Somewhere Along The Line

17. Piper

Thank the Lord it’s finally time for my middle-grade painting class. Art is a great outlet for big feelings (that’s the mantra I tell the kids) and goodness knows I have plenty of those right now.

I make my way down the stairs to the office lobby and hang a right until I reach the workspaces we use for classes and workshops. The art room is full of windows, the sun spreading cozy warm streaks on the tables each early afternoon.

With ten minutes to set up before the kids arrive, I work without thinking—pulling the supply cart out of the closet and placing a mug full of brushes on every table, a cup of water beside it. Each spot gets a small canvas thanks to the ongoing support of Art’s Art Supplies, and I arrange paper towels throughout the space. I also cue up my music, a mix of eighties rock, film scores, and whatever new stuff I was convinced to download last week.

Doing something with my hands is a welcome relief after wallowing in my mind these past few days. I’m tired of living in my own brain, of fighting against fears and feelings that threaten to drag me into a dark room and then lock the door.

I may not know what’s going on with James Newhouse, who I haven’t heard from since he turned me down on Monday, but my hands know how to paint.

More importantly, I can be here for the kids who will show up any minute now.

An apron slides from the back of the art cart, and I grab it before it hits the floor, throwing the loop over my neck and tying the side strings behind my back. While I wouldn’t care if I got paint on my Ramones t-shirt, the apron projects professionalism and models good habits for the kids. I throw my hair into a messy bun right at my crown and sit for a moment before the door swings open and Cassandra steps inside.

“Cass!” I squeal, running over to give her a hug while she tucks into herself like thirteen-year-olds do. “How are you? You haven’t been here for a while.”

She shrugs and finds a seat, pulling an apron to her lap but not putting it on—she’s waiting to see if anyone else does.

Six other students file in and take their seats, filling the room with a hum of energy that’s half hormones and half youthful audacity. It immediately brightens my mood—while others beg not to teach the middle-grade classes, I beg to have them. There’s something about the confidence of a seventh grader who believes they have the world figured out when they can’t even drive yet.

It rubs off on me.

The students work without much instruction which is purposeful. Often, there’s very little in their lives they can control, and this space exists for them to do what they want. I mill about the room giving praise, filling requests for different colors, and replacing muddied water with fresh. Sometimes the kids will open up about their lives and sometimes they won’t—either is okay.

We don't have any rules or expectations about what happens in this room, only that we paint.

After everyone is settled and working independently, I grab a canvas and pull out a chair next to Cassandra. “Mind if I sit here?”

Even though she’s a closed book today, it doesn’t stop me from trying as she scooches over to make space for me. I know she and her mom have been in and out of the shelter, and that it’s incredibly hard for her. Her head shakes back and forth gently, and I reach across to grab a brush from the mug, leaning into her for a brief touch of affection before pulling back.

I start my work like I always do, brushing wide strokes without a plan for what the piece becomes. Red acrylic stripes the white canvas as I circle my brush to the top and down the center. Next, I add yellow, weaving the color amid the red and around the perimeter, slowing to carefully line the edges with precision. I dot on a few blue stars, not the five-point kind but little bursts of color pricking the white, red, and yellow to draw attention.

The piece feels right, like nothing is missing. I lean back in my seat to look at it from a distance, pleased with the result. This project will end up in a pile somewhere, but I got what I wanted out of it: an escape from the incessant thought that James is avoiding me. Probably because I’m too much.

Because I’m always too much.

Cassandra’s painting, to my left, is a mass of colors flowing out from a dark center, or perhaps the dark is drawing them in. She is attentive as she works, her tongue peeking out the side of her mouth in concentration. She’s doing great work, and I tell her that, though she doesn’t acknowledge the praise.

“Damn, Miss Paulson!” Tyree comes up behind me with a shuffle to point at my canvas. “You made a good one today.”

“First, mind your language, Ty.” He rolls his eyes before smiling at me. “Second, I appreciate the rare vote of confidence. Are you saying my others have been bad?”

A voice emerges from the table behind us as Xavier prepares for a roast—his specialty. I’m always his target and happily so; the kids are aware they have to be kind to each other in here.

