Chapter Five

Angela

I speed-walk through the building. It’s the first day of the summer semester and I’m running late. Three years of these night classes are beginning to wear on me. Some days I just want to blow off class and stay home—veg in front of the television all night with beer and junk food. But I don’t do that. Ever. Good girl Angela Lavelle reports for every class, completes every assignment, and studies for every test. It’s just who I’ve always been. Of course, it’s even more compelling when you’re paying your own way through school. Every hard-earned dollar goes toward my education. And every day I go home smelling of french fries is one day closer to my degree.

I enter the classroom and take a seat at one of the three remaining empty desks. Luckily, I’ve beaten the professor here. People chat amongst themselves as I unpack my bag and try to catch my breath. On the dry erase board, in large red letters, it reads: 3255 Art and Activism.

Being an artist is something I consider to be my destiny. Art is in my blood. My father was a painter; he drew pictures for me and hid them around the house. I still have all of them in a shoebox at the top of my closet.

My mother never understood our love of the arts. “But what on earth will you do with a degree in art?” she always asks. For a while, I didn’t have an answer. But now I know I want to teach. It took one of my freshman year professors asking, “How do you want to affect people with art?” to realize my calling. Because the answer was simple and immediate: I want to encourage others to find their inner artist. I want to help them to grow and discover how to express themselves through art.

My art teacher in third grade, Miss Berry, made such an impression on me. She always encouraged me to “embrace my creativity” and that is what set me on the path to become an artist and eventually want to teach art.

“Very good, Angela. What a lovely drawing.” Miss Berry places a hand on my shoulder and bends over my desk to get a better look. When she leans closer, I can smell strawberries. I guess it’s her shampoo or something, but I love how she smells like her name.

“Thank you.” My voice barely a whisper, eyes still glued to my drawing.

“Who is it?” she asks.

My head snaps up and I check her face for seriousness. “That’s She-ra.” I pause and wait for any sign that she recognizes the name. Nothing. “Princess of Power? He-Man’s twin sister?”

“Oooooh. Okay. That’s nice. You’ve got a real talent. Maybe next time you could try creating your own superhero.”

Miss Berry pats my shoulder and moves on to the next student’s desk. I nod and finish coloring in She-ra’s gold boots.

“She’s the best superhero ever,” I finish.

“No way.” I looked up to find a boy with shaggy brown hair and blue eyes shaking his head.

“Yes way,” I argue.

“No. Wonder Woman is the best girl hero ever.” He pulls out the chair next to me and takes a seat. “She’s got boots and Amazon bracelets that stop bullets.” He leans back in the chair and crosses his arms, smirking.

I narrow my eyes. I’ve never talked to Logan Sawyer, being a boy and all that. But I am eager to prove him wrong. “So? She-ra has boots and she’s super strong, and she can do flips.”

Logan shrugs. “Big deal. Wonder Woman can beat up dudes.”

My fingers grip my pencil tighter. “So can She-ra.”

“Wonder Woman has a lasso.”

“She-ra has a sword,” I point out.

He scoots to the edge of his chair, leaning too close for comfort. His eyes are playful and that only makes me angrier. “Wonder Woman has an invisible jet,” he sings.

I jump to my feet, knocking my chair over and glare down at him. “And She-ra has a flying freaking unicorn that talks!” I shout. “Beat that!”

The entire classroom goes quiet and I feel the fire in my cheeks. I right my chair and take a seat.

Logan just laughs and points to my drawing. “You’re funny. And your drawing is cool. Looks like a comic book.”

That makes me stop. “You like comic books?” I ask, feeling my anger drain away.

“Yep. My dad lets me read his old ones. My favorite is Ghostbusters and Spider-Man.”

I blow out a breath and give him a huge smile. “I like The Avengers.”

He tilts his head before reaching out and tugging on a lock of my red hair. “You kind of look like Black Widow.”

With that, Logan Sawyer saunters back to his desk. I stare down at my drawing and then at Logan’s back in awe—thinking about how I’ve never gotten such a compliment in all my life.

