you kidding? The contrast of color is brilliant, and your shading is “It is?” “Are advanced for your She pauses. you signing up for the art I look back at my age.” “Are contest?” painting, analyzing it with a new perspective. I answer. “Yes.” Before I leave she asks me to wait for a moment and comes back with a small device in her hand. an she says. those homework “It’s electronic dictionary,” “for assignments.” been about two months since my first art class and I sit in the car of my It’s mom’s cousin driving me to school. These been the best two months of my life. Going to who’s haven’t school has become like going to the doctor to take a shot. I make a noise without feeling can’t like eyes are on me. As the weather got worse, so did my allergies and I had to excuse myself out of the room every time I needed a tissue. Then, my hair became frizzy and they accused me of not washing it. I tried everything to calm it down but I couldn’t. And that even the worst of it. One time I walked away from my lunch table and wasn’t came back to find a tissue in my milk. I even see it until I finished drinking. And when didn’t Fatmah was absent once a guy from class came up and asked me out. was a he claimed. “It dare,” Apparently it was amusing to pretend someone could like me. And that one group would comment on everything, from my height to my colorful clothes; I escape their couldn’t commentary if I tried. I stayed behind once to excitedly tell my art teacher about the contest, but somehow they heard me. you really believed her that one time, the brunette girl, (Anna, as I would “So huh?” learn) told me. think win a country-wide competition? And not even your “You you’d it’s Their words would echo in my head sometimes. But usually Ms. words country!” Gerges’ would be brush use of for your louder: “Amazing strokes… brilliant color… talent age…” That’s
“It is?” “Are you kidding? The contrast of color is brilliant, and your shading is advanced for your age.” She pauses. “Are you signing up for the art contest?” I look back at my painting, analyzing it with a new perspective. “Yes.” I answer. Before I leave she asks me to wait for a moment and comes back with a small device in her hand. “It’s an electronic dictionary,” she says. “for those homework assignments.” It’s been about two months since my first art class and I sit in the car of my mom’s cousin who’s driving me to school. These haven’t been the best two months of my life. Going to school has become like going to the doctor to take a shot. I can’t make a noise without feeling like eyes are on me. As the weather got worse, so did my allergies and I had to excuse myself out of the room every time I needed a tissue. Then, my hair became frizzy and they accused me of not washing it. I tried everything to calm it down but I couldn’t. And that wasn’t even the worst of it. One time I walked away from my lunch table and came back to find a tissue in my milk. I didn’t even see it until I finished drinking. And when Fatmah was absent once a guy from class came up and asked me out. “It was a dare,” he claimed. Apparently it was amusing to pretend someone could like me. And that one group would comment on everything, from my height to my colorful clothes; I couldn’t escape their commentary if I tried. I stayed behind once to excitedly tell my art teacher about the contest, but somehow they heard me. “So you really believed her that one time, huh?” the brunette girl, (Anna, as I would learn) told me. “You think you’d win a country-wide competition? And it’s not even your country!” Their words would echo in my head sometimes. But usually Ms. Gerges’ words would be louder: “Amazing brush strokes… brilliant use of color… talent for your age…” That’s
FrontMatterandStoriesRevised.docx