From the day
Perspective: The Teenager · Tactile
Gadzooks, my fingers are stained a deep indigo from the waxy residue of these new Crayola Crayons, but the smooth, heavy paper feels so much better than the slate I’m supposed to be practicing on. I’ve rolled up the stiff, itchy wool sleeves of my shirtwaist to keep from smudging my drawing while I hum that saccharine tune about Ida and her apple cider. The air in the parlor is thick with the scent of paraffin and the rough rasp of my pencil, a welcome distraction from the talk of Dr. Webb’s gout and the rising price of bread. I just want to finish this sketch before Father returns to call me a blockhead for wasting my time on such colorful trifles.