One

“FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK!”

It might have been an appropriate sentiment if I’d been balls deep in Lissa or Melody. Unfortunately, I was walking into my Art History midterm on Monday morning.

Melody and Lissa had carted me out of the Admin building at ten last night and fed me. Then, the two of them took me to my dorm room, stripped me, put me in bed, and kissed me goodnight. I was already so exhausted I couldn’t stay awake till they left the room. I barely made it to my exam on time in the morning and when I looked at the basket full of papers at the door I realized I hadn’t finished writing the Art History paper that was due today. I couldn’t afford a fail on a paper in this class. Even though I loved the subject, I couldn’t stay awake in the classes, so I wasn’t doing that well on the tests. The papers were the only thing keeping me afloat. I couldn’t cut Concepts because it was the last class before the midterm on Wednesday. Damn it!

I pulled out my Daytimer and looked at my schedule. After Concepts I had court time for two hours and I couldn’t skip that because my coach was also my lover. She definitely wouldn’t approve. If I got out of the Club by half past six, I could grab a sandwich at the cafeteria just before it closed and start working on my paper by seven. There was nothing in my schedule that said I was meeting with Melody, so I would have four hours to write the paper. Damn! Do I have to have ‘meeting my lover for dinner’ on my calendar? This paper had to be in the office by midnight. Brian, our TA, was a born enforcer and I’d heard stories about guys getting to the office at a minute past midnight and being told their papers wouldn’t be accepted. When the midterm exams were handed out, I managed to block out everything else and answered the four essay questions in record time. I didn’t think I’d done badly, and I picked up an hour that I could go to the library and work on the stupid paper.

I was typing like mad to get the research done that I had barely touched in the past two weeks. It wasn’t like I didn’t know this was due. We got a schedule of assignments at the first of the term and a paper was due every three weeks. The subjects were even spelled out along with the requirements for the paper. I could have done this anytime I wanted to forgo a few hours of hot sex with my girlfriends. Shit!

I didn’t eat lunch and headed straight to Concepts class. After an hour of lecturing on the properties of three-dimensional art—a lecture that we’d already heard last week, but Ms. Brock insisted on reviewing for the upcoming exam—we were each given a lump of clay.

“Okay, people. This is the project portion of your midterm. The written portion is on Wednesday. You should think of this as a portfolio piece. Here is your model.” Ms. Brock uncovered an object comprising a bunch of triangles and diamonds on a pedestal in front of us. “It’s a very subjective test, but most of art is. Don’t try to duplicate the model. You don’t have the right materials for that. Try to capture the feel of the piece. Show me what the sculptor wanted to communicate with the shape and balance.”

I sat at my workbench staring at the lump in front of me. It was supposed to be a geometrically perfect study in balance and contrast. My lump seemed dedicated to remaining a lump while my head continued to process the information I’d been researching for Art History. I didn’t even have a decent view of the model.

Everyone else seemed to be busy mashing, folding, and shaping their lumps. I finally got up and walked to the front of the room. Ms. Brock watched me closely, but didn’t say anything, as I approached the model and looked at it. I’m not really into modern and abstract forms, but this was an elegant piece. I wondered who the sculptor was. Balance and contrast was a good reference point for looking at it. The diamonds and triangles weren’t all interconnected once you looked at all the sides of the sculpture. The connectedness was a two-dimensional illusion. And the illusion changed as you walked around it. Some pieces looked like they were floating, even though when you walked around the piece you would find a different shape connecting them back together. It wasn’t just the interlinking of individual shapes that got to me, though. When you stood back and looked at the overall balance of the piece, different shapes emerged. It was cool to just look from different angles and see different triangles and diamonds evolve. I must have spent twenty minutes just wandering around the piece and looking at it from all directions.

I went back to my desk and stared at my lump, trying to see in it anything that approached the balance and contrast that the piece in the front had. I dug my hands into the moist clay and started squishing it together. As soon as my fingers touched the clay, I was in a different world. I’m not much on sculpture in general, but I love the sensual feel of pushing and molding clay. It felt so cool to have my hands in the medium. There’s something ‘elementary school’ about it. I wasn’t really paying attention to the model anymore. I was content just to push the clay around with my fingers. I’m not sure I even had my eyes open. The next thing I knew the class was over and Ms. Brock was standing beside me looking at my not-so-lumpish-looking lump of clay. I kind of liked it.

“Not bad,” Ms. Brock said.

“Thank you.”

“I know you were concentrating, but did you notice how many students went up and really looked at the model?”

“No. Didn’t everyone?”

“Not one. Except you. Why did you get up and come to the pedestal?”

