When Spencer was five years old, his mother and his teacher had a conference. Back then, 'conference' was just a big grown-up word that meant they were going to talk about how he was doing in school, and they usually happened after those papers with his grades came in the manila envelopes he always needed signed and returned. His teachers would talk about his work, giving him those little pats on the back that made his insides feel like they were made of the fuzzies he would blow off dead dandelions in the spring, and then there'd be little reminders of what he needed to work on. Your writing is a little messy, so try to slow down, okay?

Conferences usually fell sometime between Thanksgiving and Christmas, but one day his mother told him that he had to stay after school for one even though there were flowers coming out of the ground and he was getting that funny tickle in his nose from allergies more and more often. But mommy, he told her, it's spring. They went anyway.

He remembered sitting at his desk while his mommy and his teacher talked and how he couldn't even listen because his stomach was spinning like a washing machine and their questions made it worse. He kept tapping his foot and his teacher kept looking at him in a way that made him feel like he was shrinking in his chair. His mother didn't. When he wrapped his arms around her later, he didn't mind his smallness.

A week later, he went to the doctor, and after she asked him a million billion gazillion more questions, she decided he had to take medicine every day. His teacher liked him more after that, it seemed, since she wasn't always yelling at him to pay attention anymore and he didn't squeak his chair in that absentminded way that annoyed his classmates. He liked that, as long as nobody knew about the little pills he took with his breakfast.

Twelve years later, the memories of his ADHD diagnosis resurfaced with a vengeance. The memories of the events themselves were dim, but the anxiety which was weighted upon him as the minutes ticked by with speed that defied scientific law could not have been more exact to that very day.

Rick had casually sauntered up to him during class, just after the bell and just before anyone had started working and asked if he could see Spencer after the final bell for a bit. He'd said sure because he was agreeable and had no reason to lie about having other commitments - not that he could lie regardless. He had not begun to brood over Rick's request until there was about ten minutes left to class, and nostalgia came to him in the form of nervousness without any real cause. He pressed his back into his chair as if to stretch, when really he was just trying to tighten his muscles to stop himself from fidgeting. The metal end of his pencil tapped the surface of the table for several seconds before irony caught up with him, and he stopped. He stared at the clock instead. The hands moved slower under watchful eyes.

The signal of the end of the period just about jarred him out of his skin, and across the table, Thom's eyebrow quirked. He asked no questions, however, only said his goodbyes before slinging his backpack over his shoulder and continuing with the rest of his classmates. The room was soon empty, and there was no sound except for the ever-present buzz of florescent lights and the soft sound of Rick's brush strokes on canvas. Spencer found himself needing to pee, an unfortunate bodily reaction to tension that would only relieve itself (no pun intended) if he got a move on.

His footsteps were louder than he ever remembered them being as he made his way over to Rick.

"Just a sec," he said. Spencer nodded and observed him as he dabbed on bits of blue paint, the color of a cloudless sky. After standing back to admire his handiwork, he set the brush down, made himself comfortable in his desk chair with his legs crossed and his arms folded behind his head, and turned to Spencer. They stared at each other for a long moment.

"Spencer, do you happen to know why you're here?" Rick was not accusatory, just pensive, a little curious maybe, like he didn't quite know himself, and Spencer told him "Um, no I don't," even though there was this nagging feeling in the pit of his stomach that said he had a good idea.

Rick sat forward, his dress shoes clacking in that official way that shoes of professionals tended to do, and Spencer had a strong urge to back away even though he'd never had anything to fear in his art teacher's presence.

"I'm a pretty easygoing guy. I don't believe creative classes should be structured as a rigid environment, and I'm willing to leave students to their own devices as long as they're not fooling around. A lot of kids think I don't pay attention, but I notice things. I notice the little monkeys finger-painting in the back of the room, and I notice the way people draw war paint on each other with charcoal. I might not address these problems in front of everyone, but I do address them. They know they get participation grades and that if they don't buck up they aren't going to do so hot, and there will be other consequences for those of them who don't consider grades something to worry about.

"I also make sure to tell kids about good things, and I give tips and pointers to anyone who asks. I critique places where there's room for improvement. I've become familiar with the style of every person who works in my classroom...except for yours."

Rick tapped his fingertips against one another rhythmically, from his thumbs to his pinkies and back again.

"I like the idea of knowing what I can expect from my students, so I talked to some faculty members to see if maybe you were the type who coasted along on the bare minimum for grades. Maybe I'm just nosy, but it seemed worth questioning. I must say, I'm a bit confused." He blinked at Spencer, allowed a small pause in case he wanted to offer something before he continued.

