Pure Red (11 page)

jagged tawny rocks

It’s been five days since I sprained my ankle, and I’m officially bored. Coach left a message on my voicemail on Friday asking how I was feeling. She also said to go down to the Y today and sign up for another class until I’m cleared to play ball again. I could just take the time off and chill, but it’s not like I can hang out at the beach or cruise the mall with my crutches. Instead, I’d be glued to the sofa watching soaps or overcrowding Dad and Graham at the studio. Not that I don’t want to be around Graham 24/7, but I’m taking Liz’s approach and trying to play it cool.

The most annoying thing about having a sprained ankle is actually getting around. My condo is not a big deal, since we have an elevator and it’s only three steps down from the lobby to the front entrance, but it’s a good ten-minute walk to the Y. Luckily, there’s a bus stop on the corner of my street, so that’s where I’m sitting now.

The Number 10 pulls up and I crutch aboard. I sit right up front in the handicapped section. The bus drops me off and I go straight to the camp director’s office, like Coach Parker instructed me to. I hope to have some say in what class they stick me in, but as long as it doesn’t involve any physical activity, I’ll be fine.

“Hi, I’m Cassia Bernard and I’m supposed to change my class since I can’t play basketball right now,” I tell the lady in the burgundy dress sitting at the big metal desk. She looks like a vintage wine that’s been tucked away in the cellar for years. I look around the room for a window and spot one behind a huge stack of books. This place could really use a little sunshine.

She peers up from a pile of papers. “Yes, Mrs. Parker told me you were going to come by.” Burgundy lady pulls a piece of paper out of a drawer. “Take a look at the classes we offer. A few are full, but let me know what you’re interested in.”

I scan the list. Volleyball. Out. Swimming. Out. Drama. Still involves a lot of movement. Painting and drawing. I might as well join Dad and Graham. My injury really limits my find-a-passion quest. I turn the page. I don’t want to be forced into something like computer design or cosmetology.
There’s no space to record likes and dislikes on my college applications, so I might as well find something I can stick to.

My eyes stop on ceramics. This could work. It’s something I’ve always wanted to try and if I like it, then I can definitely change my fall school schedule. I know you have to work the wheel, but that only involves one foot and my right foot is fine.

“How about ceramics?” I ask.

The lady pulls out another list. This one is pages long. She flips through a few. “Yes, I believe Mr. Parker has a couple of open s
lots.”

“Mr. Parker?” As in, the husband to my basketball coach, the lady I was sure got cozy with her ball at night? “Any relation to Ms. P
arker, the basketball coach?”

“Yes,
Mrs
. Parker is married to
Mr
. Parker.” She gets up from the desk and walks toward the door like this is not shocking news. “Follow me. I’ll introduce you to him.”

Okay, this is getting weirder. Not only did I picture Mrs. Parker as Ms. Parker, living alone, but if she’s married, it would not be to a ceramics teacher but to a college football coach.

The art room is down the hall. Mr. Parker is seated at his desk, tapping away on his computer. Burgundy lady points to me and asks, “Eli, do you have room for one more?”

He looks up, laughing, and turns the computer monitor to face us. His cheeks are rosy and he has a wild beard. Neanderthal meets Bill Gates. Totally not Ms. Parker-esque. His hair is as wild as hers is perfect.

“I did it!” he bellows. We’re staring at his face on the body of a sumo wrestler. Weird.

Burgundy laughs, so I do too, just to be polite.

“Sure, I have room,” Mr. Parker says. “What’s your name?”

“Cassia Bernard.”

He strokes his beard and stares at me. “What a pretty name. Cassia, as in
Cassia fistula
?”

Only a serious plant lover would pick up on that. Most people think I’m named after the constellation Cassiopeia. “Yup, the golden shower plant.”

“Well, pleasure to have you, Cassia. Call me Eli. All the other students do. There’s an empty seat at the first table. Class sta
rts in fifteen minutes.”

I lean against my crutches. “I thought I was going to sign up and come back tomorrow. I’m not even prepared.”

“All you need are these.” He shakes his hands in the air like a belly dancer.

It’s not like I have anything else to do, so I place my crutches against the wall and take a seat on the stool. This room is set up pretty much like a school art room. Teacher’s desk up front, four worn-out wooden art tables with stools, four potter’s wheels, and an oversized metal cabinet for supplies.

