Good Grief: Charles “Sparky” Schulz in High School Art Class

Sparky takes a seat in the corner of the classroom. The bell won’t ring for a few minutes but Sparky is careful to avoid the prying eyes of a tardy arrival. He walks over to his favorite corner by the door and slowly rotates the arm of the pencil sharpener. Art class is the only class in which Sparky is not failing. When he takes his report card home to his father, the response is silence.

Sparky loves to draw. He also loves the little redheaded girl who sits two tables away. Together, they are the best artists in the class. One day, Sparky saw her reading the comics and his heart almost burst. Sparky continues to sharpen but his focus is peripheral as he anticipates a blur of red hair.

The redheaded girl finally emerges from the noisy hallway. Like Sparky, she arrives early and quietly waits for class to begin. Sparky notices that today she makes haste to undo the buttons on her green coat with the delicate, white fingers.

Sparky is interrupted by a tiny crunch from within the abdomen of the sharpener. He retrieves his broken pencil and completes the amputation. Then, with a flick of his hand, Sparky discards the broken bit of lead into a nearby trashcan.

For the last assignment, the redheaded girl painted a woman ice skating. Sparky admired her work from afar and then, for two days, hovered near her table before class began, meaning to complement her for a magnificent use of color. By the second day, when he had found the nerve to say something, his breakfast oatmeal churned in the stormy ocean of his stomach. He had been able to muster was “nice picture” before all of his energy was concentrated on a collected stroll to the bathroom. After he threw up, he floated for the rest of the day on the cloud that was her response: “Why thank you, Charles. I thought your hockey painting was swell.” She had turned and spoken to him in the voice of an angel.

Sparky continues to sharpen his pencil as his breathless classmates pile in, emerging from woolen winter cocoons. The other boys have undergone the metamorphosis of puberty. The shadow of mustache on their upper lips is not just something that they crosshatch in their drawings. Finally, Sparky retrieves his pencil from the sharpener. The tip is sharp and perfect. Sparky blows loose the shavings that have clung to the side of it. The bell rings.

The teacher calls for everyone to take a seat. The next assignment is an exercise in drawing things in pairs. Sparky grows more eager with each sentence. He is aside reality. For a moment, his mind can think of no other pair but of himself and the little redheaded girl. He places the tip of his pencil against the paper and begins to sketch. He draws a cartoon of them holding hands. Then he stops, mutters “Good Grief,” and begins to erase.

Sparky wipes his paper clear of eraser shavings and glances around the room, trying to locate pairs that are capable of existing in reality. Out the window, in the chilly autumn morning, he notes a single smokestack pumping heavy, black clouds. A bare tree surrounded by orange leaves. A solitary park bench. Then he sighs and sets down his pencil.

Written by: Leanne Cardwell