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look fine," I replied — just as HE entered the room.
Mal gasped. "That's him!" "SHHHH!" I nudged her elbow. (I don't think Mac heard us.) McKenzie Clarke was not at all what I had expected. He was short and slim and didn't look a bit like Santa Claus. He was also younger than I'd thought he'd be. He wore thick glasses and seemed quite serious. When a couple of kids called, "Hi," he just nodded, then organized his things on one of the drawing tables. Now he was halfway across the room from Mal and me. I could barely see him.
At nine-thirty on the nose, even though kids were still arriving, and without greeting the class, McKenzie Clarke began to speak. He said, "Today's lesson is intended to make you aware of dimension and perspective when you draw." "Does he realize he has new students?" Mal whispered to me.
Before I could answer her, the boy next to me raised his hand. "Mac?" he began. "When we ..." I didn't hear whatever he said. Instead, I turned to Mal and, barely remembering to keep my voice down, hissed, "That kid just called him 'Mac' right to his face! I wonder if we should." Mal grinned. I knew she was thinking how great being "in" with Mac would feel. I knew that because I was thinking the same thing. But a few seconds later, my smile faded. "Mom and Dad don't let me call adults by their first names unless I know them really, really well," I said. "We haven't even spoken to Mac, yet. I think we better call him Mr. Clarke, at least for awhile." Mallory nodded.
Then I snapped to attention as Mr. Clarke began to explain the day's assignment. We were supposed to draw the pile of boxes, paying special attention to the corners and angles and to dimension.
Draw those boxes? I thought. All the boxes? Oh, my lord, how boring. But if that was what Mr. Clarke wanted, then that was what I would do. And I would do a good job.
When Mr. Clarke finished explaining the as- signment, he began to walk around the room, speaking briefly to each student. Soon Mal clutched my arm and squealed (quietly), "He's almost here!" She looked pale.
"Hello," Mr. Clarke greeted us solemnly. "You must be some of my new students. May I have your names, please?" I managed to reply, "Claudia Kishi," without my voice cracking. Then I added, "And that's Mallory Pike. She's my friend. We're from — " Mr. Clarke cut me off. "Each morning I will tell you what materials to bring the next day. Today you need only sketching pads, which I see you have brought, and pencils." (He handed each of us two pencils and a gum eraser.) "I will circle the room, checking your work from time to time." "Okay. Thanks for — " Mr. Clarke had turned to the girl next to" Mallory.
"Well," I said. "Time to begin." Mal nodded. Then she looked from the boxes to her pad. Slowly she picked up a pencil and began to draw. She erased her first line.
Meanwhile, I started sketching quickly, line after line after line. I have been studying art for so long that dimension and perspective are things I don't think about much. Of course, I'm aware of them when I work, but they're not something I concentrate on.
I had finished drawing the entire pile of boxes by the time Mac appeared at my table again. Mal was plodding through the assignment, erasing practically every line she drew. Finally, she rubbed a hole in the paper and had to start over again. She worked in the same, slow manner, and was erasing yet another line when I looked up into Mac's face, smiled, and said proudly, "I'm all finished." (I couldn't wait for the next assignment.) Mac turned my pad around and examined the drawing. After a few moments, he frowned and said, "You work much too .quickly, Miss Kishi. Would you please begin again? You don't notice that anyone else is finished, do you? Look around the room." I looked. Everyone was working busily. Mr. Clarke stepped over to Mal's table. With shaking hands, I flipped to the next page in my sketchbook.
I felt stung. No one had ever examined my work and not said at least one nice