Part 3 (1/2)

”I don't like real ones. Blown-up ones are an right.”

Before we walked on, Alistaire turned to the toy seller and said, ”I loved your book.” (The man looked thoroughly confused.) We spent more than an hour in the zoo. Despite the lovely weather, it wasn't crowded, which was a miracle. As the kids explored things, I kept seeing the same people over and over again - a young man and his very noisy little girl; a couple and their baby, who was riding around in a pouch strapped to the mother; a tall man wearing sungla.s.ses and a rain hat; and a mom with two little boys wearing identical outfits but who didn't look a thing alike. This is one reason I V New York. All the different people.

When Rowena and Alistaire tired of the zoo, we walked out, coming to the big Delacorte clock just as it struck the hour and the animal orchestra (statues) moved around and around while music played. We bought lunch from the vendors and ate on a bench in the park.

By the time three-thirty rolled around, the kids had ridden the carousel, oohed and aahed over the statue of a cougar by the roadside, climbed all over the Alice in Wonderland ”playground” (another sculpture), and listened intently to a lively bra.s.s band that had set itself up on a gra.s.sy lawn.

”What did you think of the park?” Mary Anne asked the kids as we were walking back to the Dakota.

”It's great,” said Alistaire.

”Can we move into the zoo?” asked Rowena.

Claudia.

Chapter 6.

I had more news all right, but it wasn't any good. Falny turned out to be the biggest mistake of my life. I was sure of that by the time we broke for lunch. What had happened? I suppose I might as well give you the gory details of my sad story.

I don't know about Mallory, but I was up at the crack of dawn on Monday morning. If roosters lived in New York, they would have been crowing when I first woke up. (At least, I think they would have been. I am not all that familiar with roosters.) Anyway, the first time I looked at my watch, it read 4:06. ”Four-oh-six!” I muttered. ”I don't believe it.” I felt wide awake, but soon I drifted to sleep again. When I awoke the second time, my watch read 5:33. Does anyone actually get up at this hour?

I could not go to sleep. I was jumpy, as if a kangaroo were in my stomach. And all I could think about was McKenzie Clarke. If I closed my eyes, I imagined HIS face. I bet, I thought, that he has kind, twinkly blue eyes and looks a little like Santa Claus, except for the cherry nose. If I opened my eyes, I found myself daydreaming about art cla.s.s. I would impress Mac with my swift and accurate sketching. He would flip through my drawings and say, ”Goodness! Where did you study before?”

”Oh, nowhere really,” I would reply.

”Nowhere? But this is the work of a creative genius.” Then McKenzie Clark would phone my parents, tell them what a find I am, and ask their permission to allow me to study with him privately. He would become my mentor (I think that's the word I'm looking for), and I, after just a few months of study with Mac, would become - ”Claud?” murmured Stacey's voice from among the pillows on her bed. ”You better get up now. You don't want to be late for your first day of cla.s.ses.”

Mal and I entered the doors of Falny feeling pretty nervous, as you might have guessed. But my nervousness faded quickly.

As someone once said, ”What ... a ... dump!”

1 whispered that to Mal, and she smiled, but she was too scared to speak.

In all honesty, Falny wasn't a dump; it just wasn't what I had expected, which was a grand, Gothic building with a fancy entryway, or maybe something that looked like the Met- ropolitan Museum of Art. The entrance to Falny was just a set of gla.s.s double doors, with bra.s.s letters reading FALNY set above them. However, we were somewhat more impressed by the huge cla.s.srooms we found on the third, fourth, and fifth floors. Mac's room was #414. We walked inside slowly, Mal clinging to the back of my s.h.i.+rt, like a kindergartner on her first day of school.

”Cut it out!” I whispered loudly.

Mal's response was, ”What's with the boxes?”

The two of us came to our senses and walked into the room like the mature young adults we are.

In a ring around the room were our drawing tables. Piled into the center of the room were about thirty cardboard cartons. They weren't stacked neatly, though. They looked like they'd been thrown in-and had landed in a tumbled heap. Some boxes rested crookedly inside others, some sat squarely on the floor, some were perched precariously on top of two or three or four cartons.

