Jumped (9 page)

“H
EY
.”

“Hey.”

“Tree-na.”

“Hey.”

Feel all this love. Popular. What? So many fans. So many friends and so many who want to be. They either caught the shaky-shake and stomp in the caf or they saw my artwork in the gallery. I need a Princess Di wave. No diamond tiara because I have my lucky gold chain and all my subjects adore me. The love keeps pouring.

“Trina. He-ey.”

“Hey.”

Back in my old school, I spent more time at home on the sofa watching soaps, TV judges, and paternity shows than I spent in class. What can I say? The old school was
full of haters. You know how it is—fresh out of middle school, you're still a little wild. Still surprised by everything going on with you. So you look at someone who is cool with everything and you're hating because you're, like, “What does she know that I don't?” Translation: I wish I could be her.

And my appendix burst in gym. That also kept me home on the sofa. They should have believed me when I said I had pain. No one believed me until I was down on the wooden floor sweating, clutching my side. Then they believed. The ambulance came in a flash.

But it was cool. It all worked out for the best. I don't mind repeating because I know I'm not dumb. I'm not lazy. I just spent too many days home. It didn't matter how much my teachers loved me or how well I did, it all came down to the number of days. “We love you, Trina, but you've had too many days out. What can we do?”

The guidance counselor truly loved me. “Trina,” she said, “you're gifted.”

Yes, yes. I know.

“You have a talent for beauty. Color.”

You can't miss that.

“I've been talking to your teachers and we agree that you have an aptitude for art.”

No one had used a word like that for me.
Aptitude.
She didn't have to explain it. I got it. I have the
habilidad
. I am apt to make beauty and color.

“Look at this brochure. This is your new school.” Her last few words played like music. She said, “They have an art program.”

The brochure was made of heavy, high-gloss paper. When the guidance counselor put it down before me, the crease made a loud
croc
against the desk. It was serious paper. Of course they show the school building and kids smiling on the cover, and now that you go here you know that those kids must have been cutting. And then you open the brochure and like the heavy slick feeling of the paper. It isn't throwaway paper. Inside they have all the high school things: the basketball team, the student government, the science lab, and tucked in the corner, the art program. A man with too much hair and a mustache is showing a girl how to draw. I didn't know at the time it was Mr. Sebastian, but I put my face where the girl's face was. Next year some girl would see my face in the new brochure on serious high-gloss paper and wish she were me.

I knew this was the right place from the beginning. Everyone was like, “Hey,” when they saw me coming down B Corridor. And the school has this art program where Mr. Sebastian calls the classrooms studios. C Corridor outside
our studio is the gallery. When we're painting or sketching or sculpting we're artists. When he needs to get us quiet we are “Class,” in that flat duck-quack voice. We like being artists. It's a different feeling than being a math or biology or social studies student. Mr. Sebastian plays music while we work. A lot of strings and horns and piano fighting for air, but we're used to it. He gives us a different language in that class and he expects us to use it. Like, you can't say “That's deep.” You have to say “That has texture” and “Those colors are vibrant.” You have to use the artist language. “When you're in Spanish class, you speak Spanish, yes?” he says. “Well, we speak art in the studio.”

It was hard, speaking art, in the beginning. The first few weeks when we were getting to know each other Mr. Sebastian stayed on my case for using “pretty” and “cute” and “nice.”
Pretty
,
cute
, and
nice
don't belong in the studio. But I don't care. I'm nice, I like pretty, and cute never hurt anybody.

“Hey, Trina.”

Princess Di wave. “Hey.”

Leticia: Its on.

Bea:     OMG!!!

Leticia: At 2:45. Coming?

Bea:    

Leticia: R U Coming?

Bea:     Did U tell her?

Leticia:

Bea:     Did U tell her?

Leticia:

Bea:     TSha tell her.

Leticia:

Bea:     TSHA!!!

B
ING, BANG, BOOM
. B
ING, BANG, BOOM
.
Six triangles on my essay. Black ink dug deep in the margin.
Bing, bang, boom.
A chain of black triangles. Didn't know I was doing it. Making them. Linking them. Can't stop myself. Why stop now? Might as well go to the end. Down to the last line. Seven. Eight.
Bing, bang, boom.

