scribbles

    While the art teacher flicked through a presentation, the little girl stared up at the row of cabinets on the wall of the dimly lit classroom. Whenever she was in this room, her eyes seemed to stray to them automatically; like the rest of the school, they were brand new, and had pieces of artwork sitting atop them at intervals. She always wondered where the art came from. Were they were done by students? If not, by whom?

    Her attention was pulled back towards the front of the room as the lights were turned back on. The teacher passed out one sheet of paper to each student and explained the assignment: she would turn on music, and they were to draw whatever came to mind.

    It was quiet for a moment or two. The little girl fidgeted and fingered her pencil.

    Then, classical music began to spread throughout the room, graceful and elegant. It wasn't a tune she recognized, but she liked it, the way it ebbed and flowed, rose and fell. Just like a river. It made her feel relaxed.

    She began to draw a line, not much caring if it led anywhere. Her pencil moved with the music, speeding up when it did, swirling and circling with each crescendo. She didn't try to draw anything specific, simply tracing the path of the notes on paper.

    Near the end of the song, she glanced at the papers of the children around her. Most of them had drawn pretty things: ballerinas, rivers, butterflies.

    She suddenly became aware that the other children were staring at hers.

    Her face grew hot with embarrassment, and tears blurred her vision. What must they think of her? Looking back down at her paper, the little girl came to the realization that all she had done was scribble aimlessly across the white expanse. She hadn't thought there was anything wrong with it at the time. How ugly the lines seemed now.

    Blinking rapidly, she quickly crossed out the loops and curves and began to draw a ballerina. Had she ever drawn a ballerina before? She had never wanted to. She didn't even rightly know how; she tried to remember what they looked like, recalling that they always had their hair in a bun and wore a tutu, tights, and slippers, with ribbons that crisscrossed up their legs.

    A few moments later, she was done. The little girl looked down at her work. She swallowed a sob and supposed it was pretty good, but the drawing was shallow, cheap. She had put no real devotion into it. She just didn't want others to think that she was stupid, that she was nobody, that she was odd. She just wanted to fit in.

    The stares cut into her like tiny knives. She bit back tears once more and had just started on a river when the teacher told them to turn in their drawings. Reluctantly, the little girl passed in her paper, feeling very foolish and ashamed.

    The big girl stared at an abstract painting, remembering that year she spent in the cold, spacious charter school.

    It had never occurred to her then that she could scribble with a paintbrush. She had never had the slightest inkling that drawing what she heard, that being different was...okay.

    The big girl gave the painting a smile, though it was a bit bittersweet.

    Different was wonderful.