Page 45 of Tanner

The professor raises his head from his desk and starts the lecture. I open my class notes and pick up where we left off last.

Chris’s back falls hard into his chair as he shakes his head. “This chick had better be worth it.”

I hope so, too.

11

HARPER

I’m late to work. As I walk off the bus, I can only blame myself. When I get wrapped up in a good book, I tend to forgo sleep just to read another chapter.

I woke up this morning to April standing over me, making me realize I’d slept through my alarm.

I have seven minutes to make it to my classroom before my students do.

I’m rushing past the shop where I get my morning coffee and speed-walk around the corner. A vibrant green catches my eye, forcing me to stop in my tracks. On a fence that borders a work zone and scaffolding of a nearby building is a painted version of the tree that graces the cover of To Kill a Mockingbird.

It’s as tall as the fence, about seven feet high. The way the dark tree trunk stands strong with its branches outstretched to the right with all the leaves painted brightly and individually—the stark contract makes the entire piece stunning.

Tanner …

He knows where I live and the route I take to work. It’s way too coincidental this art is anyone but him. I tried to hint to the door he’d painted, but he never picked up on it. Actually, he never mentioned anything about it.

Maybe he likes leaving me these little clues. Lord knows I love it.

Not just the art, but also the message I think he’s trying to portray from the first night we met.

“You’re my muse.”

I pick up my phone, tempted to text him and tell him how beautiful I think the tree is, but something stops me. If he’s creating these images for me, why doesn’t he want to make it known? Yes, I know it’s illegal, but it’s art.

I think back to the biography I finished last night about Jackson Pollock. Some people consider his radical, abstract style to be creative, whereas others call it junk.

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. One man might see it in a portrait of a dead flower. Others find beauty in a folded napkin. I notice that with my students. Some can be very creative while others struggle with the small art projects we do in class.

I get an idea and pick up my step to get to class a little quicker, so I can make a slight change to today’s schedule.

When the kids arrive, we start quickly on their planned lesson. When they leave for lunch, I spend the time preparing my classroom, so when they come back, the desks are covered in every art supply I could get my hands on.

They know I can barely draw a stick figure, so I’m not surprised when Quinton approaches my desk, asking, “Are we having a special instructor or something today?”

I laugh and stand up, greeting the other students walking by before answering him, “We’re changing things up this afternoon.”

They take their seats at their desks, which are grouped into sets of six. It’s an excellent way to have them work together and give each other feedback. I’m at the smart board, and I ask the kids to read out loud the words I have written.

In unison, they all say, “What is art?”

“I want you to really consider that.” I pause, letting it sink in. “Quinton, what is art?”

He looks at me like I’m crazy before shrugging. “Art is something you paint.”

I nod. “It is.” I ask another student, “Ariella, what is art?”

“It’s something you hang on a wall.”

I point to Jackson. “What is art?”

He laughs. “I don’t know. A statue. Like the Duke Ellington one with the grand piano on Fifth Avenue.”