"You're apparently a good student. You apply yourself. Your grades are satisfactory. Some of your teachers say you've done better this year than any years past and that you were difficult before. And you want to know how they defined difficult? 'He's always got to be playing with something'. 'He's always got drawings on himself from markers'. 'I was always confiscating his doodle paper'. Drawings? Doodle paper?" Rick's face was bewildered. "The most I've seen you do with paper so far this year is pick it up and stare at it. You don't even scribble or write your name over and over like some of your classmates - "

"That would be a waste of part of a tree," Spencer cut in with a soft voice.

Rick's mouth stayed slightly ajar as though he were about to go on speaking, but the sentence remained fragmented. "Spencer, I...I guess I don't know what to say other than I don't understand. Everyone I've talked to has said that art is your thing, but I've yet to see it proven because, quite frankly, you haven't done anything. Am I doing something wrong?"

Spencer swallowed. "No, Mr. Westfield - err, Rick. It's not anything you did. I guess it's me. I'm just not into art anymore. I know it's hard for teachers to put up with students who won't work, so I'm probably going to drop the class soon and just have a study hall or something. It's not worth staying if I can't get anything out of it."

"What makes you say you're not into art anymore?" Rick questioned after several seconds, rubbing the stubble on his chin. "People don't outgrow their hobbies over a summer, especially if they're big hobbies."

He shrugged. "It just doesn't have the same appeal it used to. Every attempt at art feels false and empty, like there's no feeling behind it."

"Is there?"

"I don't know. I don't know what I'm supposed to feel anymore."

There it came - a slip of his tongue, the ripping away of a scab in the process of healing. He inwardly winced, but didn't bother to cover it up. Rick's back straightened enough to be noticeable. They didn't exchange any more words for a long time. Spencer stared at the cracks in the floor, moved his foot against the sole of his shoe; he could feel a hole forming in his sock.

"Do you have any study halls in your schedule right now, Spencer?"

"I have one period three."

"Would you be interested in making a deal with me?"

"I guess. Have at it."

"I don't like the idea of you eliminating a course that you would supposedly enjoy just because you feel uninspired. Art can be a great outlet, and there are ways of getting out of these ruts." Rick's gaze was inviting as always, though tinted with something sad he couldn't name. "I want to help you get back on track. Will you try me?"

There was the distinct feeling of something lodged in his throat, and at some point it had become a task just to register what Rick was saying. But he managed to nod, and Rick pulled out a pass already signed and addressed to him. He must have been counting on his reaction.

"Give me some time to work with you before you decide what you want. If after a while you still don't like art, you can drop the class, okay?" Rick held out his hand for Spencer to shake. His hands were rough, but warm.

"I've probably kept you too long. I'm sorry. I just...I worry about things, you know?"

Spencer hefted his bag on his back, the corner of a book jabbing uncomfortably into his spinal column. "It's okay. Everyone's been like that since Mom died."

Recognition dawned on Rick's face. "Your mom...oh, Christ, I...I didn't..."

"I have to go," Spencer interrupted in the softest way possible. "My grandfather is probably wondering where I am." He reached down to tie his shoelaces, almost pitching forward under the weight of everything he was carrying.

(He never tied his shoes, not unless his grandad told him to.)

"Right." Rick's voice was strained. "I'll see you later."

When Spencer got outside the door, he ran. He ran so hard he felt as though he was blind and the feel of gravity and asphalt underfoot was the only thing confirming his existence. But the streets were familiar and his house was soon visible, and soon his senses had gone from dull to painfully sharp in an instant. Everything was bright, loud, assaulting.

"Where have you been?" his grandad nearly shouted upon his entry. Spencer almost collapsed in the doorframe.

"Had...to meet...with one of...my teachers," he panted. "Wanted...to talk to me...after school."

"Spencer!" His sister squealed, speeding over to him and holding her arms open for a hug. He curled his arms around her but didn't have time to murmur a hello before she jerked back. "Eww, you're all sweaty!"

Indeed he was. Now that she had pointed it out to him, he noted the unnatural, damp cling of his shirt against his chest and the beads of wetness rolling down his back. He apologized to her, but his eyes were on his grandad.

"What'd you do, run here?" He seemed shocked, and Spencer couldn't really blame him. He was the one who spent the prior year dreaming up every excuse possible to get out of PE.

"Yeah, I did. I'm gonna go take a shower now." He started for the stairs.

"Spencer?"

"Yeah?"

"You're not getting in trouble with your teachers, are you?"

He had to think a bit about how to respond to that.

"No," he said. "I don't believe so."

