14

“I SPENT TWENTY years learning to paint like Raphael and a lifetime learning to paint like a child.”

Declan pauses for effect. “Those immortal words, spoken by . . .” He pauses again and gestures with a sweep of his hand out to the classroom.

“Picasso,” the entire class minus me chants in unison.

“Picasso,” I say, half a beat too late.

“Yes, Pablo Picasso. Good old Pablo. That shall be the credo for this course over the next three weeks. Yes, art is subjective. But whether you’re impressionists, cubists, dadaists, what have you, here at the Deece, we’ll be studying the fundamentals.”

“While still fostering your own artistic vision,” Áine interrupts.

We’re just two hours into the program, and I already get their dynamic: a classic good cop, bad cop routine. I wouldn’t have actually believed they were married if they hadn’t told us.

Declan is about six foot five, bald, with a dark beard that he strokes incessantly, twirling his fingers through his mustache like a cartoon villain. He wears a full suit with a polka-dot tie and matching socks.

Áine, meanwhile, is about a foot and a half shorter than Declan, with a pixie cut and a pixie nose and an affability and choice of clothing that gives off the general vibe of pixie.

“We’ve been running this program for fifteen years,” Áine chirps (chirping thus far seems to be her primary mode of communication), “and we’ve seen artists at all levels, all styles, and all natural abilities. The important thing is that you each find and follow your own artistic path.”

We’re in Studio B, which implies that there are probably more studios, although I didn’t see any on the shortcut Evelyn pointed out through her backyard to get here. According to universal high school lore (aka something every single person claims happened at their high school), a gaggle of intrepid seniors got their hands on two greased pigs and released them into the school, labeled #1 and #3 so that the administration spent all day looking for the missing, nonexistent pig #2. From what I’ve seen so far, it doesn’t seem out of the realm of possibility that there’s only one studio labeled B as a joke.

The room looks more like a museum than a studio: glass-fronted bookshelves filled with skulls and taxidermied animals line the walls. One entire wall is devoted to a framed display of delicately pinned butterflies. A skeleton that I’m almost positive is real slouches in the corner, wearing a top hat and tie with the Union Jack.

As for the students, there are eight of us: six girls and two boys. The only other American is a boy from California whose name and face are equally forgettable, like a contestant on The Bachelorette who’d get eliminated on week two. He definitely introduced himself, but once he turned away, I couldn’t have picked him out of a two-man police lineup if catching the Zodiac Killer was on the line.

POLICE:	All right, Nora, one of these men is the Zodiac Killer, notorious San Francisco terror, and the other is a teenager from California in your program whom you met only moments ago. Please tell us which is which.
ME:	Can I have a hint?

It seems that a few of the students are from Dublin and already know one another, some are from England, and one of the girls, a lanky blonde with a laugh I can hear from across the room, is from Australia. There’s only one girl actually from Donegal; her name is Maeve.

“So now,” Declan says, clapping his hands together and then fixing his cufflinks, “partner up, and we’ll start our first activity.”

It’s like gym class all over again. Why do teachers think teens ever enjoy partnering up, let alone on their first day, when they don’t know anyone? What happened to don’t judge a book by its cover and all that? How else are we supposed to judge when we’re forced to pick partners on our very first day?

I turn to the boy next to me, one of the Brits, and try to make eye contact, but he’s clearly already partnered up with California-maybe-Zodiac-Killer.

From across the room, a pair of eyes latch onto mine. “Pair up?” says my angel. It’s Maeve.

“For sure.”

Áine rings a bell to get our attention. “For our first class, we’re going to get to know one another a bit. First, face your partner.”

Maeve and I square our stools and look at each other. She gives me a small smile and then winks. She’s so much calmer than I am.

“Open to a blank page in your notebook, and pick up your pencil. You’re going to draw your partner’s face.”

“BUT,” Declan adds with an air of mischief that seems to delight him a little too much, “you’re not allowed to look at your page. You’re to maintain eye contact with your partner the entire time. You have ten minutes. GO!”

And suddenly there’s a scramble of paper and squeaking chairs. Áine sashays to the stereo in the corner and begins playing metal music with a thumping bassline.

