Weary eyes race across a flimsy brown notebook against my lap. There’s soft thumping in my ears. It’s 15 minutes before lunch ends and art begins, along with the test that I have to pass! Rubbing my eyes and nibbling on a carrot stick, I flip again through the meticulous notes. How will I remember any of this? I suck at Art!
I look up, past my neat piles of notebooks. There’s the lanky kid perched across from me. Knee tucked under his chin, and blue eyes cold under sandy hair. He’s humming and tapping his fingers on the shiny oak table between us, like the test were some distant dream. Well, from what I know, he sees everything as one. He’s always daydreaming or making up some weird story. Rowan Flanagan.
“Are you not going to study?” I ask him, flipping back to Cubism. He starts as he turns, but quickly smirks at me with his icy eyes. As if he pitied me.
“No need to. I actually like Art, and it likes me, so I just remember everything. Plus, tests are just stupid. They’re asking us to fit intelligence into fricking boxes and numbers. That’s like trying to say if a spoon’s better than an octopus or is faster than... a piece of fudge.”
He chuckles.
I hold in a frown at his look of contempt. I understand his point, tests aren’t really fair, but these tests will mean what grades you get, and those affect if you can go to university. You need to do that to get a good job. He is either really smart, one of those edgy people, or just spoiled.
“Well then you must be very lucky, as most other people in this grade work very hard to study, while you just laze around, daydreaming and climbing trees and pretending to be a bee.”
He shrugs a little.
“Just ‘cause you pass a test doesn’t mean you’re smart. It just means you accept this messed up system, and you obey, like some robot. Boop beep boop. And you’re the worst.”
He clears his throat and proceeds to mimic my slouch.
“Oh no, I have to study, oh, I’ll go cry in the corner ‘cause I only got a 91 in Maths, I’m so stupid.”
“I may get upset, but I don’t cry.”
“Don’t fricking try to deny it, robot-boy. I saw you tear up when you got your last History grade.”
He pulls his jacket tighter around him and leaps out of the simple wooden chair. He knocks into the bookshelf. Apologizing to it, he turns to me.
“I, on the other hand, don’t give a hornets’ fart about studying, just being happy. By the way, that precious test is in 2 minutes.”
He’s right. My jaw clenched, I get out of the chair, then gently push it back under the table even though my knuckles are pale in on the worn wood. I won’t fail this time, I studied so hard, and I promised Mama that I wouldn’t. Dodging around the bustle of students, I jog towards my Art Class, my books and pencils held in my arm.
I walk in, and for an hour, I sit. Writing, frowning, and drawing when I came to the end. I turn the paper upside down on my desk.
Mama will be so disappointed in me. I sigh as Mr Simmons, my teacher, calls for us to drop our pencils. Around me, the class bustles and hums, wavering around me. Why did we have to draw the person next to us at the end? I thought this was a written test! And why did I have to draw Rowan, of all people, who never stops moving?
The main part of the test had actually been easy. Things like Compare these two Artworks, write about their similarities and differences, or What is Impressionism, and how is it different from Expressionism, and various things that you can learn.
But when it came to the final question, Make a realistic sketch of a person sitting next to you. It is up to you how they are drawn (Worth 40 points) My pencil had stopped, hovered in the air.
I can’t draw. I’m going to fail. Like I always do.
“97 points in Math? Stupid boy! Where're the other 3 points?!
Can’t you study harder? You’ve got to be top 5 in Science.
You, boy, why are you always playing and messing about on the piano, you should be working!
Look at your brother, Pyotr, always getting full marks! Why are you not smart like him?”
“Hey, Igor! Dude, human. Oh, I meant robot, whatever. I’m trying to converse with you!”
I’m stirred out of my thoughts, lifting my face out of my hands.
“Can I see your drawing? I want to see if I really am recognizable and if your relentless studying paid off.”
It’s Rowan, a smirk back on his face as he reclines in the chair, booted feet leaning on the battered table in front of him.
“It really isn’t very good. You aren’t recognizable.”
I mumble, covering the drawing with my hand. A sliver of sky blue flashes out from between my fingers. Rowan makes a weird sort of huff, like a sigh.
“Well then, let’s see if it vaguely resembles a human.”
