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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/945667-Self-Portrait
Rated: E · Novel · Arts · #945667
Tariff is an artist. Wants to enter art fair. Thinks people won't like the painting.
I stood, looking at the flier for a long time. It read: "School Art Fair: Saturday May 3. 12:30 in the gym."
"An art fair?" Said Laine Hardly, "Who goes to an art fair? Its just a bunch of art geeks mooing over the 'texture! The colors!'Pitiful"
Laine was one of those popular people who wore a friendly mask whenever teachers or boys were around. If she could gain something from being 'nice' to the right person, she went out of her way to be the sweetest person you knew. Her fakeness really made me sick.
"Its not just art geeks that go. It says right here that your mother is going to be a judge," I say, pointing at the flier.
"Well, she says its good publicity and thats why she's going."
Laine's mom was running for senator that year, so it was in her best interest to be seen in public 'caring' about her daughter's school affairs.
"Well, I'll talk to you later than Lainey," I said, rolling my eyes.
"As if, and don't call me Lainey, we're not friends in grade school anymore," Laine called after me, as I walked down the hall.
"Whatever," I mumble as I try to remember why I was ever friends with Laine in the first place.


"Tariff? Miss Jones, please pay attention!" Yelled my teacher.
"Huh? Oh sorry Mr. Berchaus," I muttered, sliding down farther into my seat.
"Just pay attention next time please. Just because its history, doesn't mean you don't have to learn it." He went back to his boring lecture and I let my mind wander off again. I looked out the window and try to figure out what shade of blue the sky is today (an artist through and through).
"A cool-gray/periwinkle/robin's egg blue," I murmured to myself.
"Psst," Someone hissed at me. I turned away from the window to see who it is. Its a fellow artist, Marcus Perez. I looked up to see if Mr. Berchaus' back is turned before leaning over to hear Marcus.
"What?"
"You were drooling."
"WHAT?!" I stood up knocking my chair over.
"Jones, Perez, is there a problem," Mr. Berchaus scowled.
"No sir, I think Tariff just saw a spider thats all. Right Tariff?"
"Uh...yeah. But its gone now," I lied.
Berchaus nodds and turns back to the blackboard. I picked up my chair and sat down with a sigh.
"Your welcome," Marcus whispered.
"I didn't thank you."
"I know, but with your manners, I'd be dead before you said it," Marcus smirked.
"Shut up. You're the one who started this anyway. What did you want, I frowned.
"Are you going to the art fair?"
I nodded.
"Yeah, why?"
"You going to enter something?"
"No."
"Why not,"Marcus demanded.
"Pay attention to the notes," I said ignoring him. I face forward and don't look around anymore.
"What a boring class," I thought.


"I'm home," I called.
I threw my bag next to the door and went into my mother's office.
"Hi Tar," My mother said, not looking up from her checkbook, "How was your day?"
"Fine. I saw a flier for an art fair today."
"Really? Are you entering? You haven't painted in a long time," She said, eyebrows raised.
"I dunno, maybe," I shrugged.
I saw it coming. She was giving me the 'Tariff, painting is a gift you shouldn't waste'speech.
"Now Tariff, painting is a gift you shouldn't squander."
Oh. Looked like she'd been reading the thesaurus again.
"Tariff are you paying attention to me?" She demanded.
"Mom-," I started
"Tariff, no whining. I'm serious. There isn't a day that goes by that I wish I hadn't dropped out of art college."
I sighed and looked away. I knew that my mom saw her own talent in me. She was determined to keep me from making her mistakes.
"Look, I have a lot of things going on anyway, I won't have time to paint something for the fair"
Before she could respond I had slipped out of her office and dashed away. I went into the kitchen to get a snack. Opening the refrigerator was a task in itself. Even finding it was a challenge. It was covered in old drawings and paintings I had done in school. Every square inch was a 'masterpiece' in my mother's eyes. 'Mommy's little artist'. Thats who I was, who I'd always be. I wasn't so sure anymore. It wasn't that I couldn't paint anymore, like some artist who used up all their talent early in their careers. It was something else. I wouldn't paint. I just had this feeling about my talent that I couldn't put my finger on.
© Copyright 2005 Sarah Rene (sarah-rene at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/945667-Self-Portrait