The Art Teacher by spanglemaker9.pdf

The Art Teacher by spanglemaker9

http://www.fanfiction.net/s/6460434/1/The_Art_Teacher

He gave me art and words and passion and life, but all I wanted was him

Chapter 1: The Art Teacher

*0*0*

I am a lucky girl.

I tell myself this all the time—I remind myself to be grateful for everything I've been given. It would

be so easy to be angry; to be sad; to be a mess. I could have nothing, and instead, I have everything.

So I'm not allowed to be any of those things, and I remind myself every day that I'm so, so lucky.

I'm standing by my locker, in the hallway of Spencer Academy, and I'm watching the undulating sea

of navy wool and black watch tartan sweep past me between classes. There are crisp white Thomas

Pink shirts, and artfully loosened rep ties, and gold bullion school crests on breast pockets, and six

hundred dollar highlights, and seven thousand dollar nose jobs, and phones so new they aren't even

sold in stores yet, and everywhere there is money. Loads of it. All of them— all of us — awash in a sea

of unfathomable wealth.

Because I'm standing here at my locker, clutching the strap of my shoulder bag and watching like I'm

on the outside, but really, I'm kind of one of them, even if I don't feel that way. And I am so lucky to

be one of them. I can't ever forget that.

I turn my head and look down the hall, through the bodies, for Rose. She said she'd meet me here to

walk with me to Calc, but it's almost the bell and there's no sign of her. Then I see her, all ease and

self-satisfaction, as she swings down the hall. Rose has been beautiful and blessed for so long that it's

part of her bones, not just something on the outside of her. She's a little bit ignorant about that fact,

but it's hard to hold it against her, since she really does have no clue about how fortunate she is. This

is the only reality she knows.

I feel lucky that Rose is my friend. I don't have to remind myself to feel that way; I just do. She may

be sheltered and oblivious, but she means well. And her friendship smoothed my entry into this

world in a way the money never could have. The money made everyone tolerate me; Rose's stamp of

approval made them accept me.

As I watch her glide down the hall, her eyes studiously unfocused, the boys around her part and

come back together in her wake, their eyes appreciating everything Rose has so carefully offered up

for admiration. Royce Harrison brushes past me and saunters slowly towards her. Like Rose, his

attention is everywhere and nowhere and pointedly not on Rose. As they draw abreast of each other,

his left hand snakes out a matter of inches to connect with her right hand, also unobtrusively

extended. Her fingers quickly close around what he's pressed there and the only acknowledgement

that either of them makes is a tiny curl of Rose's lips, directed at the crowded hall, not at Royce.

She continues towards me, an easy sway to her hips, and I see her pocket the tiny baggie Royce

pressed into her hand. I roll my eyes, because now she's going to want me to come home with her to

use it up, and I'm trying to stay away from all that shit.

For the first few years of high school, I just wanted to hang out with friends and blend in. I wanted to

belong and have fun, and in our crowd, fun is had with expensive liquor and drugs. So I did my share,

too. But it never made me feel any happier. I felt the same, no matter how much I partied, no matter

what I bought with all this money. So I quit all that. I'm trying to stay away from all the rich kid

indulgences: the blow, the pills, the booze, the reckless spending.

Rose thinks I'm ridiculous. Maybe I am, but I don't know how to have fun that way anymore. I don't

know how to have fun any other way, either, so it's been a pretty boring year. I don't know what I'm

supposed to be doing with all this wealth and privilege. No one else seems to be working so hard to

find answers— just me, which makes me think that maybe I'm missing something.

"Hey," she says, coming to a stop next to me and leaning on the locker. She taps the hip pocket of

her blazer. "Come over?"

She rolls her eyes. "Isabella. Come on. We'll get Alice to come. And maybe some of the guys."

"Then no ," I say, pushing off the lockers and making my way down the hall. Rose huffs and falls in

behind me. It would be bad enough to spend all afternoon getting messed up with just her and Alice.

