise Jesus! The alarm bell goes off and once again we are all shuffled off outside, into the freezing cold, and everyone is looking at me expectantly.

“What? I didn’t do it!”

Just like last time we wait, stare at each other, make chitchat, watch our breath come out in dragon puffs, and go back inside, finally, before we are all taken to the hospital for hypothermia.

I guess I won’t have to work too hard to think of an installation because once we get back inside, there’s . . . um . . . an installation.

This is what it is:

The entire room is filled with, teeming with . . . butterflies.

And not just any old butterflies . . . but the most beautiful butterflies you’ve ever seen.

Bright blue butterflies, almost purple in the light, flying all over the place, catching the bright blue light in their wings. Hundreds of them.

Just so you know, I’ve heard of this before. My mom said my aunt did this at her wedding out in Berkeley, where everybody’s a socialist but kind of a hippie but kind of rich, too, and interested in butterfly extravaganzas, I guess. She said they released these butterfly packets after the ceremony and everybody sighed and whistled but then all the butterflies immediately died and it was really awkward and sort of depressing. But these butterflies aren’t dying. In fact, they seem to be thriving in this artistic environment.

Now, of course, everyone is freaking out. There are oohs and aahs, and dudes and no ways, and the heshers are tripping out. Some of the girls are actually scared of the butterflies or something. Or maybe they’re just pretending to get attention. Yup. That’s exactly what they’re doing. I mean, since when are butterflies scary?

If you were going to make a movie about a rabid butterfly everyone would just laugh in your face. Although, I guess this imaginary scenario would take place in Hollywood so who knows what would happen? Maybe they would just laugh in your face and do a line of coke off the nearest starlet.

Note to self. Never go to Hollywood.

PS: Everyone is looking at me.

I guess this qualifies as a successful installation.

My white shoe box diorama is still at my workstation and there’s no amazing painting there to replace it or anything so I am officially off the hook for this.

But that doesn’t mean that this isn’t 100 percent, completely, a zillion percent, the work of Logan McDonough. If there was any doubt, I notice there’s a little fake blue butterfly pinned to the side of my Trapper Keeper. I know this because there has never before been a little fake blue butterfly pinned to the side of my Trapper Keeper.

And if you think this makes me fall totally completely in love with Logan well you are wrong. I refuse to do it, no matter what, so just stop it.

Also, if you think that I have been sitting around missing Logan and wishing that I’d turn the corner and see him hiding in the bushes and then he’d just come up and grab me and knock my socks off with a kiss that erases everything that happened and this weird Jared voodoo spell would be lifted, well, that’s not true either. I swear.

Stoner Art Teacher turns to me.

“Anika? Was this your project?”

I know, I know. I am supposed to be a good person and always say please and thank-you and never say anything mean and always tell the truth.

I pause and then —

“Do I get an A?”