Since they’re more than three weeks into the session, Mr. Parker (I mean Eli) said I have some catching up to do, but I’m welcome to stay after if I like. He definitely knows how to make someone feel welcome.

A few kids trickle in. Nobody I know; all around my age, though. A boy in a yellow Charlie Brown shirt sits down next to me. He’s got black-rimmed glasses on and his chin pierced, and he seems nice enough. There’s one other girl at my table. Her hair is black too, but cropped really short.

Eli gives me a quick introduction. Everyone says hi. Then he grabs a hunk of terra-cotta clay and slaps it down in front of me. “Don’t be afraid to really get to know the clay. You own it.” God, he sounds just like his wife.
Get to know the ball.
“The first project is done by hand. After that you’ll learn to work the wheel,” he tells me.

Then he hands out people’s fired projects and talks to them for a couple of minutes about the glazing process. He says you have to apply several coats, then wait for one to dry before applying the next or the color will end up uneven—dark in some spots, light in others. Sounds like the painting I hung in my bedroom window in fifth grade. I painted a multi-colored butterfly and faced it to the street so that it could look out at the people below and wouldn’t be lonely. When I took it down a year later, the blue construction paper it was mounted on was completely faded in the front, but the back remained a deep ocean blue. The butterfly, however, held on strong and was still bright and cheery.

I stare at the blob of clay. It looks like an unborn baby ready to be formed. I don’t want to be the one to ruin it for life. I glance around the room.
Nobody seems to be in limbo; they’re all busy, lost in their projects. My pointer finger slides into the clay. It’s cool and moist. I close my eyes and mash it with my palm. It feels smooth, much dif
ferent from the pimply touch of the basketball skin. After the clay has softened, I roll it into a ball.

The girl next to me is using Rockin’ Red glaze on her coffee mug and the boy on the other side of me is painting his cappuccino cup chartreuse. I wish I could skip right to the color. It really adds a lot of personality to their pieces. It looks like their assignment was to make something to drink out of. I could ask Eli if I should start with that, but he’s way too into picture-morphing on his computer right now. The coffee mug seems easiest, so I flatten my ball and start molding.

Everyone is pretty quiet. Eli has a CD on, playing classical music, and only a couple of girls at the last table are chatting. This place is so much mellower than the basketball court. It’s like you’re on your own here. Everyone speaks in hushed tones, but I’m half expecting them to yell, “I’m open” or “Pass over here.” No, they’re more like, “Dude, can I use your small brush?” No one’s in a hurry; it’s such a different environment. You’d think I’ve been playing basketball all my life, not just three weeks.

Eli comes over and shows me how to smooth the inside of my mug so that it doesn’t crack in the kiln. “If you have any questions, you can ask Nia.” He points to the girl sitting at my table.

She looks up from her mug and gives me a little wave.

“Hi,” I say back. “Have you been doing this a long time?”

“I took ceramics when I went to sleepaway camp two summers ago.”

The kid with the piercing chimes in. “Nia’s good at everything.”

“Not true, Scott,” she says. Her voice is small but powerful.

“Oh, sorry. Except for calling people back.” He has a smirk on his face. His mini-smile reminds me of Graham. Who am I kidding? The fact that he’s from the male species remind me of Graham. Graham’s probably so busy inhaling my father’s paint fumes right now that he doesn’t even notice I’m not there.

“You know I lost my cell,” Nia whines.

Scott’s face turns red.

Clearly, this is something personal. Subject change. Quick. “Is there any trick to making the handle?” I hold a piece of clay up that looks like a snake.

“Shorten it first. Then you need to slip and score,” Nia says.

I coil the handle around my finger. “What’s that?” All I picture is someone trying to score a basket and slipping on a banana peel. I don’t mention this to Nia. Last thing I need is a light-up sign over my head flashing the word
amateur
.

She hands me a knife. “Scratch lines on your mug where you’re g
oing to attach the handle.” She watches me make the scratch marks and hands me some watery clay—“the slip.” I affix it to the mug. Then she instructs me to press the handle onto the mug.

“Good. Just keep some pressure on it.” Nia gets up from the table and walks over to the sink.

“Women.” Scott shakes his head like I understand what he’s going through.