A commotion breaks me out of my memory as the classroom door whips open.

“Sorry I’m late.” An older man with slicked down black hair and tufts of gray at his temples drops his bag and takes a seat at the front desk. He gives the classroom a look over. “I’m Professor Neal, but please call me Truman. No formality needed.”

Some smartass in the back yells, “Hi, Truman,” like we’re at an AA meeting.

“To answer all your questions in no particular order. Yes, I’m usually late. No, this does not dismiss you from class after five minutes. Yes, I like wearing suspenders. No, you cannot touch the hair.” Everyone chuckles. “This is Art and Activism 3255. Now, take out that syllabus the university so kindly provided.”

Everyone sits unmoving. “No, really. Take it out.” Finally, students search through their things and pull out the printed syllabus. “Hold it in front of you.” I watch, amused, as everyone awkwardly follows his instructions. “Now, rip it in half and throw it away.”

Truman demonstrates by ripping his copy in two, crumpling them up and tossing them over his shoulder. The students look at one another, shrugging.

“Go on! Do it!” he urges.

With that, they all begin ripping up the papers and tossing them around the room. Once the floor is littered with shredded paper, Truman gives the class a wide grin. “Great. Let’s get started.”

As usual, I pay attention during class and take detailed notes. Time moves fast and before I know it we are being dismissed.

“Okay. We will continue this tomorrow. Start thinking about a theme for your semester project.” Truman writes the numbers one and three on the dry erase board. “Remember to read chapters one through three. There may or may not be a quiz. Hint: there is.”

Chatter breaks out between the students as everyone packs up to leave. I make a note to study those chapters and fold my notebook closed.

Professor Truman turns his back to the class to erase the board. I am almost to the door when I hear his voice. “Angela Lavelle, could I see you for a minute?”

I squeeze my eyes shut and stand in place while everyone else slips out the door. Why on earth would he be calling me out on the first day of class? I take a deep breath, paste a smile on, and turn to face him. “Professor. You needed me?”

When the door closes behind the last student, he leans against his desk, crossing his arms and ankles. Confusion makes my head tilt to the side as I wait.

“I just wanted to introduce myself properly,” he says. “I knew your father.”

“Oh,” I say, exhaling as my chest tightens with that familiar pain and sadness.

“We were great friends back in high school. Boy, I could tell you some stories,” he says with a laugh. Photos I’ve seen of my dad from his younger days flash through my mind and I imagine him running around with this old guy before me. His eyes stare out the dark classroom window as his grin disappears and his expression returns to neutral. “You look a lot like him.”

Another pang in my heart as I force myself to look the professor in the eyes. “Yes, everyone says that.” And I see it every time I look in the mirror—my daddy’s eyes staring back at me.

“He was a good man. Great artist.”

I smile now. “I know. He’s the reason I went into art.” Memories of sitting on my dad’s lap, tracing over his sketches, play in my head, filling me with a longing to have him here with me. I imagine finding him in his office and telling him how I’ve got one of his old buddies for a teacher. We would laugh and I’m sure he’d give me some secret message to pass along, something that I wouldn’t understand, but would be just for the two of them.

“Fantastic. You couldn’t have had a better mentor, then. I always tried to get him to come to art school with me, but he wouldn’t have it. Said farming was his family’s legacy.”

“Yes, well, he was passionate about keeping the family farm going,” I say. “But now all that land just sits barren. I can’t convince my mom to sell it.”

Truman nods. “It’s a shame what happened. I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you,” I say. I know those words are well meant, but they bring me back to a time when hearing them over and over only made me angry.

“Well, that’s all, then. I expect big things from you this semester, Miss Lavelle.”

I hike my book bag up higher on my shoulder and take a step toward the door. “I’m sure I won’t let you down, sir.”

I retreat from the room before that pitying look he’s giving me completely dissolves me. Once I’m in my car and on the road back to Crowley, I let myself relax and celebrate that for four nights a week for the next six weeks it’ll be like having a small piece of my father with me.