I flip to a clean page, take a deep breath, and look up at Maeve’s face, into her eyes that stare right back into mine.

The exercise is so much harder than it sounds. Right away, I fight the urge to glance down at my paper. Maeve still seems impossibly relaxed, half-smiling while looking right at my face like this is perfectly normal for her.

“So, where are you from?” she asks, her hand still moving impossibly fast across the page. “America, yeah?”

“Yeah,” I reply, finding it difficult to multitask.

“But, like, New York? L.A.?”

“Actually, the suburbs of Chicago.” I don’t mean to sound so abrupt, but I’m desperately trying to draw something not terrible. All of my concentration is on making sure my drawing doesn’t end up looking like Mrs. Potato Head. “And . . . you . . . are from here?”

“Yup!” she replies, and from the corner of my eye I can tell that she’s shading. How is she shading? How does she know where to shade? “Our place is actually right up the road from the studio.”

“Oh, your parents live around here? That’s nice.” Turns out, when I’m concentrating, my conversational skills fall somewhere between uninterested waitress and lobotomized zombie.

Maeve gives a little laugh. “Because I don’t spend enough time with them.”

As if on cue, Áine comes up behind her and glances down at her page. “Try to lengthen your lines,” Áine says to Maeve. Maeve nods, never lifting her eyes from my face. When Áine looks down at my work, she gives a cursory nod and small smile. I’m left feeling half-proud that my work was satisfactory and half-disappointed that I didn’t get more attention.

Time passes, but I’m staring so deeply into Maeve’s blue eyes that I can’t tell if it’s been five minutes or forty minutes.

“And . . . time!” Declan bellows, as everyone but me drops their pencil immediately. I drop mine half a beat late. This seems to be a trend.

“And now the fun part. Everyone, bring me your drawings, and we’re going to play a little guessing game.”

For the first time since the page was blank, I look down. My drawing is an absolute mess—lopsided features and ears that look like cartoon snails. Stomach burning with shame, I trudge up to Declan and hand him my drawing.

“And now we mix them up,” Declan says, shuffling the papers. He then posts them on the wall. “Try to find yourselves! Off you pop!”

Mine is easy. I instantly recognize my face because Maeve is a wizard who either cheated or has the ability to see through her hands like a blind fairytale character. She somehow managed to put together a series of lines that actually look like my face. She captured an essence about me, an impatience in my expression that makes me look alert and thoughtful. I’d be jealous if I weren’t so impressed.

Luckily, with the exception of Maeve, it doesn’t look like anyone else’s drawing is that much better than mine. “Circle up,” Áine says. “Let’s check portraits and introduce ourselves properly.”

There are a few mismatched portraits, which inspires laughter and the exchange of drawings. When it’s my turn, I decide to keep my introduction short and sweet: “Hi, I’m Nora. I’m going to be a senior in high school, and I’m from the suburbs of Chicago. In America.” Boring, maybe, but I’m on the spot. It doesn’t matter what I say anyway, because everyone’s attention turns immediately to Maeve’s drawing of me.

“Woah,” someone says. “It actually looks just like her!”

“Who drew that one?”

“Uh, Maeve,” I say.

Maeve smiles sweetly and looks down. When she’s up, nobody comments on the drawing I did. We get to keep each other’s drawings of us, but I wish I could have mine back. I’m overcome with the urge just to rip it up into as many pieces as physically possible.

A gray cat the color of lint and larger than any cat should be weaves between my legs and starts making a noise that’s less purring and more vibrating. Áine dips in and picks the cat up, causing it to immediately droop in her arms like it’s given up on being a sentient being.

“Maeve, will you make sure Bartholomeow behaves?” she says, shoving the cat onto Maeve’s lap. Already, Maeve is the favorite. She had the best drawing, and Áine already trusts her with the studio cat. Once Bartholomeow is on Maeve’s lap, he begins purring. In fact, I think he might actually be snoring. Oh great, she’s a cat whisperer too. Gold stars for Maeve, insecurity complexes for the rest of us.