Fall 2000 Charles River Review: Faces

It's okay to be fat. That's what I tell myself, anyway. I'm young. I have time to lose the weight. I can get thin and get married and start living my life. I'm not one of those fat people who have been on diets their whole lives, trying grapefruit one week, cabbage soup the next. Or watching late-night infomercials and being desperate enough to order the latest and greatest product. An 800 number lifeline. First of all, I haven't been fat all that long. And second, I think it bothers everyone else more than me.

Take my mom, for instance. She's one of the people buying the infomercial products or leaving strategically placed Jenny Craig ads in front of my seat at the kitchen table. (Tip number one: don't put weight-loss material where you eat). And she weighs 165 pounds.

Everyone thinks there must be this big reason behind me gaining all this weight, rather than admit I just got fat. Pure and simple, no real reason to speak of. Well, except the obvious. I love to eat. I'm not one of those fat people who's ashamed of it. It's actually other people who are ashamed. I don't hide candy in my closet or cookies in my underwear drawer; I wouldn't order salad on a date if I ever got asked out on one, and I don't browse the low-fat aisle at the grocery store. I eat what I want when I want (although sometimes my mom can be an obstacle). And I don't care who knows. Besides, once you look at me, it's not a big secret.

Every day between third and fourth period I head down the long, narrow hallway that leads to the gym. The faint smell of sweat and Right Guard wafts my way, and I have to look beyond the people coming from gym class. I look beyond them, but I still see them. Their flushed faces fresh from the spigots they call showers, those with acne looking redder than usual. Girls, guys. And they see me, too. How could they not? But maybe for all of us, it's like the noise of an air conditioner in an office on a hot day. You only notice it's running once it's stopped.

No, I don't go down there to torment myself or to feel bad that I got a note to get out of gym class. I could do gym. I have a couple of friends in there (yes, I do have a couple of friends). But I'd rather do my painting in the art lab when I've got it all to myself.

I go down there because that's where the vending machines are. Three large ones with everything from soda to Kit Kats to Andy Capp's Hot Fries--sitting outside the most active place in the school.

So I won the award for "Best Upcoming Talent" today. My mom thought it pretty impressive. I don't think she would have believed me if I didn't have the paper certificate to show her. I didn't bother telling her it was an award teachers voted for.

It was for this clay thing I created a few months back. Mainly for the sculpture, I guess, but some of my other paintings and stuff, too. The clay thing I'm really proud of. It's this slate-gray color, and it's got this twisting thing going on, like a big spiral all bleeding into the center. It's slightly off balance, as if it's about to topple over. Most people who've seen it think of a tornado, but I didn't really have that in mind when I made it. My hands just felt like doing that to the clay. I know that sounds really corny and something so artist-like to say, but I don't mean it like that. It's just that my mind wandered and my hands followed, and this was the result. There's even one of my fingerprints etched into one of the inside swirls, which is the coolest part. In my opinion.

So, yeah, I guess I'm sort of psyched about this award, even if only Mrs. Glenn (my art teacher) and I really care about it. It kind of all fits into my plan about making it really big in a couple years. Always in my head when I'm making it really big, I'm not fat anymore. I'm always thin in those daydreams. Not that I think you have to be. Look at Della Reese or Roseanne or John Goodman or Chris Farley. Okay, he's not the best example. But for some reason, I'm always thin in the future.

I decided to see this counselor today at school. Actually, Mr. Wilkins, my American Lit teacher "suggested" that I do. Mr. W, he's all right. A bit old, smells like stale coffee and cheap cigarettes, and wears a worn powder-blue Mr. Rogers cardigan over everything. But he doesn't make fun of anyone, isn't there to amuse us. He basically wants to know our thoughts, which is more than I can say for a lot of adults. So anyways, I guess he was concerned or something about this story I wrote about an overweight girl with a drug problem. See, she was addicted to these drugs that made her feel good, but they also made her fat. Apparently old Mr. W thought he was onto something and the girl in the story was me. People like this crack me up. Do they really think that someone with this problem would bring it up during a freewrite in class?

