“Sincerely, Lucy.”
Kallie lowered her assignment paper and looked up at the class with a smug, satisfied grin.
There was a moment of complete and utter silence, and then Pole began to slowly clap. Anna and Taylor joined in, creating what amounted to very sparse applause.
“Um. Thank you, Kallie,” said Ms. Beausoleil, her face twisted into a mixture of confusion and shock. “That was very—” she seemed to search for the right word “—informative.”
“I don’t get it,” said Ivan, shaking his head.
“Me either,” said Mathusha.
“What about the wardrobe?” whispered Queenie. “She didn’t even mention the wardrobe.”
Kallie’s letter from Lucy to her mother lasted twenty-five minutes and somehow included a lengthy discussion on the causes and consequences of World War II, the global conditions preceding World War I, fascism, racism, and concluded with an explanation of existentialism—the philosophical approach emphasizing the individual as a free person who determines his or her fate through acts of free will.
Rather pleased with herself, Kallie left the front of the class and plunked herself onto the giant, paisley pillow beside Pole, ignoring the dust cloud she’d created.
“Yes. Well. Perhaps next time, I should be a little more specific,” muttered Ms. Beausoleil as she jotted notes into her assessment binder. She looked up, slightly frazzled, then tucked a curl behind her ear and said, “After Kallie’s lecture … er, I mean, letter, we only have time for one more presentation. Anna, would you like to go?”
Anna beamed. She took the stage and read her letter softly.
Dearest Mother,
I have failed you. I am a traitor. Through my selfishness and greed, many have suffered, including those I love most. I betrayed Lucy, Susan, and Peter to the wicked White Witch. I lied to everyone, but most of all, I lied to myself. I convinced myself that the White Witch meant my sisters and brother no harm and that I was somehow deserving of the high honor she promised. You made great sacrifices to send us to safety, and now, because of me, everyone is in danger. But there is still hope. It lies in the real magic of the world. The magic to transform and redeem. I hope I shall redeem myself or die trying.
With much love and great hope,
your son,
Edmund
Anna looked up at the class as though searching for approval. The applause was soft but steady. Kallie noticed Ms. Beausoleil wiping something from the corner of her eye. Probably a speck of dust from the ratty old pillows.
They spent next period in science class. Mr. Bent had begun their first unit on the properties of matter. He explained how the density of a substance could be measured and quantified. Today, they were learning how to calculate the density of regular- and irregular-shaped objects. It was the only thing that got her through the morning, since the following period was nearly as bad as English.
Mr. Washington had positioned a large table in the center of the art room. On it, he placed several stacks of books and boxes to create levels. Over that, he draped a brown burlap cloth, and then, on each of the levels, he placed objects. A tin can filled with paintbrushes, a thick book with a pair of glasses on top, a vase containing three paper daisies, a candlestick with a half-melted wax candle, a box of tissue, a coffee cup and a bag of cheese pretzels (Kallie suspected this was Mr. Washington’s snack), and a small globe.
Chairs had been arranged in a circle around the table. Once everyone was seated, he gave each student a large clipboard, a sheet of paper, and a piece of charcoal. Mr. Washington’s instructions were simple—select an area of the still life table and sketch what you see. To keep students focused, he played classical music in the background. Kallie found the entire experience unnerving.
For the longest time, Kallie stared at the table festooned with objects. She had no clue as to where to begin. Mr. Washington made his rounds, complimenting each student on their work, assisting where necessary. When he arrived at Kallie, he placed a hand on her shoulders and whispered, “It’s okay. There is no right or wrong here. Let your eyes guide your hands. Draw what you feel.”
Kallie glanced at her empty paper and sighed. I am drawing what I feel, she thought.
She looked up again at the table and settled on the box of tissue. It was a simple rectangular prism. This was geometry. She could do this. Only, her eyes became distracted by the floppy white tissue hanging lazily out from the open slit. With only ten minutes left for the activity, she closed her eyes and began to scrape her charcoal across the paper. A line. Then another. And another. And suddenly, her hand was zipping up and down, side to side, pressing harder, then softer, swirling and curling. She had no idea what she was doing. But when she opened her eyes, a group of students had gathered around her.
“Wow,” said Mathusha.
“That’s great!” said Anna.
Pole was glaring at her suspiciously. “I had no idea you could draw like that.”
Kallie was confused. She had never spent any time drawing. Her father didn’t even allow coloring books. She had zero talent for art and couldn’t understand what all the fuss was about. She looked down at what she’d done. As the sketch came into focus, her insides turned to jelly.