The next day, I found out what crit means.
It’s short for critique, and it’s an art school thing, where you have to put your assignment up in front of the whole class so everyone can talk about it. Kind of like getting up in front of a firing squad.
Actually, it’s exactly like that.
I figured if I sat really still in the back and tried to blend in, Mr. Beekman might not call on me. But right near the end of fifth period, my luck ran out.
“Rafe… Khatchadorian,” he said, looking at his attendance book. “Our new transfer student. Let’s see what you have for us, shall we?”
He came over and took my self-portrait and stuck it on one of the bulletin boards at the front of the room.
“All right, everyone, let’s have some comments. What does this portrait tell you about the artist?” Beekman said.
Right away, Zeke McDonald raised his hand. You haven’t met him yet, so I’ll just tell you right now—I hate Zeke McDonald. Him and all his friends. You know the type—the kids who walk around school like they’ve got invisible crowns on their heads? That’s them. Zeke was basically good at everything, and he knew it, and he spent most of his time making sure everyone else knew it too.
Of course, I’d just gotten to Cathedral, so I didn’t know enough to hate anyone yet. But that part was just about to start.
“Mr. Beekman,” Zeke said, “I know Rafe wasn’t here last year, so should we take that into account with our crit? I mean, like the way his drawing is so… you know… basic?”
“You can critique the work on its own merits,” Beekman said.
I wasn’t sure what that meant, but obviously it had something to do with tearing me into little pieces, because right away Kenny Patel’s hand popped up like a piece of toast. (He sits by Zeke in the front, which is all you need to know about him.)
“To be honest, I don’t think Rafe’s portrait tells us very much, except what he looks like,” Kenny said. Then he turned around and looked back at me like there was a pile of doggy droppings on my chair. “Well, maybe not even that,” he said, and a bunch of people laughed.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we will keep our critiques respectful,” Beekman said, about five seconds too late. “If you have nothing constructive to add, then keep your comments to yourself. Now, how about some positive feedback? What do you see that you like about Rafe’s drawing?”
And nobody… said… a word.
I think I heard a pin drop. Maybe some crickets. Also, the sound of my face turning the color of a stop sign. I could have farted out loud, and it would have been less embarrassing than the silence.
Finally, Beekman jumped in again.
“I think this is a good start, Mr. Khatchadorian,” he said. “You’ve got a sure hand—I can see that. But I think you’re holding back here. I’d like to see more of Rafe next time, do you understand?”
“Sure,” I said, but honestly, I would have told him I was wearing ladies’ underwear if it meant getting that crit over with faster.
And then, just when Beekman finally turned around to take my drawing off the board, good old Zeke McDonald held up his sketchbook for everyone else to see. He had drawn a portrait of me, and I sure didn’t like it.