I never understood why anyone would want to be a high school counselor. You're working with the most ungrateful, hormonal, angry population and you're not making any money from it. Counselors sit in puke-colored cubicles, at least at my school, and shoot the shit with each other because no kids want to come and see them. Only ones that are forced show up.

So when I walk in and scribble my name on the sign-in sheet, I'm not surprised that it's the only one on there. The "receptionist," who is some 12th grader with dyed blond hair and teeth that look as if they've just been whitened, asks me to please have a seat and someone will be right with me. I nod and watch her trying to sneak a glance at me. You know she's thinking how glad she is that she isn't me, and her phony smile confirms it.

After thumbing through two Cosmos, a Newsweek, and Popular Mechanics, I hear my name. It comes from this little Italian-looking woman with gold rings on just about every finger and huge glasses with purplish lenses that sit too far down on her nose. My mom's got a sweater just like hers. It's something only a mom no longer concerned with fashion would wear. Too many colors, too much knit, too big.

"So, Andrea," Mrs. Maniaci says, glancing at my name on the folder in her hand, "come on back to my office." She smiles a big smile, like her receptionist friend.

"It's An-DRAY-a," I say. Everyone wants to call me ANN-dree-ah. I always used to correct everyone, but these days I don't much care.

"Okay, great, then Andrea," Little Woman says, still pronouncing it incorrectly.

We walk to her "office," and she takes a seat behind the desk, except it's not a desk exactly. More like a table. The carpet probably used to be the same puke color as the cubicle walls, but it's so faded it's hard to tell. There's a little window on the far wall. Her desk has several picture frames, but I can't see any of the photos because they face Little Woman. It's not as tidy as I'd have thought; it almost looks like work on her table.

"So, Andrea, how are you?" she rubs her finger along her chin, which has a faint trace of dark hair. Does this bother her husband?

"Fine. You?" I say, leaning in, also rubbing my own hairless chin.

"Good, good. Why don't we talk a little about you? What are your interests, your hobbies? Tell me something that makes you, you." She smiles again, as though she's said something really profound. When she thinks I'm not looking, she quickly turns her wrist and glances at her watch.

"I am an artist." I stare at her for a few seconds. Adults get a little freaked out when you don't blink. Then I look at the many plants crammed into her cube. Three are dying.

"Really? That's wonderful! And what kinds of things do you do, Andrea?"

Her seemingly genuine enthusiasm throws me off momentarily, and I notice that she has pronounced my name correctly this time. A double whammy. So I go into my sculptures, but mostly my paintings and even end up telling her about my stupid award. I realize I'm talking too much. Little Woman is nodding and smiling every so often. She says she always wished she could be artistic; instead she became a counselor and a mom. She grabs for the frame right in front of her and turns it my way.

"This is my husband, Frank. And this," she points to the bigger of the two girls, "is Lia. And there's Eva," she says, tapping her taupe polished nail on the glass. They're not an extremely attractive lot, but they look relatively happy. But, doesn't everyone in pictures?

We chat a bit more and soon the bell rings, and she tells me I better get to my next class. I realize we haven't discussed Mr. Wilkins, my story, or my weight.

I decide to make another appointment.

My mom does nice things for me all the time. But she complains about it so much that I wish she would stop. It makes me feel guilty. Like I'm so fat or pathetic she feels she has to. It's annoying. She comes into my room today, true to form, not knocking or anything, and is carrying this big platter of some disgusting looking squares.

"Hon, these are low-fat fiber brownies. I sent away for this special low-fat cookbook for young people--it's called the Lean Teen Fat-Fighting Machine and they give you all these great ways to fight fat and burn calories. The recipes are supposed to be really good, too."

"Ma, those look like dog shit. Did you try them?" It makes me a little suspicious that I'm always the guinea pig for her brilliant ideas.

