Alyssa grimaced and dropped her paintbrush into the jar of milky gray water. It was all wrong; it was completely, unfathomably wrong. But it was almost noon and there was not enough time to start over again. She was used to being competent--she was easily one of the best artists in the class. But this was her third attempt (the first two lay crumpled in the trash).

Most of the other kids, even the slow ones, had already clothes-pinned their work to the crit line and were goofing off noisily on the sofas in the back of the studio. Sonja, who had also finished, stood beside Alyssa loyally, offering perky suggestions on how to rescue the self-portrait.

"Well, it's no Mona Lisa, but if you add in a bunch of squares, maybe you could call it 'cubist'."

"That's just lame, Sonja."

"Or black it all in and call it a silhouette."

"Yeah, right." Alyssa glanced over to see if her friend was kidding. Sonja blinked earnestly behind her glasses.

"Okay," said Alyssa. "Then it's a silhouette. From my Blue Period." She swished the brush around in the water to rid all traces of the unconvincing flesh-pink, wiped it clean for good measure, and dipped it deep in the blue paint. Brilliant blue drops sprinkled the easel, her smock, her hair, and her face as she attacked the paper, obliterating her hideous pink-skinned self. Soon there was nothing left but purplish sludge, messier than a nursery school finger painting.

"Hey, I didn't say Jackson Pollack," protested Sonja, stepping backwards into Claudia, the art teacher, who had approached the girls silently from behind. Claudia's eyes widened, but she didn't say anything about Alyssa's ruined painting.

She said, "Why don't you girls clean up while the we start the critique?" Then she walked towards the rest of the class, clapping her hands for them to stop goofing.

Sonja slid Alyssa a sly smile (a drop of blue paint had landed just above Claudia's lip-- but they didn't need to say anything, one of the boys would point it out) and the two of them began to peel the remains of the painting away from the easel.

On the other side of the room the critique had begun. The boys were waving their arms to be called on first, but Claudia was still talking.

"I'm no painter. I'm really a performance artist," whispered Alyssa to her friend, but Sonja didn't seem to hear her; she was washing out brushes at the sink. Alyssa clipped both halves of the torn painting to the crit line, then went for a bucket and sponge to clean the easel. Above the running water, she could hear one of the boys, Alex (who had a crush on Sonja), begin commenting on Emily's painting in his squeaky voice. "I like the way you made your neck in the style of Modigliani," he said, glancing towards the sink to see if Sonja was watching him.

What would they say about her painting? Would they laugh, or would they politely ignore it, just as they had been politely ignoring her? Probably the latter. She had a sense that no matter what she did--she could rip her clothes off and dance naked in assembly--no one would react.

That morning, at their weekly Feedback Circle, Mack the school psychologist had coaxed kids into telling her how sorry they were about what had happened to her brother and that they hoped he would recover fast. When it was her turn Alyssa had said what she knew was expected of her: "I have Feedback for the whole class. Everyone, thanks for all your cards and your concern. It's good to know you're all behind me and my brother." Mack had grinned at her as she spoke (she could imagine him going back to his office and writing what she'd said in her file as soon as Feedback Circle was over). Everyone breathed easier when Eugene, who was sitting to her left, changed the subject: he gave Feedback to Tory about his great defensive play in the J.V. soccer match last Friday.

They were scared of her. Even Mack and Claudia, and her homeroom teacher, Dill, who seemed to be studying her whenever she glanced up suddenly. She had never been so powerful, and it was a queasy feeling. The invisible fact was, she had turned into a Gorgon. All her life she'd been the sweet kid, easy to get along with, the one other kids' parents suggested for play dates. So: this was an adjustment for her. She wasn't used to having snakes for hair.

Only Sonja wasn't skittish around her, brave Sonja. But how long would Sonja be able to hold out in isolation from the others? Sonja was the "social" one-- "gregarious" was the word parents used--and she would grow restless in isolation with Alyssa. Inevitably, Sonja would defect, and Alyssa would be left utterly alone. This she could not articulate, although she understood it in her heart. What she felt was her own terrible presence stomping down an endless, unfurling carpet of dread.

Alyssa drew the sponge across the easel and a film of blue water washed over its paint-thickened slats. It was lovely to watch; lovely to consider, for example, the age of this easel (how old, her own age?) and how long it must have taken to develop its particular patina, the splashes of years-old paint, the streak of red and orange-yellow hardened together in a glossy flash, like an eel.

The crit was progressing. Unavoidably, it traveled in the direction of Alyssa's problematic ripped portrait, which was still dripping blue tempera at the end of the clothesline. The image of her real self, beheaded, Alyssa's mind.

"I like your chiaroscuro, Sarah, particularly, the area under the chin here. Does Sarah's painting remind anyone of a self-portrait we saw on our trip to the museum? Geoffrey?"

Obviously, Claudia's strategy was to go slowly and draw out the discussion as long as possible, staving away the unpleasant moment until the lunch bell sounded.

Cowards, they would race one another to the cafeteria, shoving and shouting, pretending not to notice they were leaving Alyssa behind, and Sonja to escort her.

And why shouldn't they run? Why shouldn't they fear her? It was her image, the Medusa, that soldiers painted on their shields to terrify their enemies in battle. She would grow into her image. She would grow breasts, she would drip blood and venom. Terrible, beautiful.

Alyssa rose to her new height, scalp writhing, beating her spiny golden wings. A rush of November air swept through the art room carrying with it leaves, gritty black floor dust, and scraps of discarded portraits-- a nose, and here a chin. There was the thrill of meeting Claudia's startled eyes. I could crush you with the heel of my hands.