text: Racing towards class, dropping a pencil here, some paper there, and half a sandwich he just took a few bites from slipped from his hand and stuck to another student’s shoe, Cliff panics. He sees the teacher reaching to shut the door of the classroom he is desperately attempting to run into. “Wait! Wait”, the clumsy middle-aged student pleads as his eyes meet with the wintry stare of the teacher’s. If it hadn’t been for Cliff’s determination to make it to that door in four leaping bounds, he would have been frozen in place by Mr. Tenor’s extreme, frostbitten gaze. Slipping into the door, Mr. Tenor shuts it on the unbuttoned plaid shirt that Cliff had thrown on this morning, or is it afternoon, in his hurry to get to his final exam in class on time. Looking sheepishly at the professor, he quickly makes it to his assigned seat in the circle of students. This is the smallest class of only 16 students, all the chairs and easels are in a circle facing inwards towards whatever is on display in the middle. There have been times that it was a single branch on the small square platform that was built roughly out of darker colored wood and stood only about one foot high, and there have been times when a naked lady has sat upon a chair on the platform. One never knew what would be the item of design for the specific day, Mr. Tenor never gave this information in advance. He would only give advice on what tools would be needed. Typically for the classes Mr. Tenor advised charcoals, pastels, and maybe some watercolors but he never suggested what he did for this class. For this class and this final exam he had suggested bringing leaves. He didn’t specify how many leaves or what type of leaves. For this exam he absently told them while they packed up their items from the last lesson, “Bring leaves of your choosing, and I suppose you should bring along your charcoal as well. Hmm... needle and thread may be useful, but that is up to you”. Cliff was already struggling to please the professor so he brought a shopping bag full of various leaves he found in his yard, on his walks, in the courtyard, and at the park. He was very happy with his selection of maples, oaks, birch, apple, cherry, rhododendron, lily, and many other leaves he selected. He was ready with his full set of charcoals as well as three sizes of needles and some green, yellow, and brown sewing thread. Looking around, he realized he may have over-brought on the items the professor advised to gather. Most of the other students only had a handful of leaves, one charcoal piece, and only a few had needle and thread. He carefully looked at each student realizing he brought about three times more than anyone else in the entire room. He shifted a bit in his chair, he really needed a good grade but now he wasn’t sure he did the right thing with all of his choices. He thinks to himself, “Was there a limit on supplies? I don’t remember a limit being mentioned, but that was the day I dropped my lentil soup and it splashed all over my life drawing”. He continued to ponder to himself until a typical sound interrupted him in this class. “Ah-hem”, Mr. Tenor’s usual start to a class, “You may wonder what the supplies I suggested are for, and you are about to discover. First off, thank you for being a very studious class this semester. Abby you have been the delight of the class, Greg you have been the most elaborate in all your art pieces, and finally, Cliff you have been the thorn in my side this semester. To the rest of you, you have been mainstream at best.” Everybody groaned in unison, Mr. Tenor was known for picking favorites, negative or positive. Cliff held his professor's gaze and then finally looked down at his leaves hoping the professor would just look away. “Ok, everyone”, Mr. Tenor rasped, “For your final exam, Meet Ms. Anne.” At this introduction a young looking middle-aged woman comes out onto the stage in nothing but a linen sheet. She takes light steps towards the stage, hops up like a floating bird, and stands next to the battered, cobalt blue wingback cushion seat provided. She stands next to the chair and happens to be looking directly at Cliff, making brief eye contact, he blushes, and then she continues to scan the rest of the class. He watches her, the way her hips bop back and forth, her purple hair falls lightly around her head escaping the bun she threw it in, and he notices the way her left foot keeps tapping lightly as she inspected everyone. She slowly walked around the chair, then finally after examining everyone she settled into the cushions, letting the linen sheet hang over her body. “Ms. Anne will not be a life portrait for you today”, Mr. Tenor informs us with a very sinister smile, “You are to use your supplies to create her. It should be more than just two dimensional, and I must see your creativity shine. You are graded solely on your imagination and creativity in this one.” Stunned, the entire class stared at him blankly. This is the first time he has graded on creativity alone, he usually wants the piece to have some aspect of tangible grading structure. He usually grades on appropriate scale, shading, contours, shape, form, and sometimes lines. Up until this time, he always made sure there was a measure of objectivity in what to grade, not something as abstract as just creativity. Nobody knew what to do. They were all stunned and wondered if their teacher had been swapped. Then they as a whole realized, it was just like him to confuse the class on the most