Invite a bunch of guys and before I know it, I'm alone in some bedroom being pinned to the bed by

some arrogant, entitled prick, sticking his hands up my skirt and drooling all over my neck like it's

supposed to turn me on. No thanks. Again, I've been there and done that and I don't want to do it

anymore.

ButIss

"I have a lot of homework to do. I can't," I protest.

"It's not like anyone will care if you don't do it," she says, and I suck in a breath. She's right. She

doesn't say it to be hurtful, it's just the truth. Whether I stay home and do my homework or go over

to Rose's and get completely fucked up will matter to absolutely no one but me. And Rose. But she's

rooting for me to get fucked up, so she doesn't count.

"I think my mom is home this afternoon," I mutter. Rose sighs, but refrains from saying anything else,

which I'm grateful for. She can be kind, when she wants to be.

At the door to Calculus, I peel off and wave goodbye to her, as she continues on to World History.

Emmett jogs past me to catch her, falling into step beside her. He whispers something in her ear that

makes her duck her head and smile.

Calculus is purgatory; it always is for me. I have such a hard time focusing on this stuff. It doesn't help

that the school year is more than halfway over, so any incentive the rest of the seniors in my class

had to knuckle down and pay attention is now gone. Early admissions have all gone out; college is

decided for everybody. Now they're just marking time until freedom.

Alice is in Calc with me, though. Halfway through, she slides her notebook towards me. In the bottom

left corner, in purple ink, it says " Rose's house? "

I give her a tiny shake of the head. Her shoulders fall and her head tips sideways. Her disappointment

is comical in its dramatic flair. I try not to laugh at her and the big Bambi eyes she's giving me.

I like Alice. I've been friends with Rose since freshman year, and my loyalty is always with her, since

she bestowed the gift of her friendship on me when she didn't have to. Alice has started to hang

around with us sometimes during this past year and she's great. In some ways, she's easier to be

around than Rose. It's more natural with her. Rose, and her dedication to having fun at any cost, can

wear a person out. Sometimes I think I'd like to be closer with Alice, and do stuff with just the two of

us, without the pressure of Rose and the temptation that she's always waving under my nose. But I'd

never cut Rose out like that, so we only hang out in a group. I think she might be nervous about being

alone with Rose, without the buffer of me there.

But I can't do this stuff anymore. I just don't want to. So I stand firm. I shrug my shoulders helplessly

and shake my head again, as if there are higher powers at work and I have to just go along. Alice

doesn't push, which is another thing I like about her.

After school, Alice and I walk towards the front, where the students are all emptying out onto 77th

street. The older kids are hanging on the stone steps, lighting up cigarettes, making plans on phones.

There is a sea of black town cars at the curb, each waiting to pick up their appointed wealthy spawn

and squire them back home, or to tutoring, or dance class, or tennis lessons, or whatever the next

event might be.

Rose is leaning on the stair rail. Emmett is standing in front of her, legs splayed, one foot on either

side of Rose's. They've fooled around some in the past. Emmett's fooled around with a lot of girls,

and Rose has had her fair share of guys. But I always get the feeling Emmett's fond of Rose— that he

might like her a little as a person. I hope he's going over to her place with her. I won't worry about

leaving her messed up in a house full of people if Emmett's there. Nobody will mess with Rose when

he's around, except maybe him.

"You sure you won't come, Iss?" Alice says. She's fidgeting with her ribbon headband, making sure

the bow is precisely positioned, before she smooths down the inky black curtain of her hair.

I shake my head. "No, you guys have fun. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Maybe I'll call you later?" Alice asks. I hear the tentative, hopeful note in her voice. She's reaching

out to me, wanting to be closer to me, and it makes me feel warm inside.

"Sure," I laugh. "If you're in any shape to call anybody."

She rolls her eyes and chuckles, before turning to join Rose and Emmett on the steps.

I weave through the sea of navy uniforms, checking names in car windows, until I spot mine: Dwyer. I

open the back door and throw my bag across the seat before sliding in after it.

"Hey, Felix," I say, smiling.

"Miss Isabella," Felix says, also smiling. He's already turning off his Christian talk radio and turning it

to the alternative satellite station for me.

