Still Life with Tornado Read Free Page B

should be taking attendance, is at the back of the room with the seniors and the rat shit chattering about art college and what her four years at Tyler were like. All I hear is “And the parties!” Miss Smith is an asshole. I wish one of Carmen’s tornadoes would suck her up. It would make things convenient for me, considering what I know about Miss Smith.
    Vivian and Henry get their projects and supplies and go to work, and the seniors make an effort to say hello to them. One of them tells Vivian that she likes her T-shirt. Another one walks over to Henry and gives him a random hug.
    Carmen is friends with everyone. It’s just her nature. She says, “What up?” and the seniors all wave. I’m standing right here. For the first time in weeks. Not one person says “Nice to see you back!” or “Hey, look! It’s Sarah!” or anything like that. Everyone gets to work sifting through the broken glass by the windows, looking for the perfect piece. The glass never seems to cut their skin even though they’re picking it up by the fistful. I turn and leave the room.
    Not even Carmen says good-bye.
    I stop a few feet from the door and stand in the hallway and listen.
    First, silence.
    Miss Smith says, “Well that was awkward, wasn’t it?”
    Answers follow:
    â€œI don’t know why she even came back.”
    â€œShe’s so weird!”
    â€œDrama!”
    â€œCan’t make it as an artist if you don’t have thick skin.”
    Laughter.
    That’s when I start walking. I go to my locker to empty what’s left inside.
Thick skin? I have thick skin. They have no idea.
    Someone is sleeping in front of the locker I decide is mine. I see his pink rain boots first. His head is resting on a balled-up coat and his face is covered by a filthy cap. He has one arm slung through a backpack strap. The other arm cuddles a can of spray paint.
    I decide he’s welcome to whatever’s in the locker.
    Anyway, it’s not about thick skin. It’s about one of them being a liar. Or all of them being liars—even Miss Smith.
    It’s a long story.
    When I get out of the building, I open my umbrella and walk home rather than taking the bus. It’s not raining. No one seems to care that my umbrella is open. Philadelphia is full of all kinds of crazy people. Maybe I’m one of them now. Yesterday I had a conversation with myself in seven years. This might make me crazy. Yesterday I changed my name to Umbrella.
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    When I get home, there’s a message blinking on the house phone’s answering machine and I listen to it. It’s the daily Sarah-isn’t-in-school-today message
.
I delete it and walk up the steps toward my room. I don’t have any homework because homework isn’t original and I’m not going back to real school tomorrow. Or ever.
    At the top of the stairs there is a decorative mirror on the wall and a trio of pictures of my parents and me. I am not an only child. My brother is nine years older and lives out west and he doesn’t contact us anymore. He wrote me a private message on The Social about a month ago with just his phone number. Then I deleted my profile because what’s the point of having a profile if nobody wants to talk to you?
    The last I heard about Bruce was that his church people are his family now. Mom and Dad never baptized us, so Bruce got himself baptized. Apparently he got naked in a river or a lake or something. Dad said that that’s why he doesn’t contact us. Dad said Bruce thinks he’s better than we are because he found God.
    This was a while ago, so I don’t really know if any of it is true.
    This was Dad, so I don’t know if he’s the right person to believe when it comes to Bruce.
    I think that’s why Bruce sent me his phone number. Maybe he wants to set the record straight. Maybe he wants to convert me. Maybe he has