Chapter 12
I try the handle to make sure it’s locked, then turn to face Aashiq, who has his hands in his pockets and is rocking back and forth on his heels. “Are you ready to go home?” I ask.
A scheming grin covers his face, and I freeze at the sight of it. “What?” I demand, because when he smiles like that, it’s usually not good for me. “What is it?”
“We’re not going home yet,” he announces.
“What?” I say again. “Where are we going?”
“It’s a surprise!”
At those words, a wave of exhaustion hits. “I don’t know, Aashiq,” I mumble. “I’m pretty tired from waking up so early this morning—”
“And if you go home now, you’ll fall asleep on the couch and mess with your sleep schedule,” he cuts in. “I know exactly what we need.”
I suck in my cheeks but allow Aashiq to slip his hand into mine and drag me over to the elevator. Given that the last time he surprised me, it was with a run before the sun was up, I don’t know how many more surprises I can handle from this man.
* * *
“Now, remember, not everybody is Grayson Perry,” the artist with loud purple streaks in her hair declares from the front of the room.
Her name tag reads Penelope. “We’re not trying to be the next greatest pottery maker.
We’re here to have some fun, so even if your creations don’t come out exactly like you’re hoping, don’t be too discouraged. ”
I can’t believe Aashiq’s big idea of fun is pottery class. I’ve never been before, and it’s not exactly my idea of a good time. I’ve never been good at visual art.
For a split second, while he held the door open for me, I thought he might have brought me here to reenact that famous scene from Ghost , but to my disappointment, the room was filled with other people.
Then I berated myself for the disappointment, because there’s no reason to be upset that we can’t reenact a very romantic scene from a famous movie. No reason at all.
The exhaustion from earlier hits me full force—it feels like my whole body is being pulled down to the ground.
I think about voicing my concerns to Aashiq and telling him I want to go home, but based on the way he’s practically bouncing in his seat as the artist goes through the instructions, I can’t dampen his fun.
Aashiq raises his hand, and when Penelope calls on him, he asks, “What if you’ve never done this before?”
“This is a beginners’ class,” she informs him with an encouraging expression. “So we’re starting with the basics and not worrying too much about the end product. Now, if everyone could grab their aprons, we—”
Aashiq’s hand shoots into the air again, and the wrinkles around Penelope’s eyes tighten. “Yes?”
“How many classes do you need to take in order to be good?” he asks.
“Well, as many as it takes for you,” Penelope responds.
“Every artist is different, especially within specific mediums. It might take you one or two classes to pick it up, or it might take multiple classes for you to get it. The whole point is we’re here to have fun, not worry about how perfect our work turns out.
” She clasps her hands together. “Now, if you’d all like to grab the aprons, they’re over—”
Aashiq lifts his hand once again, and this time I see the irritation glint in Penelope’s eyes. Still, she’s a professional, and she calls on him again. “Yes? What is it this time?”
“Oh, nothing.” Aashiq drops his hand into his lap. “I just wanted to tell you I like your hair. It really brightens your face. It’s very lovely.”
The tension in Penelope’s face relaxes. “Oh,” she says.
“Well, thank you.” She tries her best to put her “business” face back on, but her expression is lighter as she says, “Let’s get started, shall we?
” She gestures to the wall where the aprons are.
“Please get your aprons and then take a seat again so we can begin,” she says all in one breath, as if worried Aashiq will interrupt again.
As we slide off our stools and head over to the rack, I pinch the material of Aashiq’s shirt and pull him closer. “You think you could try and rein in the questions?”
He furrows his brows. “Why?”
“Because they’re clearly annoying the teacher. And you’re wasting the time they’ve allocated for the class.”
“Asking questions is not wasting time,” he counters.
When we get to the rack, he grabs an apron, but to my surprise, he turns me around and loops it over my head.
His fingers work to secure the tie at my back, and I pretend like the action isn’t making me squirm.
“It’s important to be curious!” he adds.
“Especially when it comes to art. No good art ever comes from not being curious.”
“There’s a difference between being curious and pissing off the teacher,” I point out, even as my heart thumps against my ribs.
Once I feel the pulling at my back stop, I turn around in time to see Aashiq pulling an apron over his own head.
