There’s not even a hint of shock or surprise. Just Lily, greeting another customer.
I got some work to do. She used to smile every time she saw me. Now she’s not even trying hard to look right past me.
I find a seat toward the back. I don’t want to block anybody’s view, and I’m tall enough to see over everyone.
We’re painting a garden. Go figure.
She walks up to the front once everyone’s signed in and gives her greeting. It’s a little different from the one she gave at the children’s museum, but the gist is the same. She’s introducing herself and letting us all know that we can all be artists, regardless of skill level.
“Are y’all ready to get started?” she asks.
There’s an enthusiastic yes that reverberates through the space.
I take it in. There are about twenty women here, twenty canvases, and they’re all locked in on Lily, ready to go.
She really does make painting feel easy. Her instructions are clear. Her technique is simple.
And her voice is inviting. She makes you want to try your best.
We’re painting the sky with blue and white paint that we’ve mixed together, which is the entire background.
She’s making her rounds.
I’m trying to focus on my sky, but I follow her with my eyes.
She stops and speaks with a girl with twists in her hair, and they laugh and smile and chat for a bit as the girl works on her sky.
She comes around the back and stops a foot away from me.
I whisper, “Hey, Lily.”
“Javonte,” she replies, with the flattest tone ever.
Then she moves on and starts chatting with an older woman a few seats over.
We move on, and she makes another round. This time, when she’s near me, I tell her, “You’re beautiful.”
She moves on without replying, without a response.
There’s an older woman next to me. She looks like she could be my grandmother. She’s frowning at me.
She shakes her head. “Boy, you not trying hard enough.”
I look at my painting and point at it. “I’m doing really good.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about,” she says, shaking her head. “These young kids don’t know shit.”
I twist and look in her direction, but she just keeps shaking her head and continues painting.
I spend the rest of the class watching the woman that used to love me. I follow every direction, trying to make my painting look just like hers, and this time, when class ends, I wait for everyone to be done talking to her to approach her.
“I miss you.”
She’s folding chairs. She looks at me, nods, and folds another chair, adding it to the stack weighing down her arm. I reach for the chairs, and she jerks her arm away.
“I got it.”
I still. I can’t even touch her?
