Seven

MONDAY WAS A GREAT DAY. After a weekend spent with two incredible women who both wanted to take regular play-breaks, I was so sexually sated and so much in love that I could hardly stand it. Of course, Melody and I both had to stay up most of Sunday night doing the projects that were due for classes on Monday morning, but that’s college life. Half the dorm was up all night doing the same thing.

The downside was that I was so tired by Monday evening that when I went to the club to play racquetball, I got totally smeared by a guy I’d beaten in straight sets three weeks ago. Even my serves were off and I fouled away the final point. I fell into bed Monday night and almost missed my first class on Tuesday by the time I woke up.

That was a great start to Tuesday. Not to mention the fact that in Fundamentals we spent three hours sizing canvases. It’s messy. That spray starch from Magic or Niagara doesn’t come close to getting your hands in and painting a coat of what amounts gooey glue on a canvas that is thirty feet wide and fifteen feet deep that will be used for a theater backdrop. And you can’t just throw the stuff at the canvas because if it isn’t in a smooth, even coat, you can get lumps and sags. All I wanted after class was a hot shower, but of course I had to go to Art Orientation immediately after I got out of Fundamentals and barely had time for lunch, let alone a shower. I usually tried to play racquetball on Tuesday, but I had a massive paper describing the transition from Realism to Impressionism and what influences were at play due for Art History on Wednesday. I made a quick call to the gym and rescheduled my court time for Wednesday afternoon instead. Phil might be pissed, but you could almost always pick up a new partner if one flaked out.

I got to bed again and didn’t sleep well because I didn’t have any exercise during the day, except for my right arm, which was sore because I was wielding an eight-inch brush heavy with flex glue all morning. And what did I care anyway because school was a shitbag and I’d never pass this semester anyway. I didn’t know why I was here in the first place. Even when Melody caught up with me after dinner, she said I smelled so bad that I should really consider clean clothes tomorrow. She barely pecked me on the cheek and said she had to go study something for her Textiles class. I hated this school and I didn’t really care if everyone knew it. Yeah, I know. Whine, whine, whine. What a pussy. It seemed like I simply couldn’t control my life or my emotions or even carve out time to connect with my lover. Lovers. Even my love life was confusing. When was I going to see Lissa again?

I dropped my paper in the basket at the door of the auditorium where Dr. Bychkova was about to lecture to yet another sleeping class. I’d just settled into my seat when the TA announced over the PA that I was supposed to report to the Dean’s office immediately after class. Of course he had to announce it over the PA because he didn’t have the foggiest idea who I was, so half a dozen kids who do know me swiveled in their seats to stare at me and raise eyebrows as if to ask me what was up. That movement near me caused the rest of the class to turn and stare to see who the dunce was that got called to the principal’s office. I felt like I was in third grade and it completely ruined the nap during Bychkova’s lecture.

When I walked into Dean Peterson’s office and told his admin, Miss Stevenson, that I’d been summoned, she motioned me to a seat and I found there were four other students sitting waiting as well.

“I’m sorry,” Dean Peterson said when he came out of his office. “I was going to do this all at once, but I’ve decided I need to speak to each of you individually. Jason Roe?” A guy sitting next to me stood up and went with the Dean. My stomach growled, but it was a cinch I wasn’t going to get any lunch again today. I sniffed at my clothes—thankfully I’d found something fairly clean to wear today—thinking I might not make it to Visual Concepts. Ms. Brockman wouldn’t be happy about that.

It took almost an hour for Dean Peterson to get through the others sitting in the office. Napping in the waiting room wasn’t as comfortable as the seats in the auditorium. The secretary had taken down our names as we came in, so I was sitting there last as everybody else walked out. At least they didn’t look like they were being expelled. In fact, most of them had a kind of vacant, daydreaming look on their faces.

“Tony, at last,” Dr. Peterson said when I walked in. “I’m sorry it took so long to process the others, but I wanted to spend some time with you anyway. I’ll make sure Ms. Brockman understands that your absence is my fault.”

He looked at me as though he expected me to say something. I had no idea what. I just said, “Okay.”

The Dean sorted through some papers, setting aside two folders. That left just one on his desk. I assumed it was mine. How could the school compile a folder that thick on me in just one and a half semesters?

“How are you doing, Tony?” What the hell did he want me to say?

“Um ... okay.” Boy I was being creative in my responses.

“I deserved that. You really don’t know me from Adam and I ask a question expecting you to be forthright and revealing about yourself. Forget I asked it. Let me start over.” I was about to say okay again, but I decided I’d better not push it.

“We’re a small school. Still, when a student comes here, it’s just as likely that he feels as lost and alone as he would at a big university. The difference is that the faculty here actually know their students. Of course, there are a few big general classes, but aside from Art History, what is the biggest class you have?”

“You mean number of students? Uh ... about twenty-five, I guess.” Boy, was I a wordsmith today!

“Right. It might surprise you to know that each of your professors actually knows your name and how you are doing.” I laughed nervously. “What?”

“It’s hard to imagine that Dr. Bychkova even knows there is a class in the auditorium when he lectures.”

“Yes. Well, there are exceptions. And I already pointed out his class as an exception to class size. But in this case, even Dr. Bychkova has supplied me with a report on your progress.” I gulped. I didn’t think I’d screwed anything up too bad in Art History. And did that mean all my profs supplied some report to the Dean? Shit!

“Your instructors speak highly of you, Tony. But they all seem to think you are unhappy here. Your work doesn’t live up to what they see as your ability. They see you get inspired with something and do work that is outstanding, but that your daily work is average. I know you are an artist, Tony, but you can’t work solely from inspiration. What do you see as the problem?”