He snatches it from under my arm,
”Hey!”I shout.
Mr. Simmons glares from his perch- and Rowan inspects it, tilting it back and forth. A little pause, and he smirks. It wavers slightly, though as he reads the description out loud.
“I love the honesty in this,” he says. “I drew Rowan all alone, sitting on a tree stump, as he is usually alone because many people don’t like him, and I do see him doing strange things in trees a lot. The thorns scattered around him symbolize that it’s his fault that he doesn’t have friends, he pushes people away by being such a prat and acting like a madman all the time.”
He glares at me.
“Rowan, I’m sorry. I really shouldn’t have written that you are mad because you aren’t. You’re just… very eccentric. But it really is true that few people like you, however much it hurts; and that you aren’t the nicest person.”
“The drawings’ fricking horrible; I look stiff, like some wax figure. You should work on your anatomy, too. Also, my eyes are shaded too dark.”
So it really is awful, after all. I sigh as I take the paper back from him, laying it face down on the pale wooden desk.
I look up again, and Rowan is looking at me, but this time I can’t tell what he’s thinking, he looks guilty and sympathetic and snarky all at once. He mumbles.
“Sorry?”
“You know Igor, you don’t have to beat yourself over some less-than-decent art.” he straightens, hesitates a little.
Why on Earth is he being…. nice all of a sudden? Haven’t I just offended him? Maybe he felt like he had offended me more?
I bite back the retort that hangs from my lips and pick softer words instead.
“I’m not “beating myself up”. I am acknowledging my weaknesses and striving to improve.” Which you obviously can’t be bothered to do.
He raises an eyebrow, almost as if he could hear me.
“You’re already so good at many things, like Science and Math and English. Heck, you’re good at everything except Art. And being manly, and imagining, and being a human.”
I stare down at my feet, trying to hold in a smile. He only thinks I’m smart because he’s stu- I mean... dim. I try to tell myself.
“Igor? I know...I... It isn’t right that you cry ‘cause you’re not perfect. Even if you’re a robot. ...You should just, just be who want to be and enjoy it, like I do.”
He quickly stands up from his chair and gives me an awkward little smile.
A real one.
But suddenly he freezes, and his face hardens again into his usual cocky, distracted look.
“Flanagan, you just spent 5 minutes of your life trying to comfort a robot.” he muttered.
Making a sound like a raven's’ craw, he runs off, flapping his arms as he disappears around the corner. The echoes of his craws still reach my ears. I gaze at him for a second, and another.
How weird. But… not mad.
“Igor?”
I turn, to Mr. Simmons glaring at me from over square glasses.
“It is already 5 past 3, I recommend that you leave.”
“Alright then.”
I hurriedly pick up my belongings, crammed them into my bag, and run down the hall.
The Wind throws my hair up as I plod down the road. It takes 20 brisk minutes from my school to home, and my fists are deep in my pockets by the time I reach the front garden, where a shiny car is parked next to a broken trampoline. I remember playing on it, back when I was young, when summer days lasted forever and I pretended to build rocket ships. Practically every day, until Mama ran over it with the car. My legs brush past overgrown flowers and crawling weeds.
The door creaks open and warmed air that smells of coffee engulfs me. I step into the airy room, remove my shoes. Place them into the 2nd to the last compartment on the shoebox. Right, time to relax a bit before doing… Math? Or History? Both then. I’ve got to revise that essay anyway. I grab the newspaper off the coffee table and slump down on the sofa, sighing in -
“Oh, hello Igor, I didn’t notice you coming in!”
It’s dad, walking up to me with his gangly figure held up straight, despite his faint limp. Reluctantly, I lean into the arm he slings around my shoulders.
“So… how was school today?” he asks.
“It was fine.” Please can we not talk about the test, I want to relax…
“Well, I heard from Mum that you had an Art test.”
I sigh. Ugh… Well, at least he is calmer than Mama.
“We did have one. An Art test. Mostly written work, and some practical.” I pick at a hole in the sofa fabric.
Papa huffed loudly. “I’m assuming it went well?”
Well, I suppose so, I’m pretty sure I got the written work right, and, I don’t want to ruin the good mood…
“Yes. It went very well.” I smiled at him, and he grinned back.
