Struts & Frets Read Online Free

about that. Nothing alive.” Then she sighed, squirted some paint onto her palette, and went to town.
    Visual art was definitely Jen5’s thing. Drawing, painting, sculpture, photography, you name it. She kicked ass at all of it. It was amazing to watch how she attacked the canvas like she was pounding the colors into it. Paint flew everywhere—in her hair, on her clothes, smeared across her hands and face. It wasn’t so much that she didn’t care. It seemed more that she actually liked when it got messy. But as much as the paint was all over the place
off
the canvas, the paint
on
the canvas went exactly where she wanted.
    â€œWow, Jenny! Fantastic!” said Mr. Sully as he gazed at her half-finished painting. “I am totally feeling what you are putting down! Impressionistic fruit! Right on!”
    Jen5 grunted without looking at him and continued painting, but I saw a little smile on her lips. She’d never admitit, but Mr. Sully was probably the only teacher whose opinion she valued.
    Then Mr. Sully looked at my sad little picture. The only difference between the apple and the orange was the color. And the banana looked more like a wilted, yellow green bean.
    â€œAh.” He nodded and patted me on the shoulder sympathetically. “Well, you just keep at it, Sam. I know you have the fire. This just isn’t your medium, man.”
    â€œNo kidding,” I said.
    â€œBut that doesn’t matter, you know,” he said, his eyes getting dreamy. “All art, all creativity comes from the same place. Painting, music, dancing. It all comes from the same well. We drink and we are full. Are you feeling me?” he looked at me expectantly.
    â€œSure,” I said. “Sure, Mr. Sully.”
    He nodded happily. “Just keep at it! Follow your bliss!” Then he floated off to babble at some other student.
    â€œWow, Sammy,” said Jen5, looking over my shoulder at my painting. “That sucks.”
    â€œEat me, Niffer,” I said.
    â€œHey, I’m sure you’d say the same thing if you ever heard me try to sing.”
    â€œI’ve heard you sing,” I said.
    â€œWhat? When?”
    â€œThird grade. School play. I believe the piece was entitled ‘Peanut Butter and Jelly.’ I was spellbound.”
    â€œI’m even worse now,” she said, then turned and attacked her canvas again.
    I just watched her paint for a little bit, then I said, “I think my mom doesn’t want me to be a professional musician.”
    â€œImagine that,” she said, not looking away from her canvas.
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œWhen I told my mom I wanted to be an artist, do you know what she said? ‘Oh, I’ll love you even if you work at 7-Eleven your whole life.’”
    â€œNo she didn’t.”
    â€œYou better believe it.”
    â€œWhat does that even mean?” I asked. “That she thinks you’ll never make it as an artist?”
    â€œWhat she’s really saying is that, in her book, being a successful artist is right up there with being a success at selling cigarettes to old ladies.”
    â€œHonestly, Fiver. Does she even get how bad that sounds?”
    â€œAre you kidding? That’s just her trying to be
funny
. If she actually thought I was serious, instead of just going through some teenage phase, she’d probably take away all my art supplies and ship me off to boarding school.” She continuedto dance around the easel, raking raw colors across the canvas. “As far as she’s concerned, I’m on my way to a brilliant career as a doctor or lawyer.”
    â€œYeah, that’s totally ridiculous,” I said. “But for your parents, in a weird parent kind of way, it makes sense. I mean, your mom
is
a lawyer. So of course that’s what she wants you to be. But my grandfather was a professional musician. It was good enough for him, right? Why can’t I be one too? I