"Not yet. I was going to have one with you. I've been working all afternoon getting them just right. Baking's a bit tiring, hon, standing on your feet and you know, the heat and stuff."

"Jeezus. Give me one. If you went through all that effort, for godsakes." I bite into the horrible little thing. It actually wasn't so horrible; I kind of liked it. It tasted crunchy and nutty with a bit of cinnamon flavoring.

"Disgusting, Mom! Could you spare me from trying every weight-loss attempt?"

"Honey, I just don't want you to end up alone." She concentrates on an old cherry Kool-Aid stain on the carpet before looking at me.

"You know what?" I yell. "Try being a little concerned for yourself. Have you looked at your pathetic life lately? Dead end job, no husband, no boyfriend, not even a date! "

"One day you're going to wake up and find yourself alone, Andrea," she says, and I notice her eyes are moist.

I feel bad for a second, just a twinge, before I turn on my stereo to play my angry mix. It's a ton of loud, head-banging songs with poetic lyrics like "I'll wear black my whole life but you'll be wearing it when I die."

Third period. Art class. The best time of the day. It's the only place where no one bosses you around. No one can really tell you how to do art, that's the real beauty. Even Mrs. Glenn knows she can't really teach someone. As she says, you can give people the tools, but they have to figure out how to work them.

The watercolors seem to fly off my paintbrush. Within minutes there are streaks of turquoise and navy and baby blue swirling around the paper. I splash more water onto the paper, muting the colors a little. The picture is telling me what to do. I know it sounds crazy, but I look at things sometimes and I just know what I need to do to make them amazing. More gray. Less blue. Shouldn't be cheery, more somber. My hand follows before I even realize it.

"That's actually really cool, Andrea," Tyrone Bicknell says, in this way that makes me wonder if he means it or if he's making a joke out of me. He says it as if he's totally bored, and it comes out lazy and drawled and really low. For some reason I'm turned on. Tyrone barely comes to school anymore, and when he bothers to show up is usually outside the principal's office. He's good-looking and teachers find him charming, even though he never does his homework--or anything he doesn't want to do. And he's the best artist in school, in my opinion.

"Yeah?" I say, wishing for just a second that I'd worn my overalls today. They make everyone look fat. How did they ever become trendy?

"Yeah. You should sell it or something." He looks at my painting, a watercolor of Detroit. Mostly grays and blues, faded and muted, blending into the lights of the few buildings along the waterfront.

"Really? Where would I sell it?" I say, trying to read his eyes, which I'm generally good at. He looks again at the painting, shakes his head and walks out of class. That's Tyrone for you. Apparently, he's done for the day. I'm annoyed that one comment from Tyrone Bicknell can make me almost giddy.

Mrs. Maniaci asked me one time, after I'd been seeing her for a couple of months, if I based my opinion of myself on others' opinions of me. I looked at her like she was crazy. Or my mother.

"Others don't bother to have opinions of people like me."

The Lay-Z-Boy recliner is my favorite. After school I pretty much camp out there 'til my mom comes home and concocts one of her low-fat creations. In anticipation of that, I usually stop off at Maria's, this tiny Italian bakery, on my way home from school. Maria's has the best cannolis I've ever had. I fluctuate between the cannolis and the huge cookies. Sugar cookies, just baked, with M&Ms, are my favorite. But when they don't have them, I take the chocolate chip, or the oatmeal raisin as a last resort.

If I don't stop at Maria's, I find stuff at home. It's not always easy. My mom occasionally weeds through the various kitchen cabinets and pantry in an attempt to de-fat the house. She never thinks to check the cabinet right beneath our phone. The one with the liquor. Mom doesn't drink. I stash things like Cool Ranch Doritos, Hostess cupcakes, Cheez Doodles, and Snickers bars under there. Most days I'm home before my mom and have a good two hours to watch bad TV and eat junk food.

At my appointment with Mrs. M today she asked what I do for fun, besides my art.

"Eat," I tell her.