I might have sort of lied.
His bones creak as he stands. Taking the newspaper from me, he lopes away down the wide hallway, to the study, I think.
I too, stand up to start on studying, but then I stop. Do I really need to? I shake the thought away. Rowan and his weird philosophies are getting to me! Picking up a Math book, I flip through the crammed pages to the first empty one.
“It isn’t right that you cry ‘cause you’re not perfect. Even if you’re a robot.”
“You, boy, why are you always playing and messing about on the piano, you should be working!”
“You’re already so good at many things, like Science and Math and English. Except for being a human.”
I pause, frowning. Maybe for once I’ll skip Math today. I can do that tomorrow?… and I’ll do history later.
Relief melts through me as I toss the books back in my bag. I guess, once in awhile, I can just relax, only for a little bit though, just today. Yeah.
I’m highly conscious of the ticking above me. Come on, time to work. You have an essay to do, and books to analyze, and that graph for Math, it seems to tell me. You can relax later when you’ve got those college degrees. But at the same time, it’s about being yourself, not being perfect. Oh, how I wished I could.
But why can’t I be? A little voice in my head asks. Because I want Papa and Mama to be proud of me, and be successful when I’m older.
Why can’t I just be proud of myself, then, and do something I enjoy and make a living out of that?
I’m surprised that I can’t think of any good reason.
Standing up, my head feels fuzzy, but I ignore it. The spring light echoes off the piano in front of me, the keys winking. They’re slightly dusty. My fingers ghost over smooth pointed ivory.
A thrill passes through me. Just like when I was 4, and I first saw the piano, gleaming and inviting me, and I punched my small hands onto the keys, laughing like a maniac. Back then, I didn’t care that it sounded awful and made no musical sense, just that I liked it. Now my fingers are soft, and I press tentatively down. Clean, sweet notes ring out.
You know, many musicians make heaps of money.
From nowhere, I remember a tune from long ago, a half-formed memory. How did it go? Twirling around like birdsong here, heavy like a bell toll there. I used to be able to play it as a child. Oh, I’ll remember eventually.
Hearing footsteps behind me, I turn to see my mother, looking at me with fondness and then frowning.
“Igor, don’t you have more… ah, pressing things to do right now?” she asks. “Like Pyotr, starting homework now so he can he has time to do it well?”
I lick my lip. That’s what I’m supposed to do, just do it! Then she won’t get angry! And studying makes me less dumb. But…
“I… I really don’t have that much homework to do right now, actually. And I felt like just relaxing today.” I cross my arms, then quickly undo it.
Why am I being so rude? Just work a little bit then play, okay?
“Are you really sure? It's testing season right now, and you better get better grades than last year, they were just pathetic. This year, I won’t take that. I want you to be in the top 10, up there next to your brother, okay?” she spat.
“But I did very well i-”
“Don’t talk back! Lazy, idiot boy.”
I bit my tongue. See, I’ve got to make her proud so that she’s happy with me. And so that I’m not stupid. That matters more than playing piano, right?
Doesn’t mean I have to spend my whole day, whole life trying to make her tell me she’s proud of me.
With my mind set, I sullenly turn back to the piano.
“Igor! You know you’re too stupid to pass those tests without studying every day. You-”
“I’ll do it later! I don’t want to study the whole day, getting all stressed out just to get a high number on some test! Just let me rest for once.” I clap my hand to my mouth, my eyes widen.
Mama seemed to slump a little, and she sighed angrily through her teeth.
“Fine then, it’s your choice. But don’t be surprised when you get a 32 in Art again! You’ll only be able to blame yourself, then!”
She storms off angrily to the kitchen, muttering darkly. A door slams closed.
For a second I just sit there, and I let out a long sigh, and then a slightly maniacal grin.
I’m not stupid - Okay, actually I am, but I really don’t need to waste my time to study all the time. Just to please my parents. I don’t want every day to become some endless cycle. Well, I don’t want to be like Rowan and be a prat, but I guess I could be... Both? Be nice and smart but also just myself?
Doesn’t sound half bad.
My fingers glide over smooth, pale keys again, turning gray with dust. A thousand memories swim through my head, of banging on pianos and trampolines and endless summers, and I smile.
Because I’m happy.