The Shay family had always been picturesque. Somewhere in his basement there were boxes, and in those boxes there were photographs of them in the early years of his existence in places he did not remember going to and having experiences that he told himself he remembered through the anecdotes of his relatives throughout the years. They were the literal epitome of 'picture perfect'; wide smiles and animated eyes, crisp, clean clothes and not a blemish in sight, not even when puberty began sifting through his hormones and replacing them with others that made his skin oily and acne-prone.

His mother was constantly taking pictures in the hopes of capturing her children at their best, and she never believed in sitting them still in front of a lens. Expressions were too forced, and emotions were too fictitious if staged, she was always trying to explain. The camera caught them instead when they least expected it - racing down a stairwell, or reaching for something in the cupboards. Sure, they may have ended up blurred around the edges with an arm or a leg out of the frame, but, she insisted, what she captured was real and raw, and the spontaneity of a flash allowed for most extraordinary things to emerge from what was plain and ordinary.

Spencer dared to contemplate what sort of emotions he would find if he were to photograph the scene in his kitchen. There was a stir-fry cooked up, and both his grandad and his sister had a plateful, but neither seemed to be eating - waiting for him, he guessed. His sister's legs swung back and forth in naive restlessness; she eyed her food gravely. There were far more vegetables in the dish than she would be willing to eat, but she sat in silence without complaint, ever the golden child. His grandad poked at his chicken, muttered something about it being undercooked. They were surrounded by empty chairs.

He coughed, and their heads turned. Grandad's wrinkled face bunched as he smiled, and Spencer wondered if it made the skin caught in the crevices feel pinched. His sister took his entry as a sign that she could eat.

"Hey, Spence. I made you a plate. I can warm it up if need be," offered his grandad as though he hadn't been operating a microwave since he was ten. He shook his head and speared some food onto a fork after he'd taken his seat. It was bland, with no distinctive flavor to the individual ingredients whatsoever.

'So how is school going for the two of you?' Ah, the guaranteed generic question of guardians everywhere. "Have you learned anything new or met anyone interesting?"

"I have! I'm learning how to write my name. I don't write it as good as Jenny, but that's okay 'cause I'm not as messy as Nick - his writing looks like scribbles, but I know it's not nice to say that to him..."

Why was talking so much easier at a young age? Spencer wanted to know. He was aware that at one time he was as much of a chatterbox as his baby sister, but one day there just ceased to be a plethora of words on the tip of his tongue, and he hadn't a clue where they vanished to.

"What about you, Spencer?" his grandad questioned after he had expressed his pleasure in the fact that his granddaughter was getting along so well in every area of her schooling so far. "Have you made any new friends?"

Spencer tried to inconspicuously fill his mouth to allot himself time to reply. Holding up his index finger to indicate that he needed a moment, he groaned inwardly. His grandad was always taking jabs at his lack of a social life, saying it wasn't normal for boys his age to spend so much time alone when he could be out and having fun with his peers. The glance that always came with such a statement never failed to give him a sense of wrong and abnormality.

He swallowed a few times like he wasn't sure the food had gone down and thought for a moment. "I still see Liza sometimes."

"Oh, yes, Liza. I remember her," he remarked as though it wasn't obvious by his tone of voice and the way his face lit up. "I wish you would still invite her over. I always liked her."

"Really," Spencer said, pushing some broccoli off to one side of his plate. His slight sarcasm went unnoticed. "We've kind of grown apart."

"It's really a shame." His grandad shook his head. "A crying shame. But surely you see more than just her in a day, someone else you're fond of."

"Well...I really like my art teacher this year. We think a lot alike."

"Good, good!" There were enthusiastic nods in reply. "But what about your classmates. Are there any of them you're getting to know?"

Spencer made an affirmative noise from behind the napkin he used to wipe speckles of soy sauce off his face. "There's a new kid in my art class - Thom. Thom Reed."

"Oh, yes? And what's he like?"

"He..." His sentence trailed off momentarily, and a voice inside his head mocked has really intense eyes. Shaking his head, he continued, "Well, he moved from Vancouver, and I think one time at lunch he mentioned that he lives with his mom and half-brother, but other than that, I don't know much about him. He seems okay, though."

The information, although limited, was enough to appease his grandad; there was a pleased sparkle in his grey eyes, and Spencer hadn't seen him beam at him that way in a long time. "Perhaps maybe when you two are a bit more familiar with one another, you can invite him up."

Spencer picked at his chicken, unsure of whether there was a hidden question in that suggestion. Somehow the idea made him anxious; he'd never had much for close friends and having not had many over to the house, he was certain things would somehow be different outside of an environment not dictated by a schedule.

"Maybe," he murmured. He wouldn't give an okay to anything that could be misinterpreted as a promise.