Absent (Katie Williams)

streaks onto his pants.
    “Usha, what is it?”
    “I’m sorry to interrupt.”
    “That’s all right. You look flushed.”
    “I do?” I touch my cheeks.
    “Are you okay?”
    “Yeah. I’m okay. But . . .”
    “Yes? You’re okay?”
    “I’m okay, but I’ve changed my mind.”
    “About what?”
    “I want to paint the memorial mural.” My words are answered with a shove so enormous that I nearly take a step back. I hold on tight, though, wrapping my arms around my body. (Usha’s body.)
    “You’re sure?” Mr. Fisk asks.
    “Completely.” I nod emphatically. “I want to paint the mural. I want people to remember Paige.”

11: PAINTING EYES
    SMALL PROBLEM : I CAN ’ T PAINT .
    During that afternoon’s illustration class, Mr. Fisk has me wait by his desk while he gathers the mural materials. I wait for more resistance to come, but it doesn’t. I know you don’t want to, I tell Usha silently, but you don’t understand. Let me fix this, and you’ll understand.
    Greenvale Greene sits quietly in her corner of the classroom. She doesn’t look crazy today; she doesn’t look at me at all. Wes Nolan is on time for once and bent over his sketchbook, drawing away. The ponies roll eyes at him and nicker. Kelsey, though, seems more concerned with stealing worried glances at me. I must’ve scared her in the cafeteria. Good. The pony next to Kelsey whispers something and nods at Wes. Is he drawing me again? I wander to the window by Wes’s table and try to peek over his shoulder. I’m not used to casting shadows, though, and when I lean over, he immediately looks up.
    “Eyes on your own paper, Das,” he says with a grin. As usual, everything’s a joke. Too bad death isn’t that funny, Wes Nolan.
    “Sorry,” I mutter. “Just curious.”
    “Oh, this?” He flashes the page. “Bowl of fruit.”
    And that’s just what it is, the grapes at odd angles on their vine, the orange a little lumpy. It’s not a picture of me after all. A relief, of course, and never mind that twinge of disappointment. It’s just that when I close my eyes, she’s painted on the backs of my lids, that girl he drew, the branches of her tree spread out above her. I thought if maybe I saw her one more time, I could get her out of my head.
    “I don’t even like to eat fruit, much less draw it,” Wes grumbles.
    “What do you like to draw?” I ask, then think, Duh. You. And I wish I could unask the question.
    Wes answers, “People.”
    “Just . . . just anyone?”
    He thinks for a moment. “Anyone who sticks in my mind.”
    “Oh,” I say, not sure if I’m relieved or disappointed. What is it? I want to ask him. What is it that makes someone stick in your mind?
    “Usha,” Mr. Fisk calls me from the doorway. I turn, but Wes calls me back. “Hey, are you painting that mural? For Wheels?” Paige, his mind whispers.
    “Who?” I ask belligerently.
    “For Paige,” he says.
    “Yeah,” I say cautiously. “Why?”
    “No reason.” He shrugs, crooked shoulders, crooked smile. “Just . . . I’ll look forward to seeing it when it’s done.”
    Mr. Fisk takes me to the blank stretch of wall by the doors to the student parking lot. He sets me up with a ladder, a drop cloth, cans of paint, and brushes. He reminds me that Principal Bosworth has given me creative control, but with the understanding that he, Mr. Fisk, is overseeing the project. “No pressure,” he says. “Just let me know when you have some of it up on the wall.” He also rolls out an overhead projector, in case I want to draw the design first and project it onto the wall to trace over with paint. I definitely don’t want todo this, as it would make it immediately obvious that I have no idea what I’m doing. Instead, I content myself with dipping the brushes in and out of the paint cans and staring at the wall. I tell myself that Usha is here with me. She’s here, and she’ll guide my hand.
    I stare at my hand.
    It doesn’t move.
    After half an hour, I have succeeded in creating two eyes, or at least two ovalish shapes that I intend to be eyes: one oval is a little higher than the other, and both of them leak drips of paint. I try to make them like the eyes in Wes’s sketchbook—round, dark, glimmering with humor and life. Half a can of paint, three different brushes, and numerous drips on the drop cloth later, I’m proud to say that they look exactly like uneven, blobby black ovals.
    People pass by as I paint, pausing for a moment