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CHAPTER SIX
Thomas
With onlyacouple days left until the semester began, Ihad every intention to get past the issues Ihad with Erin and start the year off on the right foot.
Iemailed her last night, rescheduling our first, hopefully civil meeting to finalize the classes’ presentations and materials for today. She replied with athumbs-up emoji, childlike and silly, but areply nonetheless.
When she arrived at my office, Ifelt as though I’dbeen dealing with acompletely different person, in apositive way. Erin knocked politely on my door five minutes ahead of time, wrote down notes on her computer when Italked, nodded and agreed with me withyesandall right. It made me forgive the juvenile emoji.
It made me trust her as well, to my detriment.
“And the next piece we will be discussing is the one of…” Istopped mid turn to the screen at apresentation Ihadn’trecognized.
The painting Isaw plastered there was notThe Portrait of Madame Xby John Singer Sargent. No porcelain-skinned woman with ablack gown, no brownish background. Not even close.
In its place was aFrida Kahlo self-portrait. My dearest assistant, who tricked me into believing we had turned over anew leaf, hadn’tbothered with attaching aname to the creation. Istared at the screen, shell-shocked and speechless.
She went behind my back and purposefully sabotaged my class. Her whole act had been just that, an act. And it worked.
My heart thumped loudly between my ears, the vein in my neck bulging with the surge of blood that passed through it. Ilooked down, not wanting to face my students’ expectant eyes, and gripped the pedestal from either side.
“Uh…” Ireleased the pedestal, afraid Imight break it, and looked up at the screen. The best Icould do at that point was to improvise. “This piece was painted by Frida Kahlo. It’svery…colorful, but as seen in the class curriculum, this is an area we will not be addressing.”
Astudent at the front row mouthedWhat?to her friend and she in turn pressed her hand to her head, disappointed. Indignance clouded me. The class materials weren’tas colorful and interesting, yet held the same importance as any other style or movement or era.
Itapped the clicker, prepared to continue with the class and hoping this was aone-time joke at my expense. Iwouldn’teven be that mad.
Ihad hoped wrong, and Idid get mad.
The next slide turned out to be another one of Frida Kahlo’spaintings, one less extravagant although every bit provocative. TheSelf-portrait on the Borderline between Mexico and the United States.
Even as Irecognized that painting, Irefused to go there. Ididn’toffer the students any more excuses as Iclicked again and again, asking Erin in my head,Was it really impossible to include one slide Ican relate to?
The auditorium echoed with murmurs from displeased students with each picture Ichanged on the screen. Sweat beads formed on my forehead, dripping slowly down my temples.
Their glares took me back to my childhood. My parents used to give me the same glares of constant disapproval, not letting me forget how unhappy they were with my existence. Nothing changed my parents’ opinion, and Ifeared Ifaced asimilar destiny with my students.
In an attempt to curb the growing panic, Ishut my eyes, centered my thoughts, and opened them again hesitantly. Ihad to be prepared to work with whatever came next. Ijust had to.
As if someone had been listening to my prayers, Irecognized and liked the next one, namedSelf Portrait with Stalin, by Frida Kahlo, yet again.
Iregained my composure and speech abilities, drew my shoulders back, and explained. The whispers ceased and the students leaned forward to hear the story behind it.
With each word, each admiring look, Ibecame more passionate about the topic. Ipaced back and forth on the stage, scoping the room, engaging the students in the lecture.
Once Ifinished, Iditched the presentation and talked about general topics like my views on the changes in the art world and the influence they had on my work. For every story Itold, ten more questions followed, until the class ended and Ipromised them we’dcontinue the topic next week. Ihad avery necessary errand to run.
Regardless of the affection Ireceived and how it thawed at my cold heart, my anger for the stunt Erin pulled didn’tdissipate one bit. Her lie annoyed me to no ends, especially when Ihad allowed myself to trust her.
Ientered the painting studio where Iknew she would’ve been, going in her direction with every intention to tell her that her services were no longer needed.
Only Icouldn’t.
The sight of Erin almost broke me.Almostbeing the imperative word, even though she looked like awounded animal, standing in front of her easel, weeping and gasping for air between big sobs, her face covered with both her hands.
We were alone in the studio, and Iallowed myself to raise my voice. “What the hell is going on?” Iaimed the question at everything that had transpired the past twenty-four hours, the disaster of apresentation, her lying to me, and the hysterical crying.
She dropped her hands, sniffed, and wiped her face with the back of her hand. “Leave me alone.”
