Art Class

After getting breakfast from the Cafeteria, you start walking in the direction of your next class. You can't help but notice, as you do, that Brandon is walking in vaguely the same direction. For his part, he doesn't seem to have noticed. He is on his phone and in a separate universe. You cross your fingers hoping that this does not imply what you think it implies. But as you turn in to art class, and he does too, you realize it's time to abandon all hope.

You enter a rounded room with paper and boxes of pencils on each desk, and sit down. There is no one else that you recognize. Brandon doesn't miss a beat from the moment he looks up from his phone. He smiles, waves, and sits right down next to you. So much for a total escape from your roommate during the day. You hope--pray---that this is the only class you share with him.

"So, brosenya," he says. "Time to get all sophisticated. Study the fine arts."

"I guess so," you say. And then, on a lark, "how were your first few classes?"

"Oh great," he says. "Chemistry is great, and women's studies, and critical theory--"

"Women's studies?" You ask him.

"Oh yeah, I study women all the time, natural class for me, man. Plus it's easy."

"I guess so."

"Plus women make eighteen cents less than men, on average, and the pandemic was our first female-dominated recession as women endured the majority of layoffs, dude. Addressing those issues requires a comprehensive assessment of the ways in which women are systemically disadvantaged in society, and nuanced conversations that bring both men and women to the table are necessary."

You slowly turn your head, studying him as he speaks. You do your best to not widen your eyes or drop your jaw, but it's a challenge.

"I mean, I gotta look out for my sister," he says.

Just as you are about to respond, the powerful clack of heels greets you. Those are hot woman heels, the kind of heels that no student here would ever wear, the kind that take grown-adult confidence to wear. You twist your head around searching (finally) for your hot professor.

An old woman with blown-back gray hair enters the room. Aside from her tall heels she is dressed in casual, almost ratty clothes. There is a wisdom in her wrinkle-lined face that draws respect, but is far from sexy.

God damn it, who the fuck goes to a college with hot DTF girls and doesn't run into a single sexy professor? Is this a universe conjured by a God who genuinely doesn't have that kink?

"Hello, class," the aging hippy professor says. "My name is Missus Schmitt. And I am sorry for the heels. I just came from teaching a very different class. But please, do not follow my example. I'd like you all not to wear your best to this class, if you can. We'll be working with a lot of messy supplies, and I'd hate to see you stain anything valuable. I know that sketching doesn't have that representation so much as painting, but you'd be surprised to discover all the places graphite can get."

You remember taking notes in your high school notebook. The way your hands would get dark and gray afterward.

"Now," Missus Schmitt says. "I want to do something more interesting than the typical syllabus, because I've taught this class too many years to bore myself, even on the first day. We're going to jump right in to sketching, and we'll start with a brief lecture about the different pencils you've been given..."

She does so, talking about the lighter erasable pencils that should be used first, and the darker pencils that should be used sparingly.

"...Now. I want an honest expression of you. Without any lectures or grades corrupting your natural creativity. What are you pondering? What is your goal in life, now? Think carefully about how to use visual art to express your state of mind. The goal is only to grow accustomed to using these pencils, and you will be given the rest of the class. Draw in as much detail as possible. Draw multiple drafts. Be creative."

Your entire first class? How on Earth are you going to use all that time? You have a few sheets of regular-sized sketch paper in front of you. It's time to figure out how to fill them.