Notes: Dedicated to cameragirl and her clay elephant.
Disclaimer: I don't own Rent.

Mark developed his love of the arts in fourth grade. It was his first introduction to an art class and at only eight years old, he wanted to explore. The class was only one day a week. On Friday's, instead of having science class, the children walked two by two in nice, straight lines down the hallway towards the art room. In the beginning of the year, the art projects were basic: coloring, cutting things out, and gluing other things together. After winter break, the class moved on to more advanced projects. This week it was sculpting. Mark, Roger, and ever other little kid in the classroom had played with Play Dough when they were younger, but this was real clay. The kind of clay that real artists used.

It was hard for Mark to hide his excitement that Friday. A week prior, Mrs. Jackson, the art teacher, announced that the children would be using clay. Mark slid through the week, counting down the days until he could feel the smooth, cold clay squish against his fingers. He planned his sculpture carefully, pinpointing every curve and bend carefully in his mind.

Roger, on the other hand, did not see what was so great about Friday art classes. He passed it off as a waste of time because "art is stupid", but Mark knew it was because Roger wasn't really that good. Mrs. Jackson even told him that he didn't have "an artistic eye" because his popsicle stick bridge was just a stack of popsicle sticks glued together. Mark thought that was a really mean thing to say, especially since the next thing out of her mouth was a compliment on Mark's near-perfect toothpick replica of the Eiffel Tower. Roger had replied with a simple, "I am too good at art. Music is an art," before sticking his finger in the bottle of glue and taking a lick. He was past his glue-eating days of kindergarten, but Roger never missed an opportunity to aggravate a teacher. Mrs. Jackson walked away, obviously disgusted, while Mark almost destroyed his Parisian monument in fits of laughter.

Mark and Roger walked down the hall side by side in silence. Mark was too busy daydreaming about his sculpture while Roger was listening in on Maureen's conversation. Apparently, she was going to make a clay sculpture of the boy she liked. Roger's ears perked as she told the red-haired girl next to her his name, but he let out a sad little sigh when she said his name was William.

"What are you going to sculpt?" Mark asked, bringing Roger back.

"Dunno."

"I'm going to make an elephant blowing it's trunk up in the air," Mark explained excitedly, even though he knew Roger could care less. "I saw one doing that at the zoo when I was little. My mom took a picture of it and I really like looking at it."

"Uh huh."

The children arrived in Mrs. Jackson's art room and sat down in their assigned spots on benches at long tables. In front of each child was a generous lump of clay with the only instruction of "sculpt."

Mark quickly set to work, molding his lump into shape. A funny shaped circle soon became an egg-shaped torso. Mark placed it aside, making four identical legs. He attached them to the torso, adjusting the shape appropriately. He glanced over at Roger's artwork while he began the head.

Roger had set out to make a clay pretzel. He finished in under two minutes, happy with his final project. It was better than what he usually produced in art class. At least this looked like the real thing. Satisfied with his work, he leaned back to admire it.

"What do you think?"

Mark looked up from shaping his elephant's trunk. "It looks edible," he replied. "Actually, it looks so edible I'm hungry."

Roger laughed, finally proud of something he had produced in this classroom.

Mrs. Jackson, however, was not so pleased with Roger's pretzel. "That's too simple. Do something else."

"I like it."

"Are you the teacher?"

"Is it your project?" Roger's voice stayed calm as he back-talked to the teacher. Being disrespectful to a teacher never really phased him, no matter how many notes were sent home or how many recesses were spent at his desk in silence.

Mrs. Jackson was appalled at Roger's rudeness and obvious contempt towards her. "Is this how you talk to your mother?"

"No."

"Then why do you talk like that to me?"

"Because you aren't my mother," his tone had not changed and he showed no sign of giving in. "My mother isn't a bitch."

Mark's eyes widened and he let out a tiny gasp when he heard Roger utter "the b-word." If Mark ever said the b-word in front of an adult or even at all, he knew he'd be over his father's knee getting a spanking. Mark had gotten spanked once and decided he really did not enjoy it. That was the first and last time he wiped mashed potatoes all over the kitchen wall and hid his serving of carrots in Cindy's pillowcase.

Mrs. Jackson was lost for words; no student had ever uttered a swear word in front of her, implying that she was that word. Roger Davis was known by most teachers to be mouthy, but he had never cursed at a teacher. "I… did you… I… what did… see me after class, Davis."

Roger nodded, obviously angry. He had never been referred to as Davis before. He decided then that he did not like it. He'd rather go by the name of his mother's father than that of his own father's.

At the end of class, Mark and the rest of the students took their completed sculptures to Mrs. Jackson. She was going to bake them later that day. On Monday during science, the children were going to pick them up to take home. Roger stayed in his seat while the other children left the room, leaving Mark to walk back to class by himself.

--

On Saturday, Roger invited Mark over his house to play. Miss Anne greeted him and directed him up to Roger's room. Mark said hi to Roger's dad as well, but received a grunt of acknowledgement in return.