I look up, past my neat piles of notebooks. There’s the lanky kid perched across from me. Knee tucked under his chin, and blue eyes cold under sandy hair. He’s humming and tapping his fingers on the shiny oak table between us, like the test were some distant dream. Well, from what I know, he sees everything as one. He’s always daydreaming or making up some weird story. Rowan Flanagan.
“Are you not going to study?” I ask him, flipping back to Cubism. He starts as he turns, but quickly smirks at me with his icy eyes. As if he pitied me.
“No need to. I actually like Art, and it likes me, so I just remember everything. Plus, tests are just stupid. They’re asking us to fit intelligence into fricking boxes and numbers. That’s like trying to say if a spoon’s better than an octopus or is faster than... a piece of fudge.”
He chuckles.
I hold in a frown at his look of contempt. I understand his point, tests aren’t really fair, but these tests will mean what grades you get, and those affect if you can go to university. You need to do that to get a good job. He is either really smart, one of those edgy people, or just spoiled.
“Well then you must be very lucky, as most other people in this grade work very hard to study, while you just laze around, daydreaming and climbing trees and pretending to be a bee.”
He shrugs a little.
“Just ‘cause you pass a test doesn’t mean you’re smart. It just means you accept this messed up system, and you obey, like some robot. Boop beep boop. And you’re the worst.”
He clears his throat and proceeds to mimic my slouch.
“Oh no, I have to study, oh, I’ll go cry in the corner ‘cause I only got a 91 in Maths, I’m so stupid.”
“I may get upset, but I don’t cry.”
“Don’t fricking try to deny it, robot-boy. I saw you tear up when you got your last History grade.”
He pulls his jacket tighter around him and leaps out of the simple wooden chair. He knocks into the bookshelf. Apologizing to it, he turns to me.
“I, on the other hand, don’t give a hornets’ fart about studying, just being happy. By the way, that precious test is in 2 minutes.”
He’s right. My jaw clenched, I get out of the chair, then gently push it back under the table even though my knuckles are pale in on the worn wood. I won’t fail this time, I studied so hard, and I promised Mama that I wouldn’t. Dodging around the bustle of students, I jog towards my Art Class, my books and pencils held in my arm.
I walk in, and for an hour, I sit. Writing, frowning, and drawing when I came to the end. I turn the paper upside down on my desk.
Mama will be so disappointed in me. I sigh as Mr Simmons, my teacher, calls for us to drop our pencils. Around me, the class bustles and hums, wavering around me. Why did we have to draw the person next to us at the end? I thought this was a written test! And why did I have to draw Rowan, of all people, who never stops moving?
The main part of the test had actually been easy. Things like Compare these two Artworks, write about their similarities and differences, or What is Impressionism, and how is it different from Expressionism, and various things that you can learn.
But when it came to the final question, Make a realistic sketch of a person sitting next to you. It is up to you how they are drawn (Worth 40 points) My pencil had stopped, hovered in the air.
I can’t draw. I’m going to fail. Like I always do.
“97 points in Math? Stupid boy! Where're the other 3 points?!
Can’t you study harder? You’ve got to be top 5 in Science.
You, boy, why are you always playing and messing about on the piano, you should be working!
Look at your brother, Pyotr, always getting full marks! Why are you not smart like him?”
“Hey, Igor! Dude, human. Oh, I meant robot, whatever. I’m trying to converse with you!”
I’m stirred out of my thoughts, lifting my face out of my hands.
“Can I see your drawing? I want to see if I really am recognizable and if your relentless studying paid off.”
It’s Rowan, a smirk back on his face as he reclines in the chair, booted feet leaning on the battered table in front of him.
“It really isn’t very good. You aren’t recognizable.”
I mumble, covering the drawing with my hand. A sliver of sky blue flashes out from between my fingers. Rowan makes a weird sort of huff, like a sigh.
“Well then, let’s see if it vaguely resembles a human.”
He snatches it from under my arm,
”Hey!”I shout.
Mr. Simmons glares from his perch- and Rowan inspects it, tilting it back and forth. A little pause, and he smirks. It wavers slightly, though as he reads the description out loud.
