This trimester, I am taking an independent study art class. Today, I finished my first pastel drawing. After scrubbing and scrubbing the chalk pastel off my fingers, leaving them spotted and tingling, I pulled my artwork to the ventilation room to put a finishing spray on. The room is covered in clay, as I soon discovered after backing into a machine. Clay dust clung to my jeans like mud. Frowning, I wiped it off, sending a bitter tasting cloud of dust into my face. I taped up my drawing and paused. How did the vent turn on? Everyone was supposed to turn it on while spraying their artwork, in order to avoid inhaling the fumes. The switch was on, but the familiar teeth-grinding roar of the vent was not. The ring of the bell sang through the open doorway. I had to go. Figuring a quick spray probably wouldn't do me too much harm, I grabbed a can of finisher and positioned it to spray. When I pressed the button, steam-like substance shot out at the picture...and me. Apparently, the bottle was broken. A weird, sticky liquid dripped onto my fingers and solidified there, giving my hands an odd sheen. I shoved the bottle away on onto the shelf, hoping at least some of the chemicals had reached my drawing. I hurried outside and took in a quick gulp of air. Hopefully those chemicals had not been too dangerous, because I definitely got a whiff of them. Well, I'm not dead, so I guess they weren't.