Free How to Be Brave by E. Katherine Kottaras

It’s really not a daily thing—once, maybe twice each week at most, usually on Fridays. Turns out it’s really easy to cut. I don’t know why I was so worried. All I have to do is send an excuse through from Mom’s old e-mail to the school secretary. Not feeling well, I write. Abdominal pain, or We’re taking her to the doctor today. I just sign my dad’s name. He doesn’t know any better, and neither do the teachers. But Marquez knows the truth. That man can skim us like we’re a bunch of fifth-grade easy readers.
    â€œYeah, I haven’t been feeling too well,” I mumble to Marquez as I pull out my sketchbook and markers. “Sorry.” And I am sorry, too. Missing Marquez’s class is the only part of our expeditions that I regret, and not only because then I don’t get to see Daniel on those days. Art is by far my favorite class, and it’s helping me achieve #6 on my list.
    â€œWell, you look okay to me.”
    Ugh. It’s probably because I’ve been losing weight. It turns out that cutting class and getting high is the best diet plan I ever tried—I’ve lost seven pounds—and it’s totally bizarre, because on the days we cut class, we’re basically living off of Wendy’s and Taco Bell and Frappuccinos. Liss thinks it’s all the walking.
    â€œYeah, well, I’ve been sick.”
    â€œOn Fridays only?”
    â€œYes,” I respond coldly.
    â€œInteresting,” Marquez grumbles. “Well, at least your projects are getting done, so who am I to complain?” He shrugs, marks me as here, and continues down the list, calling off names as we all settle into our seats.
    I open my sketchbook and leaf through my drawings. Marquez has instructed us to sketch at least five drawings each day—they can be big or small, detailed or not. “The idea,” he said, “is to teach your hand how to move. It doesn’t matter if you mess up. Your hand will learn and correct the mistakes the next time. Just keep drawing.”
    That’s what my mom used to say when I was little. I remember sitting in the booth with her, trying to draw on the backs of old menus. Even with crayons, she could produce the most amazing art—grapevines and clenched fists and Michigan Avenue night scenes that lit up with her use of something as simple as golden and burnt sienna—and they were so beautiful, they put my rainbows and sunsets to shame. “Don’t give up,” she’d say. “It takes practice. Keep at it.” I’d try, and she’d always say that everything I drew was beautiful, but I thought she was being nice. She’d even try to show me some techniques, but it never looked as good as hers, and by the fifth grade, I gave up. I think I disappointed her. And now I wish I hadn’t been so stubborn. I should have paid attention. I should have let her teach me. I should have been willing to learn.
    Well, here I am, finally, willing and ready.
    My sketchbook is jam-packed with mistakes covered by corrections covered by more mistakes. But as I flip through the pages, almost fifty in total, I see some improvement. What started out as flat interpretations of faces and bowls of fruit that look like they were created by a five-year-old have become somewhat recognizable as representative of real life; the eyes have some shadow and depth to them, the streets show some knowledge of one-point perspective.
    And our larger projects—the ones that involve charcoal and pastels and paint—those are getting better, too. My favorite so far has been when Marquez told us to play with geometry and symmetry. He talked about how Picasso was informed by the anarchists of his time. He gave us a quote by one Russian revolutionary, Mikhail Bakunin, who said, “The urge to destroy is also a creative urge.” Marquez challenged us “to find the destruction within the creation.” I spent hours on