"Andrea, are you ever going to be serious? How do you expect to make any progress if you refuse to talk to me?" She looks older than I suspect she is. She's probably around my mom's age, but could easily pass for ten or 12 years older.

"Eat," I say again. "That is what I do for fun. I like it."

"What's the last book you read? Not for school, though." She glances behind her and half nods at a small bookshelf. "Some of my favorites are over there. The Catcher in the Rye, The Awakening, The Sun Also Rises. How about you, Andrea, what books do you like?"

"Do you like any novels that other people didn't tell you to like?" I ask.

Mrs. M smiles like she thinks I'm clever but doesn't want to give me the satisfaction of telling me so.

"I was naming things I thought you might know. It's how people communicate." She pulls her glasses off and puts them on her highlighted head. "If you want to know my favorite book," she says, "it's Light Fire of the Moon. Should we talk about that?"

"Who wrote it?" I ask.

"Veronica Cibo." She says as if this woman is God's gift to readers.

"Oh, yes. Cibo. I think I may have read it." Maybe in middle school. Sounds familiar.

"Doubtful. She's my sister. And the book hasn't been published." Mrs. M smiles again and puts her glasses back on her nose.

"Oh," I say. "I like J. D. Salinger a lot. The Catcher in the Rye is overrated, but his short stories are the best. Have you ever read 'A Perfect Day for Bananafish'? "

We talk a lot about the peculiarities of the characters and why the reader doesn't get bored. How Seymour is weird and fascinating at the same time, whether he's a pedophile.

"Andrea, I don't mean to cut you off, but the bell rang and I know you have Mr. Wilkins now." Mrs. M points at the clock. "We can talk some more about Salinger next time, if you want."

"Yeah. Whatever," I say.

So my mom's on one of her Dad kicks today. This is when she attempts to address the problem of my absent father. This happens almost like clockwork, right around the end of each month. She says to me today, "Hon, it's not your fault your father doesn't come around. Please, promise me you aren't taking it personally."

"Jesus, Mom. And here I was thinking it was because I'm a cow he doesn't come around. It wouldn't have anything to do with him being an asshole, now would it?" I reply, trying to make my eyes as wide as hers. They may be blurry, though, because I can still feel the tingle of the vodka shots I downed in the back of Bobby Hatchell's Camaro just before squealing out of the school parking lot. Bobby is one of the school's resident bad asses. Bobby has been suspended more than anyone in our class. Fighting, drinking, ditching class. His poor family. His mother's on the board of trustees for our town and his father's some fancy schmanzy lawyer. To have a kid like Bobby. And they lost the other one in a car wreck a couple years back. I've known Bobby since the seventh grade, but he hangs out with me now because it's easy for me to get liquor. My fat makes me look like a matronly school marm. People don't card school marms.

So anyways, I tend to zone out when my dad comes up in conversation. He's another cause for my weight gain, according to my mom, but I don't think about him too much. He was all right when he was around. He never beat us or called me horrible names. He just couldn't deal. And most times I know exactly where he's coming from.

Mrs. Maniaci looks at me like it's the most normal question in the world.

"Andrea," she says, lowering her glasses and peeking above them, "is giving me an inventory of your room a difficult thing to do?"

Just because she has nailed the pronunciation of my name, she thinks she knows everything. There is always some deeper issue with Mrs. M. Things are never just as they are. Say you want a Coke. You don't really want a Coke. Or maybe you do want a Coke. But why do you want it? Is it really because you're thirsty? Or are you thirsting for something missing in your life? Does the Coke fill a void? Does it take your mind off whatever the problem really is?

Goddamn it. Sometimes I just want a Coke.

"I'm wondering why we're discussing what's in my room," I reply, squinching my eyebrows up so Mrs. M will think there's some juicy stuff in my room.

"It's helpful for me sometimes, to get a feel for how you are when you're not here. Oftentimes, the two personas--school and home--are fairly different." Mrs. M's voice can really get on a person's nerves. She perpetually sounds like she's on the verge of emphysema. I just start talking sometimes so there's another voice to listen to.

