Ann Martin: Claudia And The New Girl

"What's her background? Is she qualified?"

I could feel my cheeks burning. Of course Ms. Baehr was qualified. She was the teacher. If she weren't qualified, she couldn't teach . . . could she? "I — I don't know," I stammered, but Ashley was already off on another subject. She eyed my sculpture, which was of a hand. Just a hand. If you think it's easy to sculpt (or draw) a realistic hand, try it sometime.

"Hey, Claudia, that's terrific," said Ashley.

"It's beautiful." She walked all around the hand, looking at it from different angles.

"Thanks," I said. "It's just an exercise piece, though. I'm practicing on it, learning things."

"Well, it's still terrific. What else have you done?"

I noticed that Ashley was carrying a portfolio under one arm. "Do you want to see my portfolio?" I asked her shyly. I always feel like I'm bragging when I offer to let someone look through my portfolio, even though I'm not sure my work is all that good. Lots of people say it is, but I usually think, What do they know?

"Sure," replied Ashley.

"Well . . . okay," I said uncertainly. Our portfolios are stored on shelves that line the back wall of the room. I retrieved mine, laid it on the worktable next to my sculpture, and opened it for Ashley.

Very slowly, Ashley looked at every sketch and drawing that I'd saved in the portfolio. She turned them over one by one and studied each before going on to the next. I stood across from her, watching her face for a reaction. I felt as nervous as if I were waiting for a teacher to tell me whether I'd passed into the next grade.

When Ashley was finished, she closed the

portfolio and regarded me gravely with china-blue eyes. "You are really talented," she said. "I hope you know that."

I let out a sigh of relief. "Oh, thanks," I replied. "I'm glad you liked everything." Since art is one of the few things I think I'm any good at, I just die if people don't like my work. I hesitated. "Could I look at your portfolio?" I asked her. "Would you mind?"

"Oh, no. I wouldn't mind." Ashley slid her portfolio across the table to me.

I opened it, wondering what kind of artist Ashley was. You can tell a lot from a person's portfolio. I always look at the subjects that the person has chosen to draw or paint, and the pieces that she's decided to save in the portfolio. That kind of thing. It's psychological, I guess.

Ashley's first drawing nearly made me gasp. It drove all thoughts of psychology right out of my head. I had never seen a more realistic portrait in my life. It looked like a photograph.

I'm sure my eyes were bugging out in a really undignified way.

"Whoa," I whispered. "Amazing."

Ashley waved her hand at it. "That's not really anything," she said. "It's old. But this next one . . ."

I turned to the next piece in the portfolio. It was a watercolor. I wasn't sure what it was a water/color of, but I knew it was very, very good.

"That is innovation," Ashley told me.

I glanced at her to see if she was kidding, but she looked as grave and serious as always.

The rest of Ashley's portfolio was as amazing as the beginning. When I finally closed the folder, my heart was pounding. "How long have you been taking art lessons?" I asked.

"Oh, forever," Ashley replied. "Since I was four or five."

"Wow. Where did you take lessons? Anywhere special?"

"Do you know the Keyes Art Society? It's in Chicago. That's where I used to live."

"You studied at Keyes?!" I could barely contain my excitement.

Ashley nodded.

"Wow. But how'd you get in? Only a few kids are chosen to study there." Keyes was famous among art students. I once asked my parents if I could try to get in for the summer session, but they said it was too far way and much too expensive.

"I was just chosen," Ashley said modestly. "When I was eight." She looked uncertainly

around our little room in the Stoneybrook Arts Center. "I hope this school is good. And I hope Ms. Baehr is as good as Mr. Simmons. Mr. Simmons was my old teacher."

"Oh, I'm sure it's all... fine," I lied. "Wow, did you really like my portfolio?"

"Are you kidding? It's fantastic. If you lived in Chicago you could go to Keyes."

"Wow. . . ."I felt as if the floor were melting away under my feet. A person who had gone to Keyes thought my work was good. I hoped I was impressing Ashley as much as she was impressing me.

A bunch of kids had arrived by then and I introduced Ashley to them. I thought it was a good way for her to get to know some other kids in Stoneybrook. But Ashley didn't seem very interested in the other students. I noticed that she always looked at a kid's sculpture (not at the actual kid) while I was making introductions. Then she'd just kind of nod, and we'd go on to the next person. The only person she looked at for a moment was Fiona McRae, the second best student in the class. (I'm the first. At least, I was the first until Ashley arrived.) Ashley looked appreciatively from Fiona's sculpture of a stag to Fiona and back to the stag before we moved on. Then I showed Ashley where our supplies were stored, and

then, just as Ashley was sitting down next to me, Ms. Baehr entered the room.

Ashley got to her feet, looking both nervous and hopeful, and I introduced her to our teacher.

Ms. Baehr was apparently expecting Ashley and seemed just as impressed that Ashley had studied at Keyes as I had been. She looked through Ashley's portfolio, raising her eyebrows, murmuring to herself. I knew I should feel jealous, but I didn't. After all, Ashley had studied at Keyes and she'd said / was really talented. She ought to know. Furthermore, she'd chosen me (out of all the kids in the class) to be her friend. She'd barely looked at the other kids, and the only people she'd talked to were Ms. Baehr and me.

I was so wound up, I thought I couldn't stand another ounce of excitement.

And just as I was thinking that, Ms. Baehr finished talking to Ashley, went to the front of the room, and said, "I have an announcement to make. A new art gallery will be opening in Stoneybrook, and in honor of the opening, the owners have planned a sculpture contest for the students at the Arts Center. I'd like all of you to think about entering. You can start a new piece for the show or finish one of the pieces you're working on now. Even if you

don't win, your entry will be exhibited at the gallery the week it opens. I think it would be a good experience for all of you."

Ashley turned to me excitedly. "A show!" she whispered. "Oh, we have to enter!"

"Is there a prize?" Fiona McRae wanted to know.

"First prize is two hundred and fifty dollars," replied Ms. Baehr.

Wow! What I could buy with two hundred

and fifty dollars! It was mind-"When's the show? I mean,

line for entering?" asked John "Four weeks from today." Only four weeks. My face

the prize money good-bye.

toggling, /vhat's the dead-Steiner.

ell. I could kiss way could I

have something good enough to enter in a month. My hand was a practice piece, not a show piece. At home, I was working on two sculptures — one of Mimi (my favorite subject) and one of Mary Anne's kitten, Tigger. The Mimi sculpture was too personal to enter, and Tigger wasn't the right kind of thing for a show. No, if I were going to enter, I'd have to start from scratch. And a month wasn't enough time to start and finish a piece, take my pottery course, keep up in school, and baby-sit.

"I can't enter," I told Ashley later, when class had begun.

Ashley looked up from the lump of clay before her. "Why not?"

I explained my reasons.

"You have to enter," said Ashley. "It would be a sin not to. You shouldn't waste your talent. I could help you," she went on. "I bet I could teach you lots of things. Show you ways to branch out. And I only spend time on people with talent."