Just so you don't read it twice. It's bad enough as it is.

Alright, chapter 1-b because I'm a slow typest.



Boring, boring, boring. I scritched the point of my mechanical pencil against the allready graphite-coated surface of my desk. Sunlight streamed in through the dusty windows, illuminating the cluttered classroom. I was sitting in the back row, noncholantly slouching against a bookcase filled with stacks of old art materials. The air was alive with the shouts of 9th grade boys.

My teacher, a Miss O'Brien [an: for lack of a better name], was trying her meek best to restore order to her class. I rolled my eyes. O'Brien was one of those teachers who have been teaching all their lives but act like they've only set foot into the room. An unpleasent kind. Currently, she was attempting to get a table full of paticularly brazen students to quiet down. She hadn't gotten around to tell us why.

"Ben, I need you to...We don't throw things in here, Nathan! Boys, sit back down-- That goes for you too, Kitty, Joan..."

There was a polite knock at the door. Miss O'Brien, frozen in the act of telling a student to move to a different seat, looked as suprised as the rest of us. It was possibly the first time anyone had ever knocked in the history of our school.

"Come in..."

The door swung inward, and a man of perhaps forty entered. He was wearing a neat, if rather old-fashioned suit with a blue tie. His hair was rather gingery and he wore a pair of square glasses.

He looked around for a moment, then, spotting Miss O'Brien, made his way towards her. He extended a hand in greeting. "Hello, you must be Miss O'Brien," he said pleasently. His voice wasn't that unusual, but contained a fragment of an accent I couldn't quite place. Something about the way he pronounced his "e"s.

Miss O'Brien shook his hand, then let go quickly. "Yes. And you are...?"

"David Phalen." David Phalen nervously brushed at his jacket. "We spoke on the phone...?"

"Ah, yes." Miss O'Brien returned her focus to the class. "Students, this is Mr. Phalen. He is here to tell you about an art show his gallery is holding next month." She turned to Phalen. "Can you take it from here?"

"Mmn? Oh, yes, thank you." He stepped up to the front of the room, apparently unaware of the continual murmer of sidetalk going on all around him. "Well, good afternoon, kids. Like your teacher said, my name's Dave Phalen, and I was wondering if any of you here would be interested in entering an art show..."

I felt myself tuning him out automatically. We occasionally had guest speakers in my classes, but this was the first in art class. He didn't appear to be making the most exciting first impression.

My mind drifted to other things. I was in the process of dozing off when the bell rang. I sat back up, looking back and forth rapidly. Phalen was gone. O'Brien was seated at her desk.

A stack of business cards were neatly perched on the end of a desk by the door. On a whim, I slipped the topmost card into my pocket as I left the room.