Sheila went over each part—how we should start and what to do when the clay told us what it wanted to be. My clay, unfortunately, wasn’t very talkative, let alone telling me its hopes and dreams.
I leaned down toward it. “What do you want to be, clay?”
“Are you seriously talking to it right now?” Dom asked next to me.
“What happened toeyes on your own clay?” I asked, not caring to look at him. I was focused on my lump of brown clay. “An ugly bowl? A mug? Or what about a vase?”
Dom scoffed at this turn of events. I knew it would get on his nerves if I was somehow doing better than him after nearly being forced into this by him. “I’m pretty sure by the looks of it right now, you have a blob.”
I glanced at his—not much better off. Though I would admit he seemed to have a steadier hand, not being swirled around with the clay, like I was with each jerky movement. “And what’s yours?”
“Let your clay flow on the wheel like a wave,” Sheila instructed oh-so helpfully.
“Did you hear that, Dom?” I asked, careful not to let go of my blob as I watched his jaw clench in focus. “Let your clay flow like a wave.”
“You need to be quiet.”
I laughed, unable to help myself as I focused back down on the mess I was creating. Somehow, it was getting a little rounder and more vase-like. A vase. My ugly lump of clay wanted to be a vase.
Next to me, I could still hear Dom bickering with himself, sending my stifled giggles into a new frenzy. I snorted, trying to contain it all, and next to me, I heard a different, deeper bark of a laugh.
I turned to look at Dom, who peeked up from his work at me.
“Look at us, having fun. This is the real goal of this class.” Sheila came up behind us, looking between us before her eyes landed on our pieces. She reached out. “Now, let me help you a bit.” Placing her hands on my clay, Sheila pressed down on the middle before guiding my hands, causing the clay to grow taller. “There we are. Much better.”
“Oh, yeah, Ana,” said Dom. “That doesn’t look like anything other than a vase at all.”
I stared down at myself, slowly smoothing the tall vase for a little too long before I realized what he meant. The rising length and the shape …
My cheeks turned red once more and not just because of how warm it was getting in here.
I stuck my tongue out at him.
“And you,” said Sheila, turning her attention toward Dom. She pushed the hem of her apron to the side as she squatted down next to him. “Let’s see if we can still make this into something.”
By the time Sheila helped Dom form his own project into something, I felt myself drifting away from the competition forming between us. I was in my own little world as I slowed and quickened the wheel.
I smoothed and formed. Though my vase was a little curvy, it was somehow coming together. I had no idea how it was, but it was. This might be something I was good at out of everything I had ever tried—with and without Faith as the instigator. I almost barked a laugh in triumph as the vase grew. Until, suddenly, the clay bent inward, collapsing from the middle up along with whatever pleasure I was sure was cast over my face.
Slowly, the whine of my wheel came to a stop.
Dom tried to conceal the laughter that was written on his face as my lips parted, jaw dropping. Any light forming in my chest slowly dwindled and dimmed.
I was so close and yet …
“It just takes a certain touch, Ana. Don’t be sad if you don’t have it,” Dom mused, pressing down on his pedal gently. Only the machine didn’t appear to get the message.
Before he could adjust his hands, his clay spun quickly out of control. He quickly pulled his foot off the pedal, sending the entire top part of whatever he was making off to the side. He cursed, trying to catch it. Not so unfortunately, it was too late.
Call it the hex. Call it karma. I really didn’t care.
I held my laugh in my cheeks, but it slowly sputtered out. I pointed at his mess, similar to mine, as the machine slowed to a halt. “Not so funny now, is it, big guy?”
“You did this.”
“I did nothing,” I said. “You need to learn to start taking accountability for your own actions.”
The two of us paused as our machines came to a stop, hearing my words breaking through the strange, humorous boundary we had created again, so close to breaking through and talking about what we had promised not to. The dirty jokes. The puns and the jabs at one another here were fine. But not about last summer, no matter how hard it was.