“I love the honesty in this,” he says. “I drew Rowan all alone, sitting on a tree stump, as he is usually alone because many people don’t like him, and I do see him doing strange things in trees a lot. The thorns scattered around him symbolize that it’s his fault that he doesn’t have friends, he pushes people away by being such a prat and acting like a madman all the time.”
He glares at me.
“Rowan, I’m sorry. I really shouldn’t have written that you are mad because you aren’t. You’re just… very eccentric. But it really is true that few people like you, however much it hurts; and that you aren’t the nicest person.”
“The drawings’ fricking horrible; I look stiff, like some wax figure. You should work on your anatomy, too. Also, my eyes are shaded too dark.”
So it really is awful, after all. I sigh as I take the paper back from him, laying it face down on the pale wooden desk.
I look up again, and Rowan is looking at me, but this time I can’t tell what he’s thinking, he looks guilty and sympathetic and snarky all at once. He mumbles.
“Sorry?”
“You know Igor, you don’t have to beat yourself over some less-than-decent art.” he straightens, hesitates a little.
Why on Earth is he being…. nice all of a sudden? Haven’t I just offended him? Maybe he felt like he had offended me more?
I bite back the retort that hangs from my lips and pick softer words instead.
“I’m not “beating myself up”. I am acknowledging my weaknesses and striving to improve.” Which you obviously can’t be bothered to do.
He raises an eyebrow, almost as if he could hear me.
“You’re already so good at many things, like Science and Math and English. Heck, you’re good at everything except Art. And being manly, and imagining, and being a human.”
I stare down at my feet, trying to hold in a smile. He only thinks I’m smart because he’s stu- I mean... dim. I try to tell myself.
“Igor? I know...I... It isn’t right that you cry ‘cause you’re not perfect. Even if you’re a robot. ...You should just, just be who want to be and enjoy it, like I do.”
He quickly stands up from his chair and gives me an awkward little smile.
A real one.
But suddenly he freezes, and his face hardens again into his usual cocky, distracted look.
“Flanagan, you just spent 5 minutes of your life trying to comfort a robot.” he muttered.
Making a sound like a raven's’ craw, he runs off, flapping his arms as he disappears around the corner. The echoes of his craws still reach my ears. I gaze at him for a second, and another.
How weird. But… not mad.
“Igor?”
I turn, to Mr. Simmons glaring at me from over square glasses.
“It is already 5 past 3, I recommend that you leave.”
“Alright then.”
I hurriedly pick up my belongings, crammed them into my bag, and run down the hall.
The Wind throws my hair up as I plod down the road. It takes 20 brisk minutes from my school to home, and my fists are deep in my pockets by the time I reach the front garden, where a shiny car is parked next to a broken trampoline. I remember playing on it, back when I was young, when summer days lasted forever and I pretended to build rocket ships. Practically every day, until Mama ran over it with the car. My legs brush past overgrown flowers and crawling weeds.
The door creaks open and warmed air that smells of coffee engulfs me. I step into the airy room, remove my shoes. Place them into the 2nd to the last compartment on the shoebox. Right, time to relax a bit before doing… Math? Or History? Both then. I’ve got to revise that essay anyway. I grab the newspaper off the coffee table and slump down on the sofa, sighing in -
“Oh, hello Igor, I didn’t notice you coming in!”
It’s dad, walking up to me with his gangly figure held up straight, despite his faint limp. Reluctantly, I lean into the arm he slings around my shoulders.
“So… how was school today?” he asks.
“It was fine.” Please can we not talk about the test, I want to relax…
“Well, I heard from Mum that you had an Art test.”
I sigh. Ugh… Well, at least he is calmer than Mama.
“We did have one. An Art test. Mostly written work, and some practical.” I pick at a hole in the sofa fabric.
Papa huffed loudly. “I’m assuming it went well?”
Well, I suppose so, I’m pretty sure I got the written work right, and, I don’t want to ruin the good mood…
“Yes. It went very well.” I smiled at him, and he grinned back.
I might have sort of lied.
His bones creak as he stands. Taking the newspaper from me, he lopes away down the wide hallway, to the study, I think.
I too, stand up to start on studying, but then I stop. Do I really need to? I shake the thought away. Rowan and his weird philosophies are getting to me! Picking up a Math book, I flip through the crammed pages to the first empty one.
