Chapter One

PAIGE

Not a lot of people can say it, but I love my job. I really do. Bringing art into the lives of children wasn't always my goal in life, but now that I was doing it, I had to admit it brought a certain, undeniable joy to my life. A level of joy that working in my own studio probably hadn't ever brought me.

Or maybe I was just telling myself that to help me get through the days of cleaning up paint spills and disciplining students who thought it would be funny to write the word “Poop” on the kid next to them in bright, red marker.

Because, truth be told, most days, it wasn't about creating masterpieces. No, most days it was about surviving the day with as little mess as possible. It was never possible to have a day with no messes at all, but a good day was being able to limit the disasters.

I liked to think I was doing some good though. That maybe I was helping these kids tap into their creative potential and learn how to think outside the box a bit. Perhaps, I was encouraging future artists, the next generation of Van Gogh's or Monet's. But even that was something of a bittersweet thought.

Given just about how impossible it was to make a living on your art alone, I wanted to encourage them to explore their creativity, but didn't want to get any of their hopes up. Science, math, reading – those were the classes that mattered the most to parents. The classes that led somewhere. That children could build a smart, practical career on. My class was meant to be fun and help their children learn to color between the lines. To them, it was a fluff, filler class that wasn't really the foundation of a solid future.

Which was why I felt burnt out at times. Art was my life. It was everything to me. And to have it marginalized and looked down upon the way some people did made it tough sometimes. Between the parents and their attitudes, as well as the kids who saw my art class as nothing more than fun time, it sometimes wore me down.

I loved what I did, there was no question, but it also left me feeling a little unfulfilled. A little – empty.

And that day was no different. The burnout and frustration, in fact, were a little higher than normal. As I picked up all the crayons from the tables, the floor, and a number of other places they shouldn't have been, I tossed tehm all into the giant buckets of crayons I kept – because honestly, I did not have the time or inclination to sort through them all anyway. Mostly because I would have to turn around and do the same thing the next day. The monotony and rigamarole of it all could be exhausting.

I'd just snapped the lid back on the last bucket when I heard a knock on my classroom door.

“Come in,” I called, putting on my teacher voice.

I'd expected to see one of my students looking for their backpack or jacket come marching in. But instead of a student, I came face-to-face with a grown man who was wearing a leather jacket and was covered in tattoos. His dark hair was long, falling to his shoulders, and he looked very out of place in my classroom, which was filled with bright colors, and childish examples of “art.”

It took me a moment to get my wits about me, but I had an idea who he was.

“Ms. Cleary?” he asked.

“Yes, that's me,” I said. “I believe that you're Harley's dad?”

“Yes, m'am,” he said. “I was told there was a problem with my daughter and I needed to come in?”

“I'm glad you stopped by, Mr. Jones – ”

“Please, call me Eli,” he said, running a hand through his dark hair. “Or Elias. Mr. Jones makes me sound, well, like my dad. And I don't think I'm quite that old yet.”

He gave me a good natured smile that seemed to transform his face. He carried a hard edge to himself. His mouth seemed to be etched into a permanent scowl. Yet, when he smiled, it was like his entire face lit up. It was remarkable and striking.

I cleared my throat and focused on him again, pushing out all of the other stray thoughts that were straggling about.

“It's a pleasure to meet you, Elias,” I said, trying to feign a smile. “And I'm glad you decide to stop by. To be honest, I'm a little concerned about Harley. She's a bright, gifted girl. But lately, her artwork has gotten rather – grim and dark.”

“Grim?” he asked. “How so?”

“Well, let me show you,” I said, pulling Harley's portfolio out of my desk.

Inside, there were pages and pages filled with drawings of skulls, bones, and other grotesque monsters I couldn't make out. It wasn't the typical first grade art by any stretch of the imagination. I'd found that kids that age, for the most part, gravitated toward bright colors, rainbows, sunshine – things that reflected a brighter, cheerier worldview. Which, was why Harley's art struck a real chord inside of me.

“While your daughter is talented,” I started, “and truth be told, she can draw better than most of the kids in my classes, I have a concern for the subjects she's choosing to draw.”

Eli looked over the drawings, an almost proud smile creeping across his face. “Skulls and monsters are a problem? Since when? If she were drawing gruesome murders or something else that was entirely inappropriate, I could see that we might have a problem, Ms. Cleary. I'd understand that. But I'm not seeing a problem here. I dont see the reason for concern.”

I could see that we were going to have a problem. And it was clear that he didn't quite understand child psychology. It wasn't like I did all that well either, but having worked in a classroom for a while, I was getting some serious on the job training. And every instinct I had was telling me that what Harley was drawing wasn't normal. That it pointed to something that was perhaps – troubling.

The trick was going to be in convincing a parent who, unless there was violence or sex, wasn't going to see a problem.

“This one, for example,” I said, handing him one of her drawings. “I'd asked the class to draw the rainbow outside our classroom window. And while she did the assignment I'd asked, she also added her own personal touch – ”

“Is that a – leprechaun?”

I nodded. “Yes, it's a leprechaun,” I confirmed. “With blood pouring out of his mouth and lasers shooting from his eyes.”

“Oh,” Eli said, doing his best – and failing – to stifle his laughter. “Still, I don't see the problem? She's a little girl with a wild imagination. How is that a bad thing? You're an art teacher, I thought you're supposed to be encouraging that sort of thing.”

He wasn't getting what I was saying. Didn't understand my concern. That much was obvious. Not that I was surprised by looking at him. He seemed like the kind of guy who would have drawn the sort of things I was trying to show him back when he'd been a kid. Maybe even worse things than what Harley was drawing.

Given Eli's somewhat rough appearance – and the lifestyle I assumed went along with it – perhaps, I shouldn't have been surprised that Harley had developed an appreciation for the dark and macabre. I had little doubt that she'd been exposed to it regularly enough.

“May I ask you a personal question, Elias?”

“Sure, go ahead.”

“What is Harley's home life like?” I asked, doing my best to be delicate