“I couldn’t really get a good feel for it from where I was. I mean, it’s three-dimensional. Sitting here I could only see one side. I’m sorry I disrupted the class. I didn’t mean to.” She must have been pissed at me for getting in front of other kids as they worked. I guess it was selfish of me or something. God, I hate this fucking school. Why can’t I do anything right?

“There’s no need to apologize. I’d like you to take Intro to 3-D art in the fall. Do you think you could fit it into your schedule?”

“I don’t know. I’m doing a double degree between here and SCU. I just don’t know how the schedules are going to work out. I really want the 2D Studio Art class that Dr. Henredon is teaching.”

“I know painting is your first love, but I think that more exposure to sculpture could help your painting as well. This is really a fine bit of work you did.” I looked at the lump of clay again. It was nothing at all like the model. It wasn’t open and airy. It was just a couple of triangles linked together to form a sort of ... bird.

“I asked you to capture the balance and contrast of the piece. Look around the classroom. Every single one tried to copy the model, seeing only one side of it. You walked around the model and created a piece that captures balance and contrast. It’s good work, Tony. Not gallery work, mind you, but it shows a lot of potential in working in multidimensional media. Consider the course as you put together your schedule. I’d like to see you there. This will make a good addition to your end of year portfolio.”

“Thank you,” I said as I gathered up all my bags. I glanced at the clock in the room and realized I had to hustle if I wanted to make my court time—and I did.

“Good luck in your tournament,” she said as she walked away.

I sent a text to Melody as I was walking to the gym. It just said, “Got a paper due by midnight. Can’t meet for dinner tonight. Love u.” My phone vibrated just as I got to the gym. The return message said. “:-( Miss you. <3” I got into my shorts and T and headed for the court. Lissa was already there warming up. I stepped through the door and the moment it closed a ball whizzed past my ear.

“You’re late!”

“Only a minute. I got stopped by my prof after class.”

“More praise for your work? I don’t have time for it. Play!” With that she sent another hard low ball toward me and I scooped it up and into the front wall. What was wrong with Lissa? She seemed angry. Geez. I wasn’t more than a minute late and she’s clobbering me with kill shots. I wasn’t even warmed up yet. I missed the next shot.

“Stay low! You can always come up if needed. It’s easier than scooping down if you are too high. Now watch for it.” She started another rally and we kept going over and over. When you are in a club tournament, there usually isn’t a rally that goes more than four or five hits. One guy or the other flubs a shot or can’t pick up the return. The higher up in real competition you go, the more evenly matched the players are, and the less likely they are to make a mistake. Lissa was playing at the level she was when she won her championship. All I could do was try to keep up. We hadn’t been playing for more than five minutes when everything else just faded away and all I could see was where the ball was about to be.

“Water!” she shouted. We were both doubled over and panting. I don’t think either of us had any idea how long we’d been at it until we walked through the door to get our water bottles and take a drink. I glanced at the clock. We’d been going for almost 90 minutes. Lissa rinsed her mouth out and spit in the water cooler. “That part was for you. I need work on my backhand. Get in and serve to me.”

This wasn’t going to be anywhere near the free-for-all we just had. I was going to serve every kind of serve I could make into her backhand. But she was ready for them all. She nailed every serve. I was getting pissed off, but I was also seeing something else. I got low and served a hard spike right up the middle of the court. She automatically spun and tried to pick it off the back wall but she was a fraction too late and didn’t get a square hit on the ball. It fell to the floor just short of the front wall.

“I said backhand! I need work on my backhand.” Now I was really pissed. I sent another one sailing by her on the right and she didn’t come close to picking this one up. “Can’t you place a serve now?”

“I put it right where I intended to.” I shouted back at her. “What kind of work on your backhand are you going to get when you’re sitting there waiting for it? You’re cocked three-quarters to the left. Of course you can return everything I serve there. You’re ready for it. Square yourself up for a real serve and I’ll decide when it’s going to be a backhand and when it isn’t. You focus on returning the ball.”

I don’t know where that came from. For a minute she looked like she was going to tell me off, then she squared herself up and waited for the next serve. I served two to her forehand and then she missed one to her backhand. I came back with the same serve and she nailed it. She was cheating left and I put another one so far to the right that I had to flatten myself against the side wall to keep from getting hit by my own serve. She almost didn’t reach it in time and scowled at me. She moved further to the right and I skimmed one along the left wall. She pulled her backhand and took it off the back wall with so much force it almost knocked me over. All right. If that’s the way she wants to play, we’ll play tough. We didn’t say another word to each other for the rest of the lesson. I just kept peppering her with serves moving back and forth across the court. There were about twice as many backhands as forehands, but she was too proud to let me slip one past her because she was in a bad position. We were drenched in sweat when we heard the next guys with a court reservation pounding on the door to let us know our time on the court was up.

Chapter 2 »