It doesn't matter which book we read.
The Red Badge of Courage
or
Of Mice and Men
. She asks the same questions. We write the same essay. At least I do. It's all the same triangle:

I felt bad for Lennie in
Of Mice and Men
. Lennie was set up. He had to do what he did. Even if it was an accident, it had to go down like that. It was all set in motion from jump. I put that down in my essay. Wrote it out, piece by piece. The rising action. How George set Lennie up. How he was supposed to have Lennie's back but he didn't. That was all Steinbeck. Steinbeck set Lennie up. Made him big, dumb, and too strong for his own good. Made him like soft things. Made him kill every soft thing he touched. What choice did Lennie have? What else was he going to do when that soft blonde flit came shaking her blonde curls in his face? Putting her blonde curls in his hands for him to grab. Big, strong, and dumb. Kill every mouse, every puppy, every soft thing. Steinbeck did that. Made Lennie too strong, too dumb, and Lennie couldn't stop himself. It had to play out that way. Point of no return. He didn't have no one looking out for him. Not really. Not George. Not Steinbeck. No one. Then who comes and tells him to close his eyes? Tells him to dream about the rabbits. Soft rabbits. And Lennie's crying, man. Big, dumb, strong, and crying like a weak little bitch. And who takes him out? Who pumps a Luger full of lead into Lennie? Who? The one who's supposed to be his boy. And I wrote that down in the essay. All of it. I laid it out under falling action.
Bing, bang, boom
.

“A
RTISTS
,
WHEN YOU HAVE A SHOWING
, let the work speak for itself. The patrons will study, admire, question, like, or strongly dislike. Let them. It's art.”

I stand out in the gallery, shining like one hot, bright star, loving my artwork. Mr. Sebastian forgot to say love. How can you not love what I'm giving? Harriet Tubman has never worn a more colorful dress. “I Have a Dream” never looked so dreamy. How's this for the language of art?: All of my art has a point of view, and look! Just look. Pretty, pretty,
mmmwack
! Pretty. Sorry, Mr. Sebastian: Pretty,
bonita
, and
linda
are the right words!

“That doesn't look like Malcolm.”

I gasp. “Bite your tongue, it does.”

Ivan and I go back and forth—does, does not. His art
is good if you like cartoons, Japanese kids with big eyes, and comic book heroes.

Ivan is little-brother cute so I have to tease him. He blushes too easily. I sing, “Someone's eyes are gree-een. Someone's eyes are gree-een.” He says I'm tripping but I'm no stranger to the jealous, green-eyed monster. What?

I say, “You wish you could create like this.”

He accuses me of sniffing paint fumes. Funny. Too funny. But he's staring at my belly and he isn't looking for my appendix scar. What did I tell you?

I wouldn't want to peek inside his sketch pad. I don't want to see his drawings of me. Even worse, drawings of us. I can imagine what he has us doing. But I'm used to little boys. I know he's deep down suffering for me. I can't do nothing about that. Face it. If I treat him to the famous Trina shaky-shake, we will have a disgusting puddle of boy right at the gallery underneath my magnificent showing. Instead I respect him as an artist and share my process.

I tell him how I took a big picture of Malcolm from the library. Then I hit
ENLARGE
on the photocopier. Then I took it home, and with my special mix—sorry, secret—I painted over the face. Then, when it dried, I took the face and cut it up. You know. Cubes. Rectangles. Picasso. Then I painted the different parts of the face in black and red
because Malcolm was assassinated, you know, so blood is red, his hair was red, so red was my theme. Anyone who rents the movie
X
will see my point of view right away.

Ivan says, “That's wack.”

Oh my God! My face is turning colors. I'm hot and sweating and it reminds me of my appendix bursting.

I don't let myself get hot and angry like this. I don't let people do that to me. Instead I do what I do when people hate on me. I turn them off,
click
, drown out their negativity, and tell myself loud, loud, loud I have talent and aptitude. Yes. Aptitude.
Habilidad.

I caress his face from the cheek to the chin. So smooth. He has a way to go before becoming a man. I say, “So young. So immature.”

He wipes away the trace of my finger. Even though we're the same age, I know through Ivan what it's like to have a little brother. But it works. He is madder than I was a second ago so I win.

Ivan, a boy who draws his head on musclemen's bodies, can't stand it. What? He wants to get back at me. Green eyes don't lie. He wants to start up about Rosa and Harriet, but that's too much in one day and Mr. Sebastian is ready to begin. I leave Ivan in the gallery.

I try to close the door behind me but Ivan doesn't stay left for long. He follows me into the studio over to
our worktable. There is enough room for him to work elsewhere, but who does he want to sit with? What a puppy dog.

 

There's only two charcoal pencils on each worktable. They're already sharpened. Mr. Sebastian doesn't believe in wasting time standing at the sharpener so he prepares everything before each class. Even our sketch pads are waiting for us.

Every year Mr. Sebastian sells one of his paintings and uses the money for our art supplies. He gets us the best stuff. Professional. What? Feel the sketch paper. The bumps. Excuse me, excuse me. Texture. Once you caress the paper you don't want to draw stupidness, tear out and crumple up the sheets. It isn't throwaway paper. And there is the newspaper article on the wall about Mr. Sebastian selling his painting. You care about the paper. I do.

I try to make him smile. I give him the goodness that is Trina but he won't let me break through. He isn't easy like Shel-E-Shel. When I break through Mr. Sebastian we will both be glad. Here he is, Mr. Art Man with a studio down under the Brooklyn Bridge, all of this art, all of these colors, paints, pens, pencils, and music, and you would
think happy. Young. Right? I have never seen serious like Mr. Sebastian. Personally I think Mr. Sebastian has a broken heart. His fiancée told him the baby isn't his. His best friend is dying a horrible death. Mr. Sebastian is too serious. Too sad.

“Artists!” he says. “Sit facing your tablemate.”

Ivan and I face each other. His eyes are still green with envy. My eyes sparkle at him.

“It's portrait day. For this period one of you will pose and one will draw. Next period, switch.”

I raise my hand. Before he calls on me I blurt out, “Where are the colored pencils, Mr. Sebastian?”

He shakes his head. “In your charcoal.”

“You mean he”—I point to my annoying
hermanito
—“will draw me black and white and I'll draw him black and white? That's all? That's all?”

Now, you will not believe this. There is a smile on Mr. Sebastian's face. He should do it more often, but that's not the point. I give him crazy point of view, surrealism, cubes, unheard-of mixes for the color brown, and for those I get a nod and a “Good.” But I want color and for this he cracks a smile.

In a cartoon voice, Ivan laughs, “An-hanh.”

I hear what Mr. Sebastian says about shading and dark and light. I have all of that in my notes. I comprehend. I
get it. I just need a color. One color. Green for Ivan's eyes. Isn't art about the truth? Ivan is so jealous of my space in the gallery and it's killing him. He's green. I'm good, but I can't squeeze emerald out of charcoal.

This isn't the end of my problems. Only the beginning. How is he supposed to draw me without hot pink and crème and my lucky gold chain? My hair, my light brown eyes. The natural rose in my lips. Disaster! Disaster! I hate to say it, but there won't be any truth in art. For seventh period we'll all be liars.

Ivan cheeses at me. “What you want to do, Boo? Pose or draw?”

He's getting me back.

Right now I'm thanking Mami for making me
la única
. Maybe my brother or sister wouldn't have the same father as I and maybe they wouldn't be as gorgeous. I can't see fighting all day long with a sibling. I can't deal with all that jealousy.

It's too bad this is a class, a studio of serious artists. It's too bad none of my guys are here to look out for me. Jonesy, Malik, and them. Devin, Eduardo. Ramón, Justin. All my guys. If I gave the word, made the pout, they would take care of me. Talk to Ivan, and Ivan would chill out and mature.

I collect myself. No need to lose control. Everything's good. I'm good.

“I'll be the artist.” I pick up the charcoal pencil. I can make a charcoal sketch pretty. I'll enjoy making Ivan pretty.

He turns to his left, his right. He does thug-life, Hollywood, and then Rodin poses. “Go 'head, Boo. Sketch.”