“Definitely,” I answer and stretch out my leg.

Scott gestures to my foot. “How’d you do that?”

“Playing basketball.”

“You play ball? That’s cool.”

Do I
not
look like a ball player? What do I look like? “Cool until this sprain.”

“I sprained my ankle too, once. Boy Scout camping trip. We were on a hike.”

I look up at the silver stud in his chin and his bed-head. He
so
does not look like a Boy Scout. “Yeah, it seems like everyone has a crutches story. Even my dad.”

“Everyone except Nia.” Scott laughs. “She probably walked at three months old.”

–––––

I spend the rest of the class “getting to know the clay.” I start with basic shapes, then move on to a butterfly. It’s like I’m back in preschool molding my red Play-doh. The only difference is, Gabe Wilde isn’t here to eat the leftover pieces off of the plastic table.

I pass the shelf of glazes on the way out. I run my finger over the bottles on the top. Celadon. White Crackle. Temmoku. If I did stay after it would be to add some color to my mug. Too bad I have to wait for it to be fired. Maybe I’ll paint it white. It’s such a pure color; it hides nothing.

“Thanks, Eli. That was a lot of fun,” I say as I pass his desk.

He’s cropping a picture of a dog on the computer. Looks like a golden retriever. Don’t tell me he wants to be a dog now. “Glad you enjoyed it, Cassia. Stick with it and you’ll see that you can create marvelous things with your hands.”

I make my way awkwardly through the door and outside the building. The pads of the crutches are digging into my underarms. I tighten the straps on my backpack, then rest against the brick wall and wait for the bus. I think about what Mr. Parker said about my hands, whether he says it to every student.

My cell vibrates in my pocket. It’s Liz. “Hey, girl, what’s up?” I say.

“Harry and I are officially a couple now.” I can tell she’s still in the middle of her happy dance.

“That’s awesome. But I thought you already were. What did he say?”

“We met for lunch and he said he wanted us to be exclusive.”

Funny. Graham and I met at the gallery and now he’s exclusive with my dad. I know it’s not the same thing, but still … “That’s so cool.” I try to sound excited.

The bus pulls up to my stop and lets out a huge sigh.

“Where are you?” Liz asks.

I slide closer to the bus, cell phone tucked between my ear and shoulder, waiting for everyone to get off. A few droplets of water settle on my head. Rain and crutches, not a good combination. I can’t risk spraining my good ankle. “I’m at the Y, I decided to … ”

“Oh my God,” Liz shouts. “I forgot to tell you the best part.”

“Okay, what?” My arms already ache and I haven’t even walked a half a block.

“Harry bought me the cutest teddy bear. He said his name is Hariz. Get it!” She laughs.

No.

I can’t talk, get on a bus, and crutch at the same time. The rain is getting heavier. “Liz, I’m getting all wet. I’ll call you later,” I say, and hang up.

I ride the sweaty bus in silence. I guess the a/c is out, unless it’s the bus driver’s evil intention to suffocate us. He has a mini-fan up front cooling the driver’s seat.

I open the new sketchbook that Graham gave me and take a whiff to see if it still smells like him. I come up with nothing. I grab a pencil out of my bag so that no one thinks I’m a crazy book sniffer. Except for Graham’s behind, I haven’t drawn in a while, but Mr. Parker’s class jump-started the creative side of my brain.

The pencil leads the way. I start with a few zigzags on top of the page and move to an oval. Then I draw a pair of eyes. Deep eyes. I center them a thumbnail apart from each other and quickly sketch the nose. It’s long and pointy. I draw past the 64
th
Street stop, past the 68
th
Street stop. I don’t look up. I just hear the bus screech to a halt and take off again. The rain pounds against the windows. It’s only summer rain, so I know it’ll end soon. Next we zoom past my stop. No one gets on or off. Not even me. I can’t stop drawing. Not now. I’m revved up like a race-car engine. I can’t remember when I last had so many emotions running through me. It feels good to be alive.

A few minutes later, I glance up from my paper. The rain has let up. The sun is bright like nothing ever happened; only scattered drops roll down the window. The next stop is Sunny Isles, blocks from my house. I get off and cross the street. Thankfully there’s a bench to sit on and wait for a bus back to Miami Beach. I’m still clutching my sketchbook. I open it and trace my fingers over the finished product.