"My room has four walls. A ceiling. A bed. Pretty typical," I say looking at her.

"Why don't you tell me about the things that aren't typical?" she asks.

My room is the best place on the planet. I'm sure of it. I convinced my mom to let me paint it a couple months ago and now it's perfect. Two of the walls are bright orange--"pumpkin"--and one is '70s eyeshadow blue. The last one is a light yellow, like the perfect mixture of an egg yolk and a quart of milk.

"Well, it's pretty colorful, I guess. And sometimes I do my artwork in there. If I feel like it." Aside from the art lab, my room is the only place where it's easy for me to paint. I could never be one of those people who paint portraits on street corners or take an easel to the park on a Sunday afternoon. You have to wonder about people like that. Do they love to paint so much or do they love the attention?

"Good," Mrs. M says, rubbing her chin. A sure sign this is heading down the avenue to solving my problems. "What does your room actually look like? Big, small, double bed, single bed? Flowery? Plaid? What kinds of things are in it?"

"Medium-sized. Double bed. Definitely not flowery." I'm always curious to see how much Mrs. M can deduce without having all the pieces. And it's also fun because brief answers really frustrate her. Mrs. M would like me to talk all 45 minutes of our sessions.

I don't mention the pride of my room is on my yellow wall where I've started a huge mural. It's going to be filled with people's faces. All across the wall, men's faces with scratchy beards; little girls with rosy cheeks; old women, wrinkling and sagging. Then there'll be just a little of the yellow peeking through. I can't wait to finish it. I've only got about four faces up there now.

Mrs. M doesn't need to know about my bed, either. That's pretty cool, too. It's my grandmother's old four-poster wooden bed. I've hung shower curtains from strings tied to the posts, running from the foot of the bed to the headboard. One is silver and shiny, with sparkly things that can turn and catch the light. The other one is a see-through royal blue. It drives my mom crazy. "How can you live in here?" she always asks, before shaking her head and leaving as quickly as she came in. She's so typical it drives me crazy.

"I have a lot of picture frames," I say.

"You like frames?" she asks.

"I like looking at other people."

I have a ton of frames. Sometimes they're hidden behind other things like my art books or my glass pieces (which I find washed up on the beach, pieces of worn green beer bottles or the clear remains of an old dish. I've gone to Florida lots of times. Mostly when I used to visit my dad there).

"So, anyways, there's all these kinds of frames. Mostly there's black and white photos I like from magazines in them."

"What kind of pictures do you put in them, Andrea?" Mrs. M asks. I know she's concentrating on what I'm saying because she hasn't sneaked a peek at her watch, patted her hair, or sighed yet.

"Whatever appeals to me. The clothes, the hair, whatever."

I think of the large frame that sits on my nightstand. It's tarnished silver with engraved Chinese letters, and has a picture of my mom in it. I bought it for 25 cents at a garage sale last year. I don't know what the letters actually spell. I like to think of them as "forever" or something like that. My mom loves it. I told her it says "mother" in Chinese.

My Celtic instrumental tape gets the creative juices flowing. I pop it in a lot when I'm trying to paint. The sounds are calming even though they're upbeat. Other times, I throw in the paint mix, again, aptly titled. The paint mix has a bunch of old '60s rock. Jefferson Airplane, Dylan, Buffalo Springfield. That era fascinates me. Individuality and creativity were valued. People cared about things. They were passionate. They died for stuff. I can't imagine dying for any cause. But when I play this mix, I think of Kennedy and Vietnam and Warhol and free love and civil rights. Maybe it's because all that is so much bigger than me, so much more alive than I feel, that it makes me want to paint. Sometimes I think I just want to be passionate about something. I don't even know if it's painting. But I haven't found anything else that comes close.

