“Yes.” I watch him place a glass dome over the bourbon and light smoker. It only takes a few seconds before the liquor is smoked, and he re-enters the living room with a glass for each of us.
“What other quotes are here?” I ask, taking a sip.
He goes through the ones he already has written on the fabric then shows me the notebook of all the quotes he brainstormed and hasn’t had a chance to write down yet.
Booker T. Washington.
Maya Angelou.
Dr. Suess.
Michelle Obama.
Coretta Scott King.
Margaret Thatcher.
William James.
Martin Luther King, Jr.
I smile at Shel Silverstein, then ask, “Dolly Parton?”
He raises his eyebrows. “Of course.”
I give him a twisted and proud smile. “I’m really starting to like you.”
My heart aches a little with hope as I say it. I told him I didn’t want anything serious and I know I don’t even have time to foster a full relationship, but as he hands me a paint marker I realize this doesn’t feel casual and I decide to let myself fly through each emotion, letting it consume my pessimism.
He scrubs a hand over his scruffy jaw, blushes, and says, “I think I’m starting to like you too.”
For the next hour, we cover the red carpet in inspirational quotes for these little six-year-olds to stomp their dirty sneakers on to ‘graduate’ from a grade that offers no degree of any kind. But as I watch JP diligently and thoughtfully pick quotes and write them down in decent penmanship, I remember: these kids will one day grow up not remembering the words they walked on to get their gold emblazoned certificate, but that the teacher who fostered inspiration gave them the best start in education they could have. And maybe, one day down the road, when they receive their awards and promotions, they’ll remember him and how he made them feel important at the tender age of six.
“Who was your favorite teacher growing up?” I ask as we near the end.
He scoffs with a smile. “Mrs. Willis. Eighth grade.”
“Really?” I say, surprised because middle school should be a wash for everyone. No one likes themselves or their teachers during this tumultuous pubescent time.
“Really. I grew up in a large family. And while it’s amazing for a lot of reasons, it’s also difficult to feel like the center of attention. And sometimes I wanted that so I became such a shit. Getting into fights. Showing up late. Chewing gum.” He looks up from the quote he’s inscribing as he says the last bit.
I gasp. “You were the worst!”
“I know. Then one day, she returned a paper I mostly half-assed and said, ‘this was good, but I know you’re better than this.’” He shrugs. “It kind of stuck with me. Out of all my teachers, she was the only one who saw my potential and believed in me enough to call me out.”
I smile, thoughtful, as I listen to this story. “Then what happened?”
He glances up at me, then back down to the red carpet. “I failed the class and had to retake it the following semester.”
“Did you fail on purpose?” I ask.
“No, I failed because I didn’t care. Potential means nothing if you don’t care,” he explains, as he caps the marker. “I was thirteen but I realized pretty quickly after failing that not caring almost gets you nowhere. You have to be all in or all out.”
My chin rests in my palm as I lean against the ottoman, staring up at him. “Where are you hiding the bodies?”
He stands, looking down at me. “What?”
I exhale. “You just seem too good to be true.”
