3.

3. Getting an education1

I learnt fast that she was much like a rolling stone. I was overwhelmed by the pace of her life at times, wishing I had a notepad and pause button so I could chronicle it, make references to look back at. In the brief tranquilities where change wasn’t quite so obvious, I was amused to find that she was stressed beyond compare. She was a paradox. She thrived on criticism and shied away from compliments. This made art lessons particularly interesting.2

“You’re going far, girl. Trust me on this one kid, I’m telling you, I’ve been here long enough to know that even when you’re from a bad place, you can always turn your things around. You just tell me if you need any help choosing courses or need a good reference, just point them in my reference. You’ve got a good head on your shoulders there, alright? Alright? Don’t you forget it, okay?”3

Her eccentric teacher was her greatest fan. He never realised it, but he was the only reason she would still put up with the rigmarole that was school. With the initial confidence, I felt the room lighten as her heart raced a bit faster and warmth moved in her blood. After the first sentence, though, it all slowed. The cold set in again, further with each phrase, and soon she was sinking back into her chair, trying to hide from the attention.4

“Just add a bit more white on the bottom there to balance out the grey there, else it won’t gradate as well from the blue, there’s a girl.”5

With this, she came alive again, and immediately dropped the purple pastel and grabbed the remnant s of an old forgotten white one, and began furiously cleaning it to use as suggested. Looking closely at her picture, I wondered why she felt so dejected whenever someone mentioned the subject. While she was not a star protégé, she wasn’t awful. I felt a small piece of pride swelling up in me. I tried putting my arm on her shoulder, and I did so – until she moved mere moments later to hunt down a better pastel. Somewhat disappointed, I returned to my place in her shadow, avoiding everyone around me but her. Her music blared in her ears and she kept her hand propped up on her left hand, which she sometimes used to steady the page, creating small smudges of colour on her chin. 6

Nobody mentioned them. 7

Instead, they put glue on her chair in her next lesson, leaving her with white stains on her black uniform trousers, drawing added attention to that she already had for lack of attention.8

She barely flinched when they told her. I wanted her to be furious, I wanted her to be ashamed, or laugh, or show to me she had emotion. “Be human!” I said, dancing around her, trying to make anything move her. Nothing did. She removed her school jumper and tied it around her waist to hide it, and went on with her day as though nothing happened.9

But I’ve noticed how she’s checked her seat before sitting ever since.10