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The question seemed to throw her for a moment. I even saw a flicker of appreciation for my wit flash in her eyes.
"Despite your background," she replied slowly, "you appear to have better raw material, more potential. I am directing myself to that part of you. For now, your sister is still suffering from her accident and impairment. She's not ready for these sorts of talks."
"Gisselle will never be ready for these sorts of talks. She wasn't before her accident," I said.
"Well then, it will be part of your burden to get her ready, now won't it?" Mrs. Ironwood said, smiling coolly. She stood up. "You can go back to your study hall now."
I rose and left the office. Mrs. Randle glanced at me quickly as I passed her desk. Despite my brave facade, I was trembling so hard I could barely walk. I was sure Daddy didn't know the groundwork Daphne had laid here at Greenwood, If he had, he probably wouldn't have brought us. I was tempted to call and tell him, but I imagined Daphne would only find a way to blame me for being ungrateful for this opportunity and for messing up Gisselle's chances to improve.
Frustrated, a black cloud of despair shadowing me, I sank back into my desk in the study hall and pouted. Despite the excitement and the warmth of most of my new teachers, the dark mood the Iron Lady put me in remained with me throughout the rest of the morning and most of the afternoon, only lifting when I walked into Rachel Stevens's art class, which was my last class.
My suspicion that Miss Stevens was
uncomfortable dressed in that formal tweed suit and wearing high heels at the assembly proved true when I set eyes on her in our art room. Here she looked more like an artist and far more at ease, her hair loose and brushed down, an artist's smock over her shorter skirt and bright pink blouse. This art class was an elective and consequently had even fewer students in it than our required classes. There were only six of us, which pleased Miss Stevens.
I had no idea that, whereas Daphne had contacted the school and Mrs. Ironwood to reveal my past, Daddy had seen to it that the school and my art teacher knew of my little successes. Miss Stevens was kind enough not to embarrass me in front of the others, but after she had explained our curriculum and set up each girl with workbooks to peruse, she approached me and told me what she already knew.
"I think it's so exciting to have some of your pictures in a gallery already," she said. "What do you like to draw and paint the most? Animals, nature?"
"I don't know. I suppose so," I said.
"Me too. You know what I'd like to do--if you'd like--go down to the river on a Saturday and find things to paint. How would you like that?"
"I'd love it," I said. I felt the curtain of depression lifting. Miss Stevens was so bubbly and so full of excitement. Her enthusiasm inspired my own and revived my need to express myself through my drawings and paintings. So much had occurred in my life recently to draw my attention away from my art. Maybe now I could return with even more energy, more purpose.
While the others continued to look over our workbooks, Miss Stevens lingered to talk to me, quickly becoming the most personal of all my teachers.
"What dorm are you in?" she asked. I told her, and I told her about Gisselle being in a wheelchair. "Does she draw and paint too?"
"No."
"I bet she's proud of you. I bet your whole family's very proud. I know your father is," she said, smiling. She had the warmest blue eyes and the lightest freckles scattered over her cheeks, running up to her temples on both sides. Her lips were almost orange, and there was a tiny cleft in her chin.
Rather than say anything unpleasant about Gisselle or Daphne, I just nodded.
"I started the same way," she told me. "I grew up in Biloxi, so I used to draw and paint a lot of ocean scenes. I sold one through a gallery when I was in college," she told me proudly, "but I haven't sold anything since." She laughed. "It was then I realized I had better go into teaching if I wanted to eat and keep a roof over my head."
I wondered why someone so pretty, sweet, and talented wouldn't consider marriage as another alternative.
"How long have you been an art teacher?" I asked. A quick perusal of the others told me they were jealous of how much I was dominating our new teacher's time.
"Only two years. In a public school. But this is a wonderful job. I can give my students so much individual attention."
She turned to face the others. "We're all going to have a great time," she declared. "I don't mind if you girls want to bring in some music to listen to while we work, as long as we don't play it too loud and disturb the other classes."
She flashed another welcome smile at me and then went back to describing her goals for our course and how she planned to take us from drawings to watercolors and oils. She described the work we would do in clay, our use of the kilns and the artwork she hoped we would produce. She was so enthusiastic that I was disappointed when the bell signaling the end of the day rang, but I knew I couldn't linger. Gisselle would be waiting at her classroom for me to wheel her back to the dorm. We hadn't made any other arrangements.
But when I arrived, she was already gone. Abby waved from the end of the corridor and hurried to join me. "Looking for Gisselle?"
"Yes."
"I saw Samantha wheeling her out and Kate and Jacki following. How was your first day?"
"Great, except for a meeting I had with the Iron Lady." I told her about it on our way back to the dorm.
"If I were called to her office I'd be terrified, expecting it would mean only one thing: She had discovered my family background."
"Even if she did, she wouldn't dare--"
