The first summer I lived in Portland, I resided on the sixth floor of the Lafayette Apartment building on Congress Street. The floor was divided into 16 rooms that served as dorm rooms during the academic year for the Maine College of Art.

That summer I had been hired to teach college courses and part of my original agreement with the art school was free room for the duration of the summer.

I had been living in Philadelphia and saw this as a chance to enjoy a carefree Maine summer, relaxing and painting. So I thought.

Little did I know that my peace would end after two weeks when 30 16-year-olds moved into rooms around me. They were occupied by high school students attending a summer pre-college art program acting as a feeder for future art school recruits.

An administrator assured me that the high school juniors living around me would not be a problem. They would only be here for six weeks and did not need my supervision. I thought: How could 30 16-year-olds be turned loose in Portland and not need a chaperone?

The students arrived with their parents and a spicy woman who taught home economics in Aroostook County during the school year.

Now she found herself den mother to 30 malcontent high school students trying really hard to grow up.

I very quickly got to know her and found out she was hired to cook and oversee this group of kids for six weeks.

She confessed she did not own a car and was willing to strike a deal with me to take her to the store once a week. In turn, I would get to eat with the kids at dinner nightly, breakfast in the morning and she would pack me a lunch daily. What a deal.

So for the next six weeks, I ate with 30 teenagers and got to know them. I watched them get tattoos and roam around Portland looking for mischief. After a while, they grew on me. They were a motley crew that at first affected me like an annoying rash and in time felt more like a gentle welcoming summer tan.

One evening at the end of their stay, I had fallen asleep on the sofa in the communal lounge and woke alone to the television running.

I got up and shut the television off and walked to the end of the hall to the bathroom. When I entered the bathroom, I weary-eyed glanced in the mirror and froze. I did a double take and realized my face was covered with paint and designs.

I scrubbed my face and went to bed.

They had gotten me. While I was asleep, they had successfully painted my face without me knowing.

For the remainder of the six weeks I did not mention the paint. Neither did they.

 

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