Part 13 (1/2)
”Oh, my art.”
”Yeah?” I said hesitantly. ”What did Mac say?”
”Just that he thinks I'm” (I prepared myself to hear the worse) ”very talented. He says my work is really good, especially for someone my age.”
”He did? That's terrific!”
”He also said I have to concentrate on discipline and stuff, but I can live with that.”
I nodded. I felt confused, though. Mac had been hounding Claudia since our first morning at Falny: ”Do it over.” ”Work more slowly.” And he had said that my drawings were ”nice” or ”good.” But he had never said I was very talented or anything like that. What was going on? I needed to talk to Mac.
”Claud?” I said. ”I - I forgot something in our cla.s.sroom. I'll be right back.”
I ran to our room at Falny and found Mac gathering up some sketches and putting them into a portfolio. ”Mac?” I said.
He glanced up. ”Mallory. I thought you'd gone home.”
”Well, Claudia's waiting for me downstairs, but I have to ask you something.”
”Yes?”
”Am I really a good artist?”
Mac stopped what he was doing. ”You're dedicated,” he replied. ”Yes, you're good.”
”But am I going to be a great artist one day? And have shows in galleries?”
”You're only eleven, Mallory. It's a little early to tell. But if you're asking me whether you have Claudia's talent, the answer is, I don't think so. If you keep drawing, though, I'm sure you'll become a better artist.”
”Good enough to ill.u.s.trate books?”
”Maybe.”
I thought about my field mice, Ryan and Meaghan. I liked them a lot. I was sorry they were in Deep Trouble. Then I thought about the actual drawings of Ryan and Meaghan. I knew they were good. Good for dressed-up animals, anyway, and good for an eleven-year-old.
”Thank you, Mac,” I said, turning to leave.
”Mallory, I'm sorry. I know you're disappointed.”
”It's okay,” I said.
And it really was. As I walked outside to meet Claudia, I thought, There are lots of different kinds of art, and I don't enjoy Claudia's kind or Mac's kind. I like my own kind. And I like writing even better.
I thought of Ryan and Meaghan again, only this time I imagined them in New York City.
They went to the Museum of Natural History and scaled a brontosaurus skeleton. They snuck into Radio City Music Hall and watched all the shows for free.
By the time Claud and I were zooming back to Stacey's in a cab, I was writing a New York mouse story in my head. I was happy. I was excited. I had a terrific idea.
I planned to write a book soon.
Jessi.
Chapter 21.
On Thursday, I saw Quint again. We went to another special performance of a ballet. This time we saw a production of Coppelia, which I have actually danced in myself. When the show was over, Quint said, ”Want to get a soda or something?”
”Sure,” I replied. (Anything to lengthen the afternoon.) Quint walked me to a nearby coffee shop.
I ordered a diet soda.
Quint ordered a vanilla egg cream.
I changed my mind and ordered a vanilla egg cream, too.
In case you've never tasted one, an egg cream is a wonderful drink. It's made of soda and milk and either vanilla or chocolate syrup. (Surprisingly, it does not have any eggs in it.) I have never had one except when I've been in New York.
The egg creams arrived and Quint and I sipped them slowly.
Quint didn't say much. He looked thoughtful.
So I spoke up. ”There are lots of good parts in Coppelia for guys,” I said.
”I know.”
”If you went to a professional school, you could dance in Copptlia. I have.”
”Yeah.”
”Yeah what?”
”You know what, Jessi. It's everything we've already talked about.”
”I want to hear you say it again.”
Quint sighed. ”Okay. I know I'm a good dancer.”
”You're better than just good if your teachers think you can get into Juilliard.”
”All right, I'm better than a good dancer. I would like to perform onstage in front of a big audience someday. Just like you have.”
”So?”
”Come on, Jessi. You know all this stuff.”
”Tell me again.”