"Like a Rolling Stone" inspires me to paint another face on my wall. I start to do a Dylan likeness. I can't decide what's more horrifying, the way he looks so far, or how ludicrous it is to try to paint Dylan on your wall when "Like a Rolling Stone" is playing. My paintbrush quickly morphs him into a generic-looking hippie, long frizzy hair, wild facial hair, and dilated pupils. The best is his nostrils. You can just see the slight hairs protruding from them.

I almost want to paint over this one, too. I don't like generic things. People shouldn't look at my mural and see the '60s guy. They should see a man stoned out of his head who just pissed away the last of his money on a joint. But they're going to see the '60s guy. I paint over the face and start over.

Bobby comes over after school. After I convince him by buying a fifth of Beam. I'm bored and need someone to help me with my mural. There're 11 faces now, and all of them are unique. But I want a guy's touch on it, too. I want someone else to paint a face.

"Let's do a couple shots first," he says, grabbing my shoulder as I open the front door to my house. I look at him, his leather jacket, black jeans that are about a size too small, and sneakers with fat tongues lapping the denim around his small ankles. Pathetic, I think.

"Can't you save that 'til later? Like before school tomorrow? Sometime when you'll really need it?" I ask, tugging on my hair and noticing its slightly greasy feel. I want to get in and start on the mural. And I barely trust the guy when he's sober, let alone when he's had a couple, to hold a paintbrush. And especially to use it on something as important to me as my mural.

He laughs like nothing's funny and I can see his yellow teeth. Licking his chapped lips, he puts the bottle to his lips and swigs. "Aaaaah," he says, pursing his lips together and unsticking them in a rather disgusting way.

"Let's go, c'mon," I say and walk in the house. He follows me in several seconds later, after what I guess to be a couple more shots.

"Hey, this is some nice digs you got here," he says, checking out the living room. "Your mom's got some dough, huh?

"Yeah, my mom's just rolling," I tell him, "you know how much secretaries make. We're loaded." I whisper the last part, like it's a big secret he shouldn't mention to anyone else.

We head upstairs after I grab a couple of brownies from my stash. Bobby tries to get a reaction from me by pulling out his bottle and sipping. I pretend not to notice. He's very impressed with my room. He walks around and looks at everything and comments about how artistic I am and all that bullshit. What a couple of shots won't make you say, huh? Pretty soon we start painting and I have to admit, Bobby's face, a self-portrait, is really pretty good. Not up to my quality, of course, but exactly the kind of rawness I'd wanted up there. Something totally amateur, which I can no longer do.

"C'mon, An," Bobby says, his breath hot and reeking, handing me the fifth. "Just have some with me. Look at how good it's making me paint. God, I'm good," he says, and laughs for way too long. I'm sick of looking at him all drunk and stupid, so I have a couple sips. I like the feeling I get from drinking. It makes me feel relaxed and peaceful. And not care. So I have a couple more sips. My face--a middle-aged man with laugh lines and salt and pepper hair, what's left of it--is almost done.

"That's awesome, An!" Bobby says loudly. "That's so fuckin' awesome!"

"Give me the bottle, Bobby. I need one more. I'm on a roll now," I tell him. I try to act like I do when I'm completely sober. But I feel all tingly and sort of warm. My cheeks are hot. I barely notice the Beam in my mouth, but my chest burns. I feel powerful. Bobby is sweating slightly, and all of a sudden I'm thinking he looks good, kind of like Tyrone Bicknell on a really bad day. Which is weird because Bobby Hatchell never looks real good. I'm thinking all of a sudden how it would feel to have Tyrone's tongue in my mouth, his hands on my thighs, my ass. What does sex feel like? What percentage of my class has done it? How do you use a condom? Could I be naked with someone? When will another guy be in my room?

I grab him and kiss him, putting my tongue all the way into his mouth, imagining my hands running over Tyrone's smooth head. He is kissing me back and pushing my hair away from his face. Then suddenly he starts freaking out. Bobby pushes me away.

"Jesus Christ! Get your fat paws off me!" he yells and visibly shudders. I'm not sure what to do, so I stand there staring at him. I'm not embarrassed. I'm not anything. It's like it's not me. Like I'm standing there with my mouth still open, my hands stuffed into my jeans pocket, but I'm not there. I'm watching some other girl.

