Pearson. Mr. Pearson is Shadow. Moved on to another position. That's the polished version. I talked to Griff, told him what I heard, where he could see the cameras, and now Pearson is gone. Griff didn't tell me what he did with the information, didn't confirm or deny, just listened with that stone face and said "I'll handle it." And he did. The relief is so sharp it almost makes me dizzy. I glance across the room, looking for Seth, but he's not in this class. I hope wherever he is, he can breathe now.
The guard finds a chair in the corner, pulls out her phone, and checks out.
The room shifts. Free periods are rare. Kids scatter toward the supply shelves, grabbing paper, clay, paint. Some just lean back and talk. The energy loosens. Everybody is considerably happy.
The door bangs open and Harry strolls in ten minutes late. The guard looks up from her phone, frowns, and Harry flashes her a charming smile. Fucker. She waves him in.
"What'd I miss?" He drops into a chair next to Jack. "Arts and crafts. My favorite. Very rehabilitative."
"Shadow is gone, it seems," Jack says, not really paying attention to Harry.
“Good. Fuck that guy,” he says. I raise an eyebrow, curious if he heard anything about what he did. But I wouldn’t ask. Harry wouldn’t tell me.
Liam is already on his feet, heading for the paint supplies. He comes back with an armful, brushes, a palette, three tubes of acrylic, and dumps it all on the table.
"I'm going to paint something!" he announces.
"You can't paint," Harry says. I immediately want to punch him for telling Liam he can’t do something he wants to do.
"I can absolutely paint. I'm an artist. I draw."
"Drawing and painting are different."
"They're both art, Harry. Don't be a snob." He squeezes blue paint onto the palette.
Jack reaches across the table and grabs a piece of charcoal. "I'm sketching. Nobody bothers me. I'm in the zone."
Miles doesn't look up from his sketchbook. He’s sketching a plant. It looks good. All of my friends are artists but me.
I pick up a pencil. I don't know what I'm going to draw. I just start with lines. I make walls, windows, a doorway. Some building that doesn't exist.
"What's that?" Liam leans over, brush in hand, a smear of blue already on his cheek.
"Nothing. Just lines."
"It's a house! You're drawing our house. That's so romantic."
"It's a building with no context. Go paint your masterpiece."
He grins and goes back to his canvas. I watch him for a second. His tongue pokes out when he concentrates, the streak of paint migrating from his cheek to his jaw. He’s so cute.
From across the aisle, Reed's voice carries: "Mason, what the hell is that?"
Mason holds up a piece of paper. He's drawn something, from my angle, it looks like a bird. Detailed, careful, very good.
"It's a robin," Mason says. He looks a bit embarrassed by Reed.
"Hey, Mason," Liam calls across the aisle. "Come look at this. Tell me if this looks like a sunset."
Liam likes to pretend he’s not smart, but he is. He always knows when someone is sad or embarrassed. He always helps.
Mason gets up and walks over, leaning in to study Liam's painting. I watch Reed's eyes track him, alert, then flick to Liam, then to me. Our gazes meet for a second. I don't look away. Neither does he.
"It looks like... a bruise?" Mason says, tilting his head.
"It's a sunset!"
"The purple is nice," Mason says. "Maybe more orange? Sunsets have a lot of orange."
