Simon Says by Elaine Marie Alphin Read Free Book Online Page B

have the opportunity to choose a different studio for your senior year, of course."
    "This one's okay." I just want to get out of his office and into my studio.
    He hands me the key. "This will get you into the building and into your studio itself. But Fm afraid these keys aren't impossible to copy. To keep your materials safe, you should probably get an additional lock."
    Already done. The weight of the hasp lock dragged awkwardly in my pack on the way here. I take the floor plan and key and start to stand up.
    "We're very pleased to have you as part of the Whitman family, Charles," Mr. Brooks intones, and I sink back into my chair. Family? Who's he kidding? One reason most kids are here is wanting to get away from family—parents who start out proud because Junior plays the violin and then think he's weird when he finds out he's really good and starts to get obsessed.
Simon says ... get out and play, be like the other kids—what's wrong with you?
Here, there's nothing wrong with us.
    I think of my father looking flushed and hurt when I didn't care who was winning the stupid football game—all I wanted to do was paint the receiver, hanging in midair, his fingertips brushing the rough, pebbly texture of the ball. He knows that three guys, each one twice his size, are about to crash into him, but he makes himself
tune them out, straining to clasp that ball to his chest and bring it to earth with him. Except for the colors of the uniforms on canvas, the teams' identities don't matter. I intended to paint red and gold for the receiver, to echo the autumn crispness, but I wanted to give Dad the painting.
Stupid idea—but part of me liked being with him in the stadium that afternoon. I don't even know why.
He was cheering for the team in blue and gray, so I used their colors to reflect a stormy sky. Dad actually hung the painting in his office. I couldn't believe it I felt ashamed at not using the colors I wanted but proud that he hung it at the same time. When I actually go into his office (not very often), I try not to look at it But I'm glad it's there.
    "The mentorship program here is unique, but it's a special feature that I believe, enhances the success of our graduates," Mr. Brooks continues, not having a due what I'm thinking. That's like family, for sure. His words have the feel of a memorized speech. Does every student have to listen to this? I have an image of kids in air-conditioned offices all over the campus, listening to pompous mentors reciting in unison.
    "Your roommate will be able to help you find your way around the campus, but I know questions and concerns will arise. Feel free to come to me with anything you need to discuss. My office is always open to you, and if you have a problem you should have no hesitation about calling me at home. I know you'll be an asset to our student body, Charles, and my job is to help you in any way I can."
    At least it's short I thank him, grab my pack, and get
out of the freezer. Kids are sweating in the Houston humidity outside the building, but I don't mind the weather. The sky is hazy, with a feel of rain hanging in the air, but it could be a blazing blue sky dotted with fluffy cloud shapes for all I care. I'm on the way to my studio, and grassy lawns, hedge-lined walks, and humidity are just obstacles to get past as quickly as possible.
    The studio building is brick, long and narrow, so that every artist has a window on one wall—much nicer than my basement hideout at home. My parents call it a den. I know it's something of a sanctuary from eyes that slide away in discomfort (
even Steve's
), from names that hurt, from anonymous hands that tear up pictures they don't like and can't match. I'm hoping to find sanctuary in this studio, too. I crane my neck to look at the roof—seven stories up, with an intricately carved parapet at the top. I'm on the fourth floor, not too far to climb if the elevators are busy. The key turns smoothly in the outer