Riley’s Little Bowl

The pottery wheel seemed quiet until it began to whir, and my clay wobbled like a jelly belly.

“Good evening, clay makers,” said Ms. Vega, our art teacher. “Today we’re making bowls.”

I had been thinking about my bowl all week. I wanted it small enough to hold a few blueberries, or maybe the smooth stones I collected on walks. I picked a lump of cool, squishy clay and carried it to the pottery wheel.

Around me, the community art room was busy. Jun was pressing his clay into a tidy little cup. Omar’s bowl had sides as smooth as a scoop of ice cream. The tables were covered with damp clay smudges, and a shelf along the wall held bowls from earlier classes. Some were round, some were tall, and one had a pointy little nose that looked like a duck.

Ms. Vega helped me pat my clay into a mound in the middle of the wheel. “The wheel spins the clay,” she said, “and your hands shape it.” She showed me how to wet my fingers and press gently.

Then the wheel started turning. Whirrrrr.

My clay leaned left. I pressed it, and it leaned right. I pressed a little more, and the top slumped over like a sleepy hat.

“Mine’s getting away!” I said.

Jun glanced over. His cup stayed neat and straight. Omar was already making a smooth dip in the middle of his bowl.

I looked at my lumpy clay. Maybe I could wipe it off the wheel and start something else. The shelf seemed very far away, especially with all those lovely bowls waiting there.

Ms. Vega came beside me. “Clay can change shape when it’s wet,” she said. “It doesn’t have to stay just as it is.”

I watched the wheel go around and around. My hands were still on the clay, but I wasn’t sure what to do next.

“Could you show me again?” I asked. My voice came out small, but Ms. Vega heard it.

“Of course,” she said. “Let’s figure it out together.”

Ms. Vega switched the wheel to a slower speed. The whir became a quiet, steady rrrr, like a tiny motor humming in a toy boat.

“Put one hand here,” she said, guiding my left hand to the side of the clay. “Rest your other hand against it. Both hands can help each other stay steady.”

I tried. The clay wobbled once, then wobbled again. I pulled my hands away.

“Maybe I should leave it,” I said. “Jun and Omar are already making real bowls.”

Jun looked up from his cup. “Mine got squashed at first,” he said. He pointed to a damp streak on his apron. “It looked like a pancake.”

Omar nodded. “Ms. Vega helped me slow down.”

I looked at my clay. It wasn’t a bowl yet. It was a squat, uneven lump with a dent on one side. But it was still wet, and the wheel was still turning. I could try once more.

“Can you keep it slow?” I asked Ms. Vega. “I want to try with both hands together.”

“You’re in charge,” she said. “I’ll be beside you while you work.”

I set my hands where she had shown me. My palms rested against the clay, not pushing hard. The wheel carried the clay beneath my fingers. I felt the wobbly place bump my hand, then pass by, then bump it again.

“Easy does it,” I whispered.

The clay began to stand a little taller. I pressed my thumbs gently into the center. A hole opened, then widened as I shaped the inside. One side stayed higher than the other, and the rim curved in a funny little dip.

“Is that all right?” I asked.

Ms. Vega tilted her head. “It’s a bowl. And it’s yours.”

I let the wheel turn while I smoothed the inside with one finger. Then I lifted my hands away. My bowl sat on the wheel, lopsided but sturdy, with enough room for blueberries—or a few favorite stones.

I grinned at it. The bowl had not become perfect. It had become a bowl because I had stayed and tried again.

Ms. Vega helped me slide a thin tool underneath and lift it carefully. “Now it can dry on the shelf,” she said. “Later, after it dries, it will be fired in a special hot oven.”

I carried it with both hands to the drying shelf.

The shelf had spaces between the bowls, like little clay neighborhoods. I looked along the rows before choosing a spot near the duck-shaped one. My bowl’s uneven rim leaned toward the empty space beside it.

“This place?” asked Ms. Vega.

“This place,” I said. “It can be next to the duck.”

I set the bowl down gently. It stayed put. I looked at its crooked side and the thumbprints I could still see in the clay. They reminded me of the wheel turning slowly, and of my hands staying together when I wanted to pull them away.

Jun carried his cup to the shelf, too. It had a small bump near the bottom. “That’s where my pancake happened,” he said.

I laughed. “My bowl has a wobbly side.”

“Then they can be friends,” said Omar, placing his smooth bowl nearby.

Ms. Vega wiped the clay from the table with a damp sponge. I helped by stacking the tools in their basket. The wheel stood still now, with a thin ring of wet clay around its center. The room was quieter, though I could still hear the little plip of water dripping from the sponge into the sink.

I washed my hands. Clay slid away in gray swirls, but a streak stayed on my sleeve. I rubbed it with a wet paper towel, and it turned into a pale smudge.

“Keep that,” said Ms. Vega. “It shows you were making something.”

On the way out, I glanced back at the shelf. My bowl sat between the duck and Omar’s smooth one. It looked different from every bowl around it. I liked that it had a wobbly side and a dip in the rim. When it was ready, I would bring it home and decide whether it should hold blueberries, little stones, or perhaps both, as long as they took turns.

I walked into the evening with clay on one sleeve and a plan for my small bowl. In my mind, I could still feel the wheel turning slowly beneath my steady hands, and I knew that when I saw the bowl again, I would remember the moment I chose to try once more.