"Fuck, do you think a few fucking shots makes me want you? Jesus, Andrea, look at you! You're a fat, pathetic mess!" he screams. I have no control over this other girl. I just watch her. She swallows hard but doesn't move. He turns and grabs his stupid, ugly shoes and hurries out of my bedroom. She listens to his footsteps pound down the stairs; he's still yelling stuff.

She stands there a long time.

My usual Tuesday afternoon appointment.

"Yeah, so I don't think I'm gonna be coming anymore," I tell Mrs. Maniaci. "I just don't think I've got time."

She leans in, rubbing that annoying chin of hers. "What's the problem, Andrea? What's going on?" She pulls down the sleeves of her blazer and pushes up her glasses, which will fall back down her nose in a minute.

"I'm really engrossed in my art," I tell her, "you know, it takes up a lot of time." I'm thinking about old Mr. W and if he'll let me stay in his class. All I need to do is act the part. That's all everyone really wants from you. Don't cause a scene and you're fine.

"Andrea," she says, putting her manicured hand over my wrist, "you can talk to me. That's what I'm here for." She has this way of making me really believe in what she's saying. "Andrea. Look at me," she says, reaching for my chin and tilting it towards her.

"Don't go getting all serious on me, Mrs. M. I just don't have time. Period." I stare at her, silently challenging her to question me. A minute goes by, so I continue, "Nothing horrible has happened, so just get that out of your mind. I'm fine. I've been fine all along." So just go back to your fucking psychoanalytical books and test out your goddamn theories on the next pathetic teenager to waltz in here.

"Andrea--"

"An-DRAY-ah. Jeezus."

"Do you want to give up now? We were getting somewhere! We were talking more about your father and the way your mother--"

"Are you kidding me? Did you think for a second I was coming here for help? C'mon, Mrs. M, you're a smart lady." Sometimes these people who are supposed to be trained in counseling people and all that are the worst at knowing true human emotions. They're like social morons.

"Andrea," she says, sighing, "you aren't fooling anybody. Except yourself."

I shake my head at her lack of originality. Everything's such a cliché. She pretends to be interested in some manila file on her desk, poking and prodding and jotting notes. I keep sitting there.

"Are you waiting for something?" she asks finally, without looking up. Not in a mean way, but like she really wonders.

"No," I say without moving.

"Then please tell my next appointment I'm available on your way out." She looks up for about a half second and then goes back to her notes.

"Next victim," I say in the hallway, loudly enough for Mrs. M to hear.

The mural's done.

Thirteen weeks. Forty-two different faces. There were 43 but I painted over Bobby's stupid self-portrait. Who wants to look at him all day? It's just how I envisioned it. Like this whole community in my room. The best part is how different they all look. It's almost as though there were 42 artists. This is the biggest project I've done so far. It cost an ungodly amount in paints. And time. But when you look at it, it's so worth it. The way some of the faces look at you, how some are laughing, and some look like they're about to fall asleep. Two are crying, and one is eating. Several in the back look really old. There's even a baby.

I need to share this moment with someone. The moment when I can say "I am an artist" and really believe it. I hear my mom's heavy steps coming up the stairs. She's always breathing like she's absolutely exhausted. You'd think she was the fat one.

"Hey, Mom, come and look at this. Come see my mural!" I shout as I open my door. I really like it. This is the best thing I've done.

She walks in, stepping over two sweaters, my school bag, and several notebooks that have fallen off my bed. Looking around, she begins to study the mural, holding her heart. A bit melodramatic, but I like it.

"Oh, honey. It's gorgeous. It's absolutely gorgeous." She smiles and her huge-looking eyes are a bit watery. "Move back for a second. You're blocking some of the faces, hon."

I pause for a second. Then move out of the way.

I stare at the faces for a long time after my mom leaves, seeing something different in them all the time.