If I Was an Art Teacher

Well, I'm not going to be, but here is a sample of what I might be like. Inspired by this Garfield comic strip I read all the way back in middle school. It still makes me laugh, but I'm not entirely sure why. http://garfield.nfshost.com/2006/01/07/

"Don't touch me," he says.

I poke him again, albeit against his will.

"I said stop!"

"Why are you lying face down on that blank piece of paper?" I ask.

"It's not blank."

"Wanna look up so I can see it?"

"No."

My goodness, teenagers are difficult. "Okay, so how about you describe to me what's on it?"

"My face."

"You did a self-portrait?"

He is silent for effect, and then says, "No, that's what's on the piece of paper."

I roll my eyes and throw my hands up, although he cannot see either gesture. "Well, don't talk to me like I'm stupid. You're in art class. God forbid you do any art."

His shoulders rise and fall with his passing of breath.

"Sorry," I say. "That was a little harsh." Although, really it wasn't.

"No, you're right. You should be talking to me like I'm stupid."

I nod in agreement, since he can't see me. "Why?" I say to him, instead, using my sympathetic, pretend-to-care, teacher's voice.

"Because I am."

"You are stupid or you did something stupid? There's a difference, you know."

He lifts his head off the table, but not off the piece of paper. It comes up with him.

"I accidentally glued a piece of paper to my face."

Against all my professional training, I laugh. "How do you do that accidentally?"

"I was using glue--"

"Why? We were doing pencil sketches today."

"--Then I fell asleep in the middle of what I was doing."

In the midst of my snorts of laughter, I feel a prickling sensation that I should probably be concerned. "Can you even breathe?" I ask, swallowing my giggles.

"Don't worry about it."

I comb through my brain, attempting to think of any other important, teacher-like questions I should ask. "Do you have narcolepsy?"

"I don't think so."

"Good. Then I don't feel so bad for laughing."

He turns his blank (literally) face at me.

"Hold still," I say, suddenly inspired.

He instinctively scoots away from the sound of my voice. "What are you doing?"

"Your classwork," I reply. I grab a pencil and begin to sketch a face. First, two wide, bright eyes. Then, an ear-to-ear grin.

"Why am I not happy?" he sighs.

"Oh, but you are."