“Also, bring down the excitement a little. People are staring at us.”
“Okay, I can do that,” he chirps. He finishes his own tie, then flashes a huge grin and basically skips back to his seat.
I watch his retreating form for a long moment. “Yeah, sure,” I mumble under my breath, but I follow him anyway.
Once we’re all sitting in front of our wheels, Penelope takes her place at the front of the class.
She dunks her hands into her bowl of water, then picks up a slab of clay and holds it up for us all to see.
“We’re going to start by smacking our clay.
Throw it firmly from hand to hand, smacking it into a ball shape. ”
This time, I raise my hand. “How perfect does it have to be?”
“Oh, not perfect at all, dear!” she responds in a sweet voice, which is a jarring juxtaposition for someone who looks like she stepped off the cover of a punk album. “This is just to get us started.”
I chew my tongue. “Okay, thanks,” I say in a tight voice.
That was not the answer I wanted. As a writer, I’m so used to having everything ready to go before I even start writing, and everything has to be perfect.
Why waste time I already don’t have meandering around with something imperfect when I can figure out a way to make things perfect from the beginning?
Aashiq’s already tossing his ball of clay around between his palms. I dip my hands into my bowl of water and pick up my clay.
The mud-like substance that comes off the clay when the water touches it feels funny against my skin, but I dutifully smack my clay until it’s vaguely ball-shaped.
Actually, it’s more like an oval. I wet my fingers and go again, trying to smooth the edges out so it’s more like a sphere.
Except every time I run my hands along the clay, it just becomes more and more oval-shaped.
Frustration lines my gut. I peek over at Aashiq, who proudly stares at his clay ball.
It’s not perfectly spherical, but it’s better than mine.
“Once it’s rounded, you want to throw the ball of clay down as close to the center of the wheel as you can.
” Penelope demonstrates by smacking her own clay right in the middle of her wheel.
“Then press it into a conical shape.” Her fingers massage the clay until the rounded parts become flat at the edges.
Everyone confidently tosses their clay down onto their wheels, including Aashiq, but I hesitate. I bite my bottom lip, squinting one eye as I try to level my hand so it meets the center perfectly. Once I’m sure it’s aligned perfectly, I throw my clay down…
…and it’s just slightly off-center.
I gnash my molars. Great.
Aashiq leans over and elbows me in the side. “Hey, are you okay?” he whispers. “You’re all red, like you’re going to blow up.”
I relax my face, and some of the tension leaves my body. “Yeah, I’m fine,” I grumble, even though the fact that my clay isn’t in the middle is still pissing me off.
“We’re going to start spinning now,” Penelope declares.
“But before we start, make sure your elbows are locked to your legs.” She wets her hands again and turns on the wheel.
As the clay spins, she cups her hands around it.
“Use your left hand to push the clay up while using your right hand to support it. Then, use the palms of your hands to squeeze the clay inward—that allows the clay to pop up between your hands.” She demonstrates, and the wet clay pushes upward into a cone shape.
“While the clay gets taller, keep an A-shape with your thumbs.”
As expected, Aashiq picks up the instructions with little difficulty, and his grin grows as his clay does. His fingers delicately pinch and press and form the lip of the bowl. It’s beautiful and effortless work.
And, as expected when I try, the clay teeters to the side. The curve in the shape morphs it into something like an elephant trunk, and as my wheel spins, tiny bits of water and clay flick outward. “Damn it!” I hiss as I grab the clay and try to force it back into a straight position.
Aashiq leans over again, and he doesn’t even pause in his clay-making as he says, “I think your wheel is spinning too fast.”
“Thanks, I got it,” I snipe.
Aashiq flinches at my tone. He drops his gaze to focus on the clay in his hands.
A sigh rumbles the back of my throat. I know my anger isn’t about him, but it’s hard seeing him be so…
perfect all the time. He’s never in a bad mood, he charms the pants off my coworkers, and he’s a master at making pottery right out of the gate?
It’s annoying that he’s so good at the things he wants me to improve on.
It’s like somehow, he’s a better version of me, even though he’s technically part of me.
Sometimes he seems less like my writing muse and more like my mirror reflection, except instead of showing me who I really am, he shows me who I could be—and that hurts way more.