It wasn’t something anyone used anymore.

Obsolete, but not illegal.

So why, I wonder as the bell rings just as I am sliding into my seat, did the police arrest someone over a piece of paper?

Two

My father once told me that when I was little I would stare at an object for hours. My head cocked to one side. My hazel eyes wide and focused. Never moving or saying a word. He said it was the way that I studied the world that made him realize I was going to be a visual artist, just like my mother. It was as if I was compelled to learn everything about the color and shape of a thing in order to understand it and myself.

I am staring out the window of my math class now at the scraggly bush far in the distance where hours ago the policeman found that paper. There is no sign of the flashing lights or men in suits. Just a sparrow sitting on a rusty-brown branch and sunlight shining on the forest-green leaves.

But still I focus out the window, looking for—I’m not sure what. No matter how I try to think about something else, I can’t erase the image of the man with magenta-streaked hair being struck by the officer before being shoved into the police car from my thoughts. Had that white page the officer dug out of the tree truly been the cause of the violence and the arrest?

It didn’t seem possible. Few people can afford the environmental tax that is charged to anyone who purchases anything made with paper. And even if they can pay the price, most would never bother. There was no reason to. Tablets are just as easy to write on and writing on paper is not only extravagant and unnecessary, it’s selfish. It means you don’t care about fresh air and the environment. My dad was proud that his parents were some of the first to recycle all paper in their house. Mom’s insistence on using canvases was always a sore spot between them, even though the canvases were made of linen, not pulp. He thought it would reflect badly on our entire family if anyone learned we created that kind of waste.

“Five minutes,” Mr. Greene announces. “Some of you might want to think about paying attention to the review in front of you instead of what you intend to do with your summer vacation. These are just like the questions you are going to have on tomorrow’s final exam.”

I look at Mr. Greene, who meets my eyes with a nod. He mouths, “You can do it,” and points down at the tablet sitting on my desk. I clutch my stylus tight, and I force my eyes to focus on the problems displayed in black and white on the screen.

If I expect my father to pull himself together and focus at work, I should be able to do it, too.

My teachers for the most part have been understanding of my situation, but I am not the greatest student on my best day. Unlike Rose, I have to really study if I want to get good grades. As it stands now, I have to do well on my finals or, concealer or not, people will start wondering if something is wrong.