“It isn’t right that you cry ‘cause you’re not perfect. Even if you’re a robot.”
“You, boy, why are you always playing and messing about on the piano, you should be working!”
“You’re already so good at many things, like Science and Math and English. Except for being a human.”
I pause, frowning. Maybe for once I’ll skip Math today. I can do that tomorrow?… and I’ll do history later.
Relief melts through me as I toss the books back in my bag. I guess, once in awhile, I can just relax, only for a little bit though, just today. Yeah.
I’m highly conscious of the ticking above me. Come on, time to work. You have an essay to do, and books to analyze, and that graph for Math, it seems to tell me. You can relax later when you’ve got those college degrees. But at the same time, it’s about being yourself, not being perfect. Oh, how I wished I could.
But why can’t I be? A little voice in my head asks. Because I want Papa and Mama to be proud of me, and be successful when I’m older.
Why can’t I just be proud of myself, then, and do something I enjoy and make a living out of that?
I’m surprised that I can’t think of any good reason.
Standing up, my head feels fuzzy, but I ignore it. The spring light echoes off the piano in front of me, the keys winking. They’re slightly dusty. My fingers ghost over smooth pointed ivory.
A thrill passes through me. Just like when I was 4, and I first saw the piano, gleaming and inviting me, and I punched my small hands onto the keys, laughing like a maniac. Back then, I didn’t care that it sounded awful and made no musical sense, just that I liked it. Now my fingers are soft, and I press tentatively down. Clean, sweet notes ring out.
You know, many musicians make heaps of money.
From nowhere, I remember a tune from long ago, a half-formed memory. How did it go? Twirling around like birdsong here, heavy like a bell toll there. I used to be able to play it as a child. Oh, I’ll remember eventually.
Hearing footsteps behind me, I turn to see my mother, looking at me with fondness and then frowning.
“Igor, don’t you have more… ah, pressing things to do right now?” she asks. “Like Pyotr, starting homework now so he can he has time to do it well?”
I lick my lip. That’s what I’m supposed to do, just do it! Then she won’t get angry! And studying makes me less dumb. But…
“I… I really don’t have that much homework to do right now, actually. And I felt like just relaxing today.” I cross my arms, then quickly undo it.
Why am I being so rude? Just work a little bit then play, okay?
“Are you really sure? It's testing season right now, and you better get better grades than last year, they were just pathetic. This year, I won’t take that. I want you to be in the top 10, up there next to your brother, okay?” she spat.
“But I did very well i-”
“Don’t talk back! Lazy, idiot boy.”
I bit my tongue. See, I’ve got to make her proud so that she’s happy with me. And so that I’m not stupid. That matters more than playing piano, right?
Doesn’t mean I have to spend my whole day, whole life trying to make her tell me she’s proud of me.
With my mind set, I sullenly turn back to the piano.
“Igor! You know you’re too stupid to pass those tests without studying every day. You-”
“I’ll do it later! I don’t want to study the whole day, getting all stressed out just to get a high number on some test! Just let me rest for once.” I clap my hand to my mouth, my eyes widen.
Mama seemed to slump a little, and she sighed angrily through her teeth.
“Fine then, it’s your choice. But don’t be surprised when you get a 32 in Art again! You’ll only be able to blame yourself, then!”
She storms off angrily to the kitchen, muttering darkly. A door slams closed.
For a second I just sit there, and I let out a long sigh, and then a slightly maniacal grin.
I’m not stupid - Okay, actually I am, but I really don’t need to waste my time to study all the time. Just to please my parents. I don’t want every day to become some endless cycle. Well, I don’t want to be like Rowan and be a prat, but I guess I could be... Both? Be nice and smart but also just myself?
Doesn’t sound half bad.
My fingers glide over smooth, pale keys again, turning gray with dust. A thousand memories swim through my head, of banging on pianos and trampolines and endless summers, and I smile.
Because I’m happy.
by Ran McClean
I like the story a lot. Especially the "Hornet's fart" part. But I didn't really know where the location/settings of the first scene was "It’s 15 minutes before lunch ends and art begins" (This part).
ReplyDeleteBut overall I really liked it because it has a theme that some people can relate to: Keeping a balance of being yourself and working for the future.