"Hey."

Roger looked up. "Hi Mark." He didn't look happy. He was idly picking at the strings of the guitar Santa had brought him last Christmas.

Sitting across from him, Mark asked, "Did you get in trouble from Mrs. Jackson?"

"She yelled at me for being disrespectful and gave me a note to give to my mom," he explained. "I told my mom what she said to me and how she always tells me I'm bad at art and compares me to you. My mom said that wasn't right because not everyone is good at art like that."

Mark nodded. "Did you get in trouble from your parents?"

"My mom wasn't mad. She was proud of me for sticking up for myself but my dad said he was gonna wash my mouth out with soap. Then he smacked me when I told him that I learnt that word from him and called me a liar."

"Oh."

Roger rubbed his jaw thoughtfully, wincing a little. He shrugged and struck a chord. "At least next year art is a 'lective and only the people good at it have to suffer through it."

"I'm taking it," Mark said. "Mrs. Jackson says I have a good eye for the arts. She suggested I look into photography."

"Like picture taking?"

"Yeah," Mark replied.

Roger nodded, looking a little hurt that he didn't have the artistic talent that Mark possessed. In first grade, Roger was good at drawing. He had taught Mark how to draw two-dimensional figures. Mark had taken away his talent. In that moment, he resented Mark, even if they were best friends.

--

On Monday, instead of learning about plants and seeds, the children shuffled down the hallway towards Mrs. Jackson's art room. A baked clay figure sat at each assigned seat. Mark and Roger made their way towards their table to find Mark's lifelike elephant and Roger's pretzel.

"Boys and girls," the teacher was standing by Mark, "I'd like to call your attention to Mark Cohen's artwork." After the boys and girls oohed and aahed at Mark's elephant and Mrs. Jackson delivered endless compliments, she smiled at the blushing blond and set the elephant gently on the table.

Mark smiled in satisfaction. He had finally found something that he liked and excelled in. He turned to Roger, finding an unwelcoming scowl spelling out jealousy and contempt. "Roger?"

"Who cares about a stupid elephant anyway?" He reached over and picked up Mark's elephant.

The little boy's eyes widened as he watched his best friend manhandle his precious work. "Be careful, clay breaks easily."

"Good," Roger retracted his arm like he had seen so many Red Sox pitchers do in the games he watched religiously on television. Pushing forward, the clay elephant left his hand and hit the wall with a thunderous crack. Mark's project lay shattered on the floor.

--

The next day, Roger wasn't in school. After the incident, he had been dragged by Mrs. Jackson to the principal's office. He did not return to class. Mark was left sobbing in the art room, gathering the remaining pieces of his prized elephant.

On Wednesday, Roger was back in school. Mark refused to speak to him. They shared a double desk, but Mark stared straight ahead, not once glancing towards the side to see Roger. At recess, Mark played with Maureen and her redheaded friend. He didn't know her name and didn't really want to know either.

On Thursday, Mark noticed a dark purple ring around Roger's right eye. Still, they did not speak.

On Friday, they were together again in art class. They sat next to each other in silence, drawing their family portraits. Mark accepted the compliments on Cindy's realistic hair and the exquisite choice of coloring for his mother's dress with a simple grunt and a nod. Roger did not receive a compliment; the teacher simply ignored him. When she left their table, Roger spoke.

"Mark?"

His word was met with cold, icy blue eyes and an angry glare. No words.

"I'm sorry I ruined your elephant."

Mark nodded. "Whatever." He went back to his picture, diligently coloring perfectly inside the lines.

"No, listen, I'm really sorry," he tried again. "Even sorrier than when I made fun of you back in kindergarten."

Mark looked back at his best friend – or former best friend, he corrected himself. He saw the tears brimming in his eyelids as Roger desperately fought them back. He noticed the dark circle on his eye. The black eye he had probably gotten from his father for being sent home early. "You promise you're sorry?"

Roger nodded. "Yeah. I missed being your friend."

Mark looked back down. "I don't know if I believe you."

"Please?" Roger's voice cracked and a silent tear rolled down his cheek. "Please Mawk?"

Mark stopped. He giggled slightly and looked into the other boy's eyes. "Did you just call me Mawk?"

Roger paused at his mistake. "No!" he replied defensively. "I mean, yeah." He tried to smile, but the tears made it hard.

Mark smiled. "Okay. I believe you, Wager." He laughed, recalling the lisp Roger had teased him for when they first became friends.

Roger chuckled too, content that he had won Mark back. He smiled on the inside, knowing that the pain of his father's hand against his eye wasn't nearly as bad as the aching he had felt on the inside over almost losing his best friend for good. Just as Mark had gathered up the broken fragments of his shattered elephant, Roger had picked up the pieces of his broken friendship. One by one, they fell in place, completing the jigsaw puzzle that was Mark and Roger's dramatically, colorful friendship.