I looked at Mal and shrugged. Then we settled ourselves at the tables that seemed to be nearest the front of the room. We wanted to work as close to Mac as possible. Other students drifted in and took seats. n.o.body said much.

”Do you think I'm dressed okay?” Mallory whispered.

”You look fine,” I replied - just as HE entered the room.

Mal gasped. ”That's him!”

”SHHHH!” I nudged her elbow. (I don't think Mac heard us.) McKenzie Clarke was not at all what I had expected. He was short and slim and didn't look a bit like Santa Claus. He was also younger than I'd thought he'd be. He wore thick gla.s.ses and seemed quite serious. When a couple of kids called, ”Hi,” he just nodded, then organized his things on one of the drawing tables. Now he was halfway across the room from Mal and me. I could barely see him.

At nine-thirty on the nose, even though kids were still arriving, and without greeting the cla.s.s, McKenzie Clarke began to speak. He said, ”Today's lesson is intended to make you aware of dimension and perspective when you draw.”

”Does he realize he has new students?” Mal whispered to me.

Before I could answer her, the boy next to me raised his hand. ”Mac?” he began. ”When we ...”

I didn't hear whatever he said. Instead, I turned to Mal and, barely remembering to keep my voice down, hissed, ”That kid just called him 'Mac' right to his face! I wonder if we should.”

Mal grinned. I knew she was thinking how great being ”in” with Mac would feel. I knew that because I was thinking the same thing. But a few seconds later, my smile faded. ”Mom and Dad don't let me call adults by their first names unless I know them really, really well,” I said. ”We haven't even spoken to Mac, yet. I think we better call him Mr. Clarke, at least for awhile.”

Mallory nodded.

Then I snapped to attention as Mr. Clarke began to explain the day's a.s.signment. We were supposed to draw the pile of boxes, paying special attention to the corners and angles and to dimension.

Draw those boxes? I thought. All the boxes? Oh, my lord, how boring. But if that was what Mr. Clarke wanted, then that was what I would do. And I would do a good job.

When Mr. Clarke finished explaining the as- signment, he began to walk around the room, speaking briefly to each student. Soon Mal clutched my arm and squealed (quietly), ”He's almost here!” She looked pale.

”h.e.l.lo,” Mr. Clarke greeted us solemnly. ”You must be some of my new students. May I have your names, please?”

I managed to reply, ”Claudia Kis.h.i.+,” without my voice cracking. Then I added, ”And that's Mallory Pike. She's my friend. We're from - ”

Mr. Clarke cut me off. ”Each morning I will tell you what materials to bring the next day. Today you need only sketching pads, which I see you have brought, and pencils.” (He handed each of us two pencils and a gum eraser.) ”I will circle the room, checking your work from time to time.”

”Okay. Thanks for - ”

Mr. Clarke had turned to the girl next to” Mallory.

”Well,” I said. ”Time to begin.”

Mal nodded. Then she looked from the boxes to her pad. Slowly she picked up a pencil and began to draw. She erased her first line.

Meanwhile, I started sketching quickly, line after line after line. I have been studying art for so long that dimension and perspective are things I don't think about much. Of course, I'm aware of them when I work, but they're not something I concentrate on.

I had finished drawing the entire pile of boxes by the time Mac appeared at my table again. Mal was plodding through the a.s.signment, erasing practically every line she drew. Finally, she rubbed a hole in the paper and had to start over again. She worked in the same, slow manner, and was erasing yet another line when I looked up into Mac's face, smiled, and said proudly, ”I'm all finished.” (I couldn't wait for the next a.s.signment.) Mac turned my pad around and examined the drawing. After a few moments, he frowned and said, ”You work much too .quickly, Miss Kis.h.i.+. Would you please begin again? You don't notice that anyone else is finished, do you? Look around the room.”

I looked. Everyone was working busily. Mr. Clarke stepped over to Mal's table. With shaking hands, I flipped to the next page in my sketchbook.

I felt stung. No one had ever examined my work and not said at least one nice thing about it. Was I really so bad? Had I come to New York just to find out that I'm not talented as an artist after all? That couldn't be true.

I'm not good at anything else.