important assignment. “I will start your timer in five minutes, get set up”, he instructs the puzzled students, “You will have 90 minutes to complete your final”. Cliff leans down over his supplies and starts to organize them around him. Charcoal pencils on the easel, thread in his pockets, needles are in his grandmother’s old little stuffed, red pin cushion, he thinks he just might be ready to pass this exam. Mr. Tenor supplied the paper for this exam, he wanted it to be on mixed media, sturdy paper. Cliff watched the other students look at Mr. Tenor, following him as he walked around the small art circle and checking on the students’ readiness. Once the five minutes were up and the students were all settled, Mr. Tenor walked towards the middle of the circle next to Ms. Anne. He slowly turned around and looked at each individual student and their easel. Nodding his head slightly, he seemed satisfied that they were all as ready as they were going to be. Mr. Tenor is a stern, rigid teacher, but he was always fair in making sure everyone had adequate time to get their projects done. Ms. Anne looked up at him expectantly, almost like she knew he was going to tell her to do something next. Breaking the silence he instructed everyone, “The exam now starts, Ms. Anne will rotate her chair every 15 minutes that way each student has enough time to see her from all sides to be able to create her in whatever way you see best. This exam is not an easy one, but I think you will learn a lot from it. Ms. Anne, please remove the linen sheet.” Ms. Anne removed the sheet. She was still dressed in a cream colored, strapless slip that fit her form and highlighted each bump and dip in her body’s natural curves. She was a lovely life model. She settled back into her chair, crossed her right leg over her left and leaned into the tattered left armrest while placing her left hand just under her chin as if it was just too heavy to keep up any longer. Once she had settled, each student started their assignment. Nobody knew exactly what to do, this was a strange test that had not been leaked to the students from previous classes. Surely this would have been something that was common knowledge if Mr. Tenor did this odd exam for his final. Maybe this was the first time he has done something like this? Mr. Tenor walked over towards his own desk, opened the drawer, and pulled out his sketchbook and started to sketch to pass his time. During tests he never monitored like other teachers have in Cliff’s experience. Mr. Tenor didn’t hover, he didn’t get involved, he generally sat at his desk or an easel and did something artistic himself. There have been exams where Mr. Tenor even did his own test to show the students the expected final piece. It was always the worst way to be shown how to do something, generally Mr. Tenor finished in half the time allotted and was ten times better than any of the students’ works. Snapping himself out of the stare, Cliff focussed in on his work. He didn’t know what or how, but he was sure he was optimally prepared to be the most creative. Having the most supplies seemed to not disappoint Mr. Tenor, but seemed to impress him. Cliff was sure he could finally impress Mr. Tenor, he now had eighty-five minutes to do so. Grabbing a sturdy piece of charcoal, Cliff first made a quick outline sketch of Ms. Anne on the chair. Erasing the chair, Cliff turned it into a pillar like one would find propping up a bust of a famous historical hero. He then sketched next to the pillar a wall that would be covered in vines, looking down at his bag of leaves he had quite a few English ivy ones in there from around his grandmother’s home. “Mr. Tenor?”, Cliff spoke up, “Could I put some headphones in please?” “Of course Mr. Clifford, whatever helps you to finally succeed at something in this class”, the professor said without even looking up from his sketch. Putting his headphones in, turning on his favorite rock opera band to set the tone, Cliff picked back up his charcoal and began setting the scene of a lucious Roman garden that Ms. Anne deserved to be placed in. Her pose was light and delicate, her facial features strong, and her laid back position gave the impression that she didn't have a care in the world. As he sketched the scene, he made plans for where the leaves would go and how he would use the thread. He drew around her a garden of great beauty, he sketched in the branches of the assortment of bushes in the back, the trunks of the trees, and even the lily of the valley along the bottom of the stone column. He used the green thread to secure the leaves in place, the red thread for the outline of Ms. Anne’s slip, and the brown to give the trunks some texture. He sketched in her face when she had been facing closer towards his side of the classroom, and focussed on her background when her back was towards him. “You have 5 minutes left”, Mr. Tenor said as he tapped on Cliff’s shoulder, jolting him back into the surroundings and he scanned the room quickly. The other student’s faces did not look relaxed, many of them had creased faces and stern expressions. It looked like Abby, the delight, had been crying for most of this exam, and Greg stared off into space as if he was already done or wishing he could be anywhere else but in this classroom. Cliff focussed back on his piece, he added the final shading to the slip with his charcoal and then clipped off some of the excess thread from the tree trunks. He had left some pieces of the green thread