Memories Crannies
Chapter 1
Ib walked into her school, forced to squeeze her way through the corridors to her first class: art. It was time to see if the substitute teacher was any good. As she settled down into one of the chairs, she looked around and saw that there was no one. She sighed; that was a good start. She had arrived before the teacher himself.
"I am so sorry I'm late I-" A roughly twenty-year old man with fascinatingly purple hair and a maimed blue coat stopped as he took in the fact that there was only one girl here, "Ah. How are you Ib?" He said with a smile and said girl looked up immediately from her book. Garry frowned; who was Ib? How could he possibly know her name? If it was her name; it probably wasn't. Although, come to think of it, 'Ib' wasn't a very common name in the first place. Garry didn't even know it existed; yet the name had felt so familiar and normal rolling over his tongue. Anyway, it would only make matters worse if the girl responded.
"Sorry, what did you say?" Ib asked, then seeing the frown on the man's face, apologised once more.
"Don't apologise, I was just asking how you were. I'm Garry, by the way; the substitute teacher," Garry said with a smile. Damn it. She had replied; that was her name. How the hell did he know her name? Behind his smile was a hurricane of confusion; and deep down slight gratitude for the fact that the girl, Ib, had not heard that he knew her name. The gratitude was deep down because, well, hurricanes take up a lot of space, don't they? At the time, he didn't even know that he was feeling gratitude somewhere, "What time does class start at?" He asked, feeling completely unprofessional.
"Two minutes ago," Ib said quietly with a small smile. Garry sat down with a small sigh.
"And how many in the class?" Garry felt bad asking all these questions, but he had to know if he was going to have to deal with a large bunch of hooligans or a small bunch. Why did he even take the job in the first place? Because you need the money, he thought and sighed at his annoyingly realistic mind.
"There should be about ten or fifteen students," Ib said then added with a smile, "How much did you know about this job before you accepted?" Then, hearing her own question, she widened her eyes and started apologising, "I'm sorry, that was very personal, I shouldn't have asked that, I'm very, very sorry-"
"A few seconds," Garry interrupted and Ib looked at him in confusion.
"I'm sorry, what?" Ib asked.
"A few seconds after knowing the salary was all it took for me to take the job," Garry replied with a smile, which Ib returned. Somehow, she felt happy in his presence; he sounded nice, "Why do you keep apologising?"
Before Ib could answer that, the rest of class rushed inside. Ib sighed; no more peace now.
"Good morning, everybody, I'm your substitute art teacher," Garry said as all the students settled down.
"Hello Mr. ..." The class was stuck.
"Call me Garry," Said their new art teacher with a kind smile. Ib could swear that she saw a few girls almost swoon and inwardly sighed.
"So, what were you studying last term?" Garry asked and a girl shot her hand up way too enthusiastically, "Yes...?" He said, pointing to her.
"Harriet," She pursed her lips slightly as if the thought of not knowing her name was intolerable, then speedily moved on, "We were studying one-point perspective. In fact, we were in the middle of a project. Miss Clef said that you would know what to do-"
"Okay, that's wonderful ..."Garry stopped, thinking for a second.
"Harriet," The girl said with a supposed flirting smile that looked more like the Joker's grimace. It made Garry lean away a little.
"That- That's wonderful, um, Harriet," Then Garry collected his cool again, "But we won't be doing that anymore."
"But Miss Clef said-" Harriet continued in a nasal, whiny voice.
"I'm really not going to like you, am I?" Garry said aloud to himself. Harriet's eyes watered as she rummaged in her bag for some tissues. For the record, everybody else was attempting to constrain their laughter, but the contorted faces were a bit of a giveaway. Ib smiled a bit, but not enough to make her noticeable. After all, that was what she did. Nobody noticed her. And she preferred it that way. Even when he realised that he had, in fact, said this aloud, Garry didn't seem to care. You may be thinking that he is perhaps not the best teacher of the century at this stage, in which case I would ask you what defines a good teacher. Garry didn't have official qualifications and his methods were innovative to say the least. However, that is not to say that they were bad.
"So what are we going to do, then, Garry?" Another student, a boy this time, asked.
"You're about to see," replied Garry, taking out a book. Unfortunately, from her seat Ib couldn't see. "Everybody, take out your books or a sheet of paper."
"Which one?" Harriet's slightly sniffling voice rang through the room that was filled with exasperated silence.
"Yes," Garry replied, flicking through the pages of the book.
"You didn't answer my question," Harriet seemed confused at this. Her look appeared to say, 'You're a teacher, you should answer all my questions'. Before Garry could find something to say to the most irritating girl, Ib answered quietly for him
"Harriet, that obviously means he doesn't really care," Ib pointed out, taking out her sketchbook.
"What Ib said," Garry remarked, cornering a page of his book. "So, you're probably wondering what this is?" He asked, lifting up the book, "Well it's a book of poems. I shall be reading out a poem for you and you will be drawing whatever comes to mind." Most of the students seemed slightly confused, "It doesn't have to be neat or anything. The more abstract, the better in this case. It is simply an exercise to stimulate the creative side of your brain," Now nearly all of the students were confused due to the fact that most of them had no idea what 'stimulate' meant. So when Garry asked, "Ready?" all they could do was nod. Garry cleared his throat and commenced.
"A wilted rose hung from a window frame," He started, speaking like an actor on stage. Many of the students weren't listening and doodled randomly on their blank pages. Even Ib herself didn't really understand the point of this and she was trying.
"Such as a leg or arm that has gone lame," What could Ib possibly draw about this? There wasn't much inspiration in the lines.
"It has wilted for sure," her mother said,
And the poor girl's heart felt heavy as lead," Ib let her mind go blank, similar to the canvas before her, closed her eyes and started drawing.
"When the mother left her to dwell on her thoughts, Not understanding, how her daughter was distraught," Ib felt others around her slowly become mesmerised by the poem, and the words flowing from Garry's mouth, but she continued drawing, the pencil in her hands forming swirls across the page.
"Leaving her to wonder about when she died," Garry continued, his voice unwavering.
If her family would follow this guide,
She wondered, 'would they do the same'?" Everybody was enthralled, some had stopped drawing. Garry paused for effect, not that he needed much. He captivated all.
"And hang her from the window frame...?" Garry had achieved the impossible in their class; silence. You could literally hear a pin drop.
The rest of the lesson was equally interesting for Ib. No, not interesting; the word is too mild. It was fascinating; she had never had an art lesson like this before. Yet she felt strange, somehow. Especially when she looked back at what she had drawn while Garry read the poem: a clear, wilting rose. The strange thing was, that it was perfect, down to every last stroke. And her eyes had been shut. You would have thought that she spent hours looking at roses from the drawing. Yet somehow, art had felt familiar, not estranged as usual.
Ib shook her head. The teacher was different and so were the lessons to say the least, so why on earth should anything feel familiar?
AN: Thanks for reading, I hope you liked it - feedback is always appreciated. Next chapter should be up tomorrow c:
