Speechless(93)

                I consider the possibilities. Maybe set the Peanuts characters                     in a classical painting style? Nah. Too complicated, and besides, we’re supposed                     to mimic the artist’s style, not reinterpret it. It needs to be straight-up                     comic strip style. But how to do it without being completely boring?

                There was a really big roll of thick paper in one of Ms.                     Kinsey’s supply closets. What if…what if we recreated a big comic strip with it?                     That would be pretty cool. A magnified comic. I wonder if Sam will go for                     it.

                I’m still mulling it over when Asha tucks away her knitting                     needles and says, “I have to go to my locker. I’ll meet you after the                     assembly?”

                Assembly? What assembly? She walks away before I can ask what                     she’s talking about.

                After lunch I haul ass to art, hoping Sam will be there early,                     too, but he comes in two seconds before the bell rings. He shoots me a brief                     smile as he sits down at our workstation. I want to tell him my idea, see what                     he thinks, but before I can find a way to explain it, Ms. Kinsey announces that                     we’re heading to the auditorium. So Asha’s right; there is an assembly.

                We all file into the empty theater. Our seats are close to the                     stage, on the left end. Sam sits beside me, his wrist touching mine on the                     shared armrest, as more students pour in like a tidal wave through the two                     entrances, all of them talking to each other, laughing, excited to be out of                     class. It’s so loud. Was it always this loud, or                     does it just seem amplified, since I haven’t spoken in so long? God, it’s                     obnoxious.

                Sam isn’t talking, though. He looks distracted. I want to ask                     him what’s up, but I left my whiteboard in the art room, and then it doesn’t                     matter anyway because the lights dim.

                People whistle and whoop in the sudden darkness, shifting in                     their squeaky seats. Someone from the balcony sails a paper airplane toward the                     stage that makes it all the way to the third row. When the spotlight comes on,                     illuminating the single microphone stand center stage, the conversation and                     laughter fades into a hushed swell of whispers. The sound is like rustling                     insects.