“Do you think they’re gonna like me?” he asks.
I glance over my shoulder and shrug. “Why wouldn’t they?”
“I dunno man. I don’t know shit about kids. What if I suck at this and they hate me and like, call me names and shit?”
“Tuck, you’ll be okay,” I reply, with a small laugh. “We’re here to play ball hockey and sign autographs. It’s not rocket science.”
“I wish it was,” he mumbles. “I’m good at science.”
That surprises me, and I have to catch myself from blurting that out loud. Tucker and I are friendly as teammates, but we aren’t exactly friends in the way that would let me get away with poking fun at him. Instead, I take a deep breath of the cool, crisp winter air as Krystal opens the heavy exterior door to Helping Hearts. A whoosh of warm air hits me like a brick wall, and from the entryway, I can hear music playing somewhere beyond the bright, open room I’ve entered into. The space is filled with color and sound, but no visible children and no space to play hockey. I glance down at Tucker who offers a shrug as he pulls his jacket off and hangs it on one of the hooks. I ditch my own jacket then shuffle my feet, kicking slush and dirt off the bottoms of my shoes as a tall, slender man stands up from a bench by the door.Krystal smiles and greets him as he smoothes out the creases in his baby-blue button down and extends a hand out to her.
“Pierre,” Krystal says, shaking his hand. “Good to see you.”
“Thank you for this,” he replies, his lips curling into a small smile. “The kids are excited to meet some real hockey players.”
“Allow me to introduce them, then.” Krystal steps back and gestures my way. “Donovan Myers, goalie, and Tucker Parent, forward.”
“Nice to meet you,” I say, offering a smile and a handshake his way. “Thank you for all that you do.”
“The kids deserve it,” he says, with a small smile in return. I nod my agreement. Helping Hearts is a neighborhood hub for some of the children and youth in the city who don’t exactly have the best home lives, but it doesn’t cater to just that population. Any kid needing help or connection is welcome to come here and get whatever help they need, even if what they need is to just make some friends.
Pierre turns to greet Tucker and I glance around the space, a rainbow of paintings hanging on a string that traverses the far end of the room catching my eye. I gravitate toward them, sidestepping tables and chairs clearly meant for the younger kids as I head for the larger tables and chairs where the paintings are hung. They’re all simply splotches of color with no real shape to them, but they’re brilliantly done, bright and lively. Even the paintings that have lots of black splashes are lightened by colors that appear almost neon in contrast.
Shit, maybe I am becoming an art guy after all.
I grin as I scan each of them, making a mental note to tell Shiloh all about my art thoughts when I’m done here.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Pierre says from somewhere behind me. I turn to answer him, but find he isn’t looking at me at all. Instead, he’s focused on Tucker who has come to hover behind me, staring up at the same array of paintings I’m looking at.Tucker stammers out some noises that aren’t really words, and I take pity on him as Pierre’s fine lips turn into a small smile.
“Gorgeous stuff,” I comment, drawing attention away from Tucker and onto me. “They do lots of art here?”
“Oh yes. In fact that class is just ending here shortly,” Pierre replies, turning to face me now.
Tucker mouths a silent “thank you” over his shoulder and I bite back a laugh. Pierre doesn’t seem to notice, though, and instead spends the next ten minutes filling me in on all the activities that happen here at the organization, before heading for the hallway that leads off to the left and gesturing for us to follow.
Dutifully, I trail behind with Tucker and Krystal at my back. Pierre sidles up to a window along the wall and nods inside. We file over and peer into a large room filled with easels, tables, chairs, and enough shelving to hold any kind of art supply I could probably think of. Kids sit at some of the tables, gathering up art supplies into plastic totes, but an even larger group have abandoned their artwork at tables in favor of dancing to some pop song that filters out through the windows to where I stand.
“Remember, you should be cleaning as you dance, Artvarks. I don’t want to be the bad guy, but we need to do some multitasking here or we lose the tunes entirely,” a voice calls out over the music, and my heart skips a beat.
I know that voice.
My heart skips another beat in my chest as Shiloh steps out from behind a rack of canvases along the far wall, his face lit up like sunshine and his hair pulled off his face into a ponytail. He wears a pair of paint-spattered jeans and a bright blue shirt emblazoned with the logo for Helping Hearts on the front. One of the kids lights up as he steps over and starts helping the nearest table pack up their art supplies into one of the plastic totes, and I can’t help but watch in awe.
“The oddly named Artvarks Club. Our volunteer, Shiloh, leads the group here twice a week,” Pierre comments, like I don’t already know his name. I suppose here I don’t. I can’t. He can’t be known to me, but I do know him.
I nod, mouth dry and pulse racing as Shiloh’s hips sway to the beat. One of the kids reaches out a hand and he takes it, letting her twirl around in his grasp like a princess before she curtsies to him, a grin as bright as the sun on her face. Shiloh smiles back as he bows to her, her laughter carrying over the din of the music pumping from the stereo. He turns as one of the other kids grabs his waist, wrapping his tiny arms around Shiloh’s slender midsection. He doesn’t flinch as he does when I touch him. He doesn’t shy away or go stock still as the child clings to him, his tiny hands digging into his stomach hard. Instead, he stoops and pulls the little boy into his side, giving him a hug that ends with both of them smiling.
Warm.
Soft.
Unlike I’ve ever seen him before, and it’s beautiful.
“We’re lucky to have him,” Pierre continues. “He’s an art therapy student at U Mass, but he’s a very talented artist in his own right.”
I already know this, but both Tucker and Krystal nod in response so I follow suit. I’m captivated as Shiloh works with the kids to tidy the last of the room, my heart warming at the ease with which he interacts with them all. He’s not completely shut down with me, but this is a side of him I’ve never seen before and I want to know the secret to drawing this out of him.
“We should head to the gym,” Pierre announces, taking a step away from the window. “They’ll be ready to run after sitting for so long, so I hope you’re both ready.”
