Less Is More
Chapter 1: Actually
Brittany's POV
I sit in art class waiting anxiously for Ms. Nash to come in and start class. This is my first day of my senior year and this is my last class. I'm so sad that I had to wait till senior year to take art. But since it has finally come, I am so excited. I love art. I like working on things everyday until it is a finished product. Seeing as how you can go from something so empty and blank to something filled up, meaningful, and artistic has always blown my mind.
"Hey Britt, did you hear about Ms. Nash?" My friend, Sugar tells me from across the room.\
I turn my head to look back at her. "What about Ms. Nash?" I ask.
"She moved to Boston because her husband got a new job there," Sugar says.
"Aww that sucks. That means we're gonna have a whole new teacher. They're probably going to be mean and ugly, like that new teacher we have in Economics," I say to Sugar. She usually laughs when I talk about our new Economics teacher. I don't know why she isn't laughing right now.
It looks as if she is looking past me. I follow her line of sight.
"What?" I say and then turn around.
Standing right in front of my desk is a woman about 23 or 24, with long black hair and a bang, tanned skin, mustard yellow dress shirt and navy blue tight waisted skirt that flared out at the ends that stopped below her thighs, nude stockings, and cute baby doll shoes. I look her up and down. Then, I take the biggest gulp of my life.
"You must be Brittany," She looks down a paper that has my ID card on it. "Hi, I'm Ms. Santana Lopez. I'm the new mean and ugly art teacher." She reaches out her arm and holds out her hand to me. I look up at it and I can feel myself turning red.
"You can shake my hand. I promise the ugliness and meanness won't rub off on you," She chuckles at me and extends her arm out a little more. I finally lift my own hand and shake it vigorously.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean what I said. You are totally not mean and definitely, definitely not ugly. I mean... I'm sorry... Oh gosh. Please don't fail me."
"If you keep shaking my hand I won't be able to use it, Brittany," the class laughs, "For class."
"Oh, sorry about that," I say and release her hand. I feel my cheeks get red and hot. Ms. Lopez tells the class to take out a piece of paper to write down why we like art. I could have written a list that goes on for days, but I decided against it. I look through my backpack and get out a piece of paper. Once I set it on my desk, I see that Ms. Lopez made her way to the front of her desk.
"Alright class, just take your time, and just let me know why art matters to you. I want to know what fascinates you, what you don't like, and even something beautiful about art you have seen. It can be anything you want. Take about ten minutes." After she gave us the green light, I started scribbling things down on my paper because I have a lot of making up to do. As I write the words flow. There's something about art that makes everything meaningful and great to look at and decipher. I don't really know much about Ms. Lopez, but if she is anything like Ms. Nash then I will be fine.
"Alright class put down your pencils, pens, or crayons. I would like to hear from some of you," Ms. Lopez says to us.
I raise my hand because I've got some redeeming to do.
"Yes Brittany." She calls on me. I give her a smile and I lift up my paper to begin reading.
"Before you start I would like you to not read from the paper. I want you to just let your words flow naturally like in a conversation." She instructs me. I get up from my seat and I stand in front of the room. I begin to speak.
"Art is powerful. It's love. It's hate. It's everything in the middle. Everything is art, and I think that's what makes us imperfect. It matters to me because I know I'm not perfect but to create a piece of art that makes me feel perfect and to see someone else's perspective of beauty makes everything alright. A simple line is art. Even the most complex organ, the heart, is art. What fascinates me is how a piece of work can stir up so many emotions. I want to be able to do just that." I look at Ms. Lopez for her approval to go sit back down. I make my way back to my desk and I look at her again.
"Thank you Brittany. That was exactly what I was asking for. You took the words right out of my mouth. I can already tell that we're going to do some great pieces of art." Ms. Lopez says to me, and she smiles. I take a deep breath and I feel so much better.
"Now I'm gonna open up for questions. Please ask me everything and anything you want because this is the only time you'll actually get an answer from me." She says.
I see a few of my friends raising their hands, and Ms. Lopez looks like she has someone in mind. She looks down at her paper. "Noah." She says.
"Oh baby, you can call me Puck." Noah Puckerman says.
"Actually, I'm gonna call you Noah. Now, what is your question?"
He smirks and asks, "Gotta boyfriend?"
"Maybe I do, maybe I don't." Ms. Lopez answer simply.
"What's that supposed to mean?" He says.
"You, Noah, will never know. Oh and I forgot to tell you that you get one question each," she raises one finger in the air.
After that situation, other classmates of mine ask her the usual questions: What college and what high school did she attend. One guy even asked: Do you eat brownies? After a while I finally came up with my one and only question.
"How old are you?" I ask.
Ms. Lopez raises an eyebrow and answers with confidence, "20".
Then, she continues to call on the other students that have questions. But, I think to myself how can she be 20 and teach senior high school students. Did anyone else hear that? I want to raise my hand again and ask her how, but we only get one question each.
"Okay, well that ends my moment of questioning. What Joe is passing out is my syllabus. As you can see there is a number at the top of the paper along with my email for all questions, statements, or comments you may have." Ms. Lopez says in her seat.
"Oh yeah, got her number, didn't even have to try." Puckerman says out loud and high-fives his friend.
"Actually Noah, that's my Google number. Any stupid or inappropriate messages will not a get a response back." Ms. Lopez says with a harsh tone before smiling at us. "Got it?" She asks us and I swear she looked me straight in the eye. I wonder why. It's too late to even wonder because the bell rings.