It's ridiculous that a car is sent for me every day. Our apartment is only twelve blocks from Spencer;

an easy walk. But I'm not supposed to walk so every morning and every afternoon, a black town car

drives me the twelve blocks, usually taking longer than it would have if I'd walked. I don't argue

anymore. Anyway, I like Felix and he gets paid for driving me.

At our building, I greet Santiago, the day doorman, and he calls the elevator for me. Inside, I use my

key to access our penthouse, the 23rd and 24th floors, at the top of the building. The elevator opens

directly into the foyer on 23, all cream and gold and crystal. The flowers in the vase on the little side

table are a vibrant explosion of purples and scarlet. They're fresh and they're changed daily. I like

today's.

I pass right through the foyer and the gallery, past the living room and the formal dining room, to the

staircase leading to the upper floor. At the end of the long cream-carpeted hall is my room. It's small;

smaller than every other bedroom in the house. When I first came to live here, I was put in one of

the larger guest rooms, but it was too cavernous after the tiny room under the eaves that I had

grown up in. So I asked to move to the little room. It was just the right size, and no one cared how I

kept it.

After I deposit my book bag on a chair and trade out my uniform for a pair of yoga pants and a t-shirt,

I head back downstairs for some water and something to eat. I wasn't lying to Rose; I do have

homework.

My mother, when she speaks behind me, scares the life out of me. I thought I was home alone. I spin

and flatten myself against the refrigerator, one hand pressed to my chest as I wait for my heart rate

to slow down. My mother doesn't seem to notice that she startled me, because she doesn't mention

it; she just starts talking, as if we've been in the middle of a long conversation. We haven't crossed

paths in three days.

"Your Art Appreciation seminar starts tomorrow."

Mywhat?

Renee blinks once at me, her face expressionless. As she gets older, and the procedures stack up,

she's more and more expressionless. I can never read her now. Is she displeased or is that just the

way she looks now?

"Art Appreciation," she repeats slowly. Displeased.

"I don't take Art Appreciation."

"It's a special seminar, Isabella," she says. "With this fabulous young artist Mimi Weigert discovered

in some gallery in the Meatpacking District. She had to move heaven and earth, but she's got him

doingthisReneewavesherhandabsentlyintheairtoindicatethatshehasnoideawhatshes

talkingaboutnordoesshecare seminar of some sort. Ten weeks."

ButIcantdraw

"It's appreciation , Isabella. He'll teach you to appreciate it."

"The semester's already started. My schedule is set," I protest again, although I don't know why I

bother. This has already been decided.

"They said you'd miss study hall and gym three days a week."

That doesn't sound so bad, actually.

Renee fixes me with her hardest look, and I know I can't argue any more. "Mimi Weigert and Cynthia

Tidwell have both got their kids in this thing. There were only ten slots. Do you know how many asses

I had to kiss and how long I had to spend on the phone shouting at those Spencer idiots to get you

into it? But I managed, so you're going."

I nod mutely. This isn't about me anyway, so nothing I have to say about it would matter. Amongst

people like my mother— like Mrs. Weigert and Mrs. Tidwell— the education of their children is a

blood sport. There's no advantage they'll willingly pass up, no perceived edge they don't want for

their offspring. My mother has zero interest in me gaining an appreciation for art. But this seminar—

this shiny new toy Mrs. Weigert has managed to procure for a chosen few— is too tempting for my

mother to pass up. If Mimi Weigert's daughter is taking it, then by God, Renee Dwyer's daughter will,

too. If I didn't get in, it would be seen as a failing on my mother's part. It would reflect badly on her.

So she did what she had to do to make it happen; not for me— for her.

After another moment, I shrug and nod my acquiescence. After all, I'll get out of study hall and gym

three times a week, and I like art enough.

Renee misses my nod; she isn't waiting for it. She's scowling at one of her nails, no doubt just

noticing a chip that will have to be dealt with.

"Phil and I are going out tonight," she mutters, eyes still on her nails. "We have dinner with some

people. You can manage."

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