Chapter Eight

I was no longer sure what to think of our new teacher. The chance he’d offered me was something beyond my wildest dreams.

Maybe he was just difficult because he thought that it was the best way to get us working. Maybe his outfits were eccentric and not a desperate cry for attention. Maybe there was more to him than I first thought.

Chill didn’t like him. Chill didn’t like anyone who trampled on other people’s dreams, and that’s what Mr. Sfinkter did at the beginning of every week. He’d take out two of the essays and go through them in front of the class.

It’s embarrassing to have yourself exposed. It was obvious that everyone had the underwear dream that semester, but on top of revealing everyone’s dreams to their fellow students, ensuring certain attack, he then provided the ammunition.

Mr. Sfinkter found fault with every career choice, picking them apart student by student. I got off lightly and was the only one who received the slightest bit of encouragement. Maybe it was because I wanted to be what he was.

Or maybe he saw something in my writing that he thought worthwhile. Whatever the reason, I took it and ran, starting to work just as hard on my writing as Chill did on his art.

If I could paint a picture with my words half as well as Chill could with a brush or pencil, I’d do great and Mr. Sfinkter would guide and teach me and make all that I could wish for come true.

I told myself that over and over again at the beginning of every class so that I wouldn’t have to hear Mr. Sfinkter go on at the other students. But Chill, robbed of his sketchpad, had to listen to every word.

Chill’s design for the mural was chosen as the best entry. Every morning throughout the semester, he and I spent first period working on the mural in the front foyer. When it was finished, it would be the first thing people saw when they entered the school.

There was little I could do to help him in the sketching part, which would take a couple of weeks. So I worked on my story while he did the mural outline. I kept a pencil close, and if we heard footsteps, I’d quickly get to work on one corner.

“What’s it about?” Chill asked me.

“It’s about a guy who everyone thinks is really mean, but he turns out to be a...it’s about a lot of things,” I said, not wanting to give too much away. Chill’s feelings toward Mr. Sfinkter would probably cloud his judgment of my writing. Especially because the teacher had given me hope while telling Chill he wouldn’t be able to make a living from his art—despite his talents.

“When am I going to get to read it?” Chill asked.

“You’re going to have to pay like everyone else,” I said jokingly.

Chill smiled. He seemed to be as excited as me, or at least he tried to be, about the potential of my writing.

“Seriously, though, that’s great that he’s going to show it to publishers,” I said.

“Can you take a look from back there and tell me if the ear looks okay?” Chill asked.

“I mean, even if he doesn’t like it, he’ll still give me input, and that’s input from a published writer,” I said.

“Does it look okay?” Chill asked.

“It looks fine,” I replied.

“We should be able to start painting it tomorrow,” he told me.

“Ms. Surette say anything to you about it?” I asked him.

“She said it was looking good.”

“It’s nice to get that encouragement from your teacher. Of course, you’ve always had it from your mom, so I guess to you it might not seem like a big deal,” I told him.

“Sean, I...” he stopped. “You’re a great writer no matter what he says about it.”

“So you think he probably won’t have anything good to say then?” I asked. It was obvious he was avoiding telling me what he really thought.

“I’m not saying that,” he replied.

“What are you saying?”

“Just don’t take anything he says too... be careful.”

“Be careful?” I asked.

“That’s all I’m saying,” he said vaguely.

“Thanks,” I told him, my anger building. “And you too.”

“About what?” he asked.

“The mural,” I said. “Not everybody’s going to like it. And with it being at the front of the school, you’ll have a lot of people taking potshots.”

“I suppose so,” he said, trying to seem indifferent.

“You know, saying it looks amateurish, asking what these people have to do with our school, saying you must be pretty full of yourself to think you, or anyone here, could ever be as good at anything as any of these people...”

“Sean...”

“I don’t think that,” I clarified. “I’m just saying what they might say, to prepare you. So be careful.”

Suddenly the bell rang and I jumped to my feet.

“Don’t want to be late for Mr. Sfinkter’s class,” I said, bolting.