Free Zero by Tom Leveen Page A

someone was even talking to her. I never understood that until I met her parents, which took about four months. Mine are psycho in their own special way, to be sure. But they’re
there
. Mr. and Mrs. Haight are what you might generously call “absentee.”
    So of course we became friends. Jenn would have me over and tell me about her latest sexual conquests and create these amazing foods. If she hadn’t learned to cook, I imagine she’d have ballooned up, eating fast food every day since her folks were gone so much. I would have her over and show her recent drawings I’d done; sometimes she’d cook at my house, too, much to Mom’s surprise and gratitude. We’d go to Hole in the Wall and gossip about school, parents, boys … the usual stuff. Everything was fine and fun until the night we graduated.
    And the next morning.
    “So what’re you taking?” Jenn’s voice startles me, it’s been quiet for so long.
    “Uh, Intro to Art. Have you
met
me?”
    “Oh, hell, you could teach that class,” Jenn says with this short laugh.
    “Look, I gotta go,” I say.
    “Okay, well … what about hanging out? Like, tomorrow night? We could get coffee, or I could bake some—”
    “I have a date.”
    “Oh!”
    Yeah, and thanks for sounding so surprised, I want to say but don’t.
    “That guy from The Graveyard?” Jenn asks.
    “Yeah. Mike. We have plans.” I don’t know what they are yet, though.
    “Oh,” she repeats. “That’s— Good for you. Well … some … other time, maybe?”
    “Maybe. I don’t know.”
    “Zero …”
    “I gotta go,” I say again. “See ya.” I don’t wait for a response, just hang up.
    Dammit, I do not need this on my mind before an art class. I
don’t
. On the drive, to get Jenn out of my head, I listen to the radio (
How you get so rude and-a reckless? Don’t you be so crude and-a feckless
. Thanks, Joe.) and make up compliments my art teacher will give me after our first assignment. It almost works.
    After parking my car, I find the art department and pull open this cumbersome glass door to the lobby, where I pause to enjoy blessedly cold air. Phoenix is once again reaching highs in the hundreds. I definitely won’t miss the heat, wherever I end up.
    I move slowly through the lobby to absorb the student artwork on the walls. The skill and talent on display are mixed. There are some decent pieces but also a lot of … I guess
self-congratulatory
work is a good term. It’s not like it all sucks; it doesn’t. But it feels like the artists are too aware of the fact that they’re artists, if that makes sense. Desperate, maybe.
See, see, lookit! I painted this, I drew this, I can draw real good, huh?
    Makes me wonder what mine looks like to someone else. Is my work any different? I’ve seen what Mr. Hilmer coulddo, and his work seemed effortless. Probably that’s wrong, he probably worked hard on his art, just like I do—but I don’t think any of these pieces are SAIC material. Ergo … I’m not sure mine is, either.
    I tug the brim of my green porkpie hat down to hide my eyes, plunge through the building, find my studio classroom, and slip inside, taking a seat in the middle of the room. My “desk” is a flat stool in front of a skeletal easel. I drop my bag to the floor and try to blend into the surroundings.
    At the front of the room, a tall, willowy woman wearing a flowing, multicolored dress, exactly the type Mom would kill to get me in, is pacing back and forth, a clipboard balanced on her forearm. She eyes each of us in turn, neither smiling nor scowling but judging all the same, I am sure.
    The instructor demurely clears her throat and recites names off her clipboard. I’m last.
    “Walsh, Amanda?” Her voice is high and birdlike.
    I gag on a dry throat. “Here.”
    “Wonderful!” she says. And I’m like,
That I’m here or what?
    She sets the clipboard down. “My name is
Doctor
Deborah Salinger. This is Introduction to Art Application. Welcome to