“You think that’s good? You should check mine out,” Xavier turns his canvas around and the whole thing is solid blue. “Ms. Paulson’s looks like an Elvis costume.”

The group erupts in laughter and Xavier beams, pleased with his assessment of my work. My smile tells him I’m cool with his critique. How he knows about Elvis, much less what he wore, is unclear. Even so, he’s not wrong.

Turning back to my painting to view it with new eyes, I push down the memories that spring up of KingCon. Sitting next to James, the deal we made, and all that’s happened since. Those memories tangle into a lump that sits in my throat for the rest of the class.

“Alright, alright, enough with the laughter, thank you,” I say, motioning to the group to clean up their spaces as I collect cups and bring canvases to the rack to dry.

When the room is clean and the supply cart restocked, I shepherd everyone toward the door before stepping in front of it. “How’re we feeling?” I shout, just like I do every Thursday afternoon.

“Feeling good!” They reply in unison, lining up to give me a hug or a fist bump on their way out. Each student receives my praise and encouragement which most return with an eye roll.

The world that awaits them outside of this building can be cruel. I want them to know they have a champion here.

It’s 3:45 p.m. when I make it back to my desk. My shoulders feel lighter and my brain less cluttered after the painting class, even with Xavier’s comment about Elvis. I’m working hard to keep myself out of that particular rabbit hole.

The rest of the afternoon should be easy—sifting through emails and making sure the logistics are in place for our monthly donation pick-up this weekend. I open my computer and tap my fingers lightly on the keys as I think through where to start. The pitter-patter of my fingertips on the squares focuses my attention as I pull up the file with Saturday’s schedule.

I review each piece of the document carefully, stopping first to confirm that the truck is reserved, and two volunteers are booked. Looks like Tommy and Jamal are taking this one.

Three pick-ups are scheduled in various parts of town, one marked XL to indicate a large donation and the rest marked M for just a few pieces. Jack at the warehouse is assigned to meet the truck at 4 p.m. to upload. Everything seems ready to go.

Until the first name on the list stops me, my eye and my breath catching on the black font printed at the top of the page.

Jeffrey Newhouse.

The address is about forty minutes north of the city.

My mind tumbles back to the night in James’s kitchen. The Hope First flier tucked near the fruit bowl. Didn’t he mention his dad is moving? Maybe that’s why he kept the postcard. Jeffrey Newhouse, James’s dad, must be trying to clear out their house.

My thoughts spin, a tornado of questions and ideas bulldozing past logic… or maybe trying to find it.

James must have known I’d see his dad’s name on the schedule. Right? He might’ve been the one to schedule the pick-up. He said he was busy this week—it was probably this, getting the house ready.

God, it all makes sense now.

James isn’t trying to brush me off; he knew he’d see me again this weekend and needed time to get the house in order before then.

I’m an idiot. Not everything is about me.

My heart rate jumps by twenty as I think through the opportunity—to spend time with James again, to meet his dad, to walk through the house he grew up in. It makes me giddy. I pull out my phone to text Sami who’s been begging for a James update since our conversation after the gala.

Ridiculousness is what I always expect from Sami. Her guesses make me smile as I swivel my chair away from my desk and toward the side wall, my back to the office door.

She sends a gif of an old woman with her hand up to her ear, straining toward the camera.

Sami wouldn’t tell me if it was but I want her approval regardless.

I twist in my chair as I think for a moment, considering what I could do to make the morning brighter. Of course, I’ll bring sausage balls for James but… I could also bring some for his dad. I’m sure his mom used to make them for the whole family, and if James loves them so much, Mr. Newhouse might too.

Having Sami to talk me down when I get escalated (and to threaten anyone who might hurt me) is such a gift.

I consider texting James to say I’ll see him Saturday but don’t. He was so good about giving me space when I needed it, and I want to return the favor. There’s no need to act clingy with a guy who is my husband on paper (according to the MTA) but only slightly more than a friend in practice.

And, yes, “slightly” isn’t the right word… and neither is “friend”... but I guess that’s what we are for now.

Surely I can convince him to give me a ride to my place after we load up the truck, and I can use that time to tell him my feelings. That I want to give this a try for real, whether or not this stupid trial comes to fruition.

If he’s as obsessed with me as Sami believes, it could be the start of something good.