hanging down in the background to look like a willow tree lined river bed. Mr. Tenor walked slowly around the room, looking at all the students, his face giving nothing away in regards to his feelings. There were two known facial expressions of Mr. Tenor, disappointment and grave disappointment, neither were currently on his face. He walked back to Cliff and stood behind him for only a minute, but Cliff had thought all time and space stopped in that one moment and froze for at least half a millennia. “Time is up”, Mr. Tenor announced. There was a shuffling of charcoal, feet, and supplies. Per usual protocol, all students stood up and took 3 steps back from their easels to examine their work. As Cliff started to stand, Mr. Tenor placed a hand on his left shoulder with his fingers firmly gripping in. Cliff’s heart nearly jumped out of his chest, or stopped, and all the color left his face. He failed. He knew he did. “Stay”, commanded Mr. Tenor. He then walked past Cliff, his easel, and to Ms. Anne. He picked up the sheet and handed it to her to let her know she could cover up if that is what was most comfortable to her. She simply took it, folded it a few times, and draped it over the back of the chair. Mr. Tenor looked at her and nodded his head slightly towards Cliff. She lightly hopped off the middle stage and walked past Cliff’s easel and then turned around a to look at his completed exam. She made a small gasp, stifling it quickly. He must have failed and the teacher was just embarrassing him for it. Cliff felt all the color rise into his cheeks as he blushed in shame. Ms. Anne then walked around the room slowly, examining each and every student’s piece. Walking herself back to Mr. Tenor in the middle of the room, she sat down on the small podium, nodded to Mr. Tenor and then looked away from him and up to the ceiling. “I probably do not have to remind you, but I have already determined your grades as usual when we do these exams”, Mr. Tenor informed nonchalantly with a tone that was so close to boredom it would almost sound like he was rounding back to amusement. Cliff’s heart sank. He really wanted to do a good job in this class. “Greg, you have failed this exam. You only used charcoal for this exam in creativity. Abby, your tears added an interesting touch, but were not part of the suggested items to use. You will be graded down for using items not required. Cliff...”, Mr. Tenor paused, shifting his weight onto his left leg and looked Cliff in the eyes, “You have passed with full marks. Your piece is the best the class has ever seen. I am quite impressed with your creativity and use of your items. You made Ms. Anne into her very own goddess in her heavenly garden. We both agreed your piece will be sold at the school’s next fundraising auction, as long as we have your permission.” Cliff’s jaw hung a few inches lower than it normally occupies, he could not find the words to say anything, his mouth was dry, and his heart fluttery. “In your own time, Mr. Clifford”, Mr. Tenor said and then turned around to the rest of the class, “Go ahead and see what he has created then pack up your items and make your way out”. Cliff stayed seated, Mr. Tenor hasn’t suggested submitting a student’s art piece to the annual fundraising auction in about a decade. It was common knowledge that he is very strict and does not usually suggest a student’s art in fear it will ruin his reputation as an expert artist himself. Each student walked past Cliff, he wasn’t paying attention to what they were saying, he was just staring at Ms. Anne to the side of his easel. She had the sweetest smile she kept offering him. He came up with an idea. “Mr. Tenor”, he said shakily, “I will be happy to donate my piece to the annual fundraiser, but I require a bargain. A date with Ms. Anne and the piece is yours to auction.” Mr. Tenor gripped his wrist tightly, looked at Ms. Anne, and pursed his lips together. Cliff realized just in those two moments that this had made Mr. Tenor very uncomfortable, but why? Ms. Anne and Mr. Tenor made eye contact and spoke in a secret language in those moments. He glared at her hard, almost piercing her soul, and she just gave a single blink in return. “Ms. Anne? What is your decision at Mr. Clifford’s request?” She looked at Mr. Tenor, smirking so slightly to the right, her cheeks rosy, and stated, “Oh Dad, I will go out with Mr. Clifford on a date so you can put his piece up for auction”. All the students stopped, the room was silent. Mr. Tenor had a daughter? Wait, the man is capable of emotion enough to have a daughter, to make a daughter, and she seemed to like him?! “You’re his daughter!?”Abby barked. All the students had stopped and were staring at Mr. Tenor, he was shifting his weight from one leg to the other, gave his daughter a look that could have killed, and then remarked, “Well, yes, did you think I only live in the art department?” “Mr. Clifford, you have your answer”, he quickly told him. Cliff wasn’t so sure what he just did to himself. He was now possibly going to date Mr. Tenor’s daughter. Anne walked over to Cliff and placed her hand on his, looked down at him and simply whispered to him, “He isn’t as scary as he seems. He kept talking about how much he really liked you. I am happy to go on one or more dates with you, I feel I already know you with how much Dad had talked of you”. Cliff blinked. The next thing he remembers is he is looking up at a bunch of faces looking down on him. Thank you for your time to read.