Chapter 11, post one

Pre-note: In this section of this chapter, Annika is missing art. Unfortunately, this part is underdeveloped. I think I mention it in this chapter then she just forgets about it, which is unlikely. So, this section needs editing! So, feel free to make comments, let me know how you think I could improve it or where it needs improving. Thanks!

Chapter eleven (or ten), section one:

The next day passed the same, except for lunch. Lunch was a show, one that was obviously put on by each school for the opposite gender. For the girls, it was not-too-obviously-but-still-obviously watching the guys throw footballs and skateboard. For the guys, it was watching the girls giggling and flexing muscles that they were hardly using.

After school, instead of joining Amy and the girls for more testosterone watching, I headed for room 102, to join the art club that met on Tuesdays and Thursdays. I had kept the sheet listing all the clubs that the principle had given me and this one was the only one I was really interested in, especially since I couldn’t take an art course here.

To my surprise, the teacher was more than happy to welcome me, not because she enjoyed the subject so much as because the class consisted of only three other members.

The room was full of many more computers than people, and I had no trouble finding a free one beside a redhead. As soon as I’d sat down, the teacher began to speak.

“We are working on signs today, students. Please open the design program.”

The redhead directed me on what to open, and again, as the teacher called out instructions. We used different tools on the program to each create a sign reading, “Main Street West.”

When we had each created the exact same sign, the teacher said, “Great job. Now we’ll move on to store signs.”

We then created store signs, reading “Back-to-Basics Drugstore.” The program was easy and I caught on quickly. However, I was also quickly bored. After that, the teacher called out, “Good work. Now to make a highway sign....”

The club was a gruelling one and a half hours. When it finally ended, I scooted out of there before the teacher, who looked like she might approach me, could possibly ask if I’d liked her club. On my way out the door, I almost ran right into the redhead who’d helped me out.

“Oh! Sorry,” we both said at the same time. We both turned right, and walking along together, I said, “Thanks for all the help.”

“Oh, no problem,” she said. “My name is Anna.”

“Mine is Nika,” I responded, “Do you always do that every meeting?”

“Well, sometimes it’s signs, sometimes it’s building layouts or flowerbed arrangements...”

“But does she always instruct you on exactly what to do on the computer?”

“Yeah, she does,” Anna nodded, “Exactly like that.”

“No offence, but how do you stand it?”

“Oh, I like it,” Anna said with a smile, “I like doing design.”

“But is it design if you are always told exactly what to do?”

“We have to learn how to make those things so that we can have those jobs.” Anna said, “I want to do design when I’m older. I like it a lot. It’s nice, the way it’s simple. We just make what has already been done, because we already know it works. It’s such a great career, it’s competitive. Without the club, I would probably have no chance of getting into the field, but now I do.”

We came out of the school building, Anna heading right and me heading left.

“See you later! Nice meeting you!” Anna called as I said, “Thanks for the info!”

Alone, I wandered to the residence building. When I got to my room, I changed into jeans then headed to the roof top. I needed somewhere to think while these memories ran through my head.

I remembered art, real art. My favourite thing to do when I was just a little kid was finger paint. I loved the cool liquid on my hands and the way the colours mixed into something beautiful. As I got older, I realized I wasn’t coordinated enough for sports nor quite book smart to hang out with the nerds, but I always fit right in with the art students. I loved art class, my grades were always As and I was always going beyond the teachers instructions. My handmade teacup was complete with detailed paint and a coat of glaze, my tissue paper art was three meters long, my paintings were intricate and colourful.

I remembered art being this thing where I was free to do what I wanted, creating what picture I had in my mind despite what someone else thought. It was something I was good at, better than some people, something that I was proud of. I remember art that used a rainbow of colour and stood out from the rest, where your hand could be aching but you’d keep going anyways just to make that sunset melt into the sea.

What was with the art in this world? I had seen nothing but some prints of flowers and framed pictures of family since I’d been here. There was no art class to take for credit, and the club was just an ironic twist to the title. It seemed like these people thought that what worked was what worked, that nothing should be changed because it was already there. But, at the same time, nothing stood out. Nothing made you think, wonder what they were thinking when they did that; nothing inspired you or struck you as creative.

I was living in a world without pencil sketches and pastel fingers, things I loved back on earth.

Sitting on the roof top watching the pattern of girls on the lawn, I looked up at the clouds rolling by and thought they looked like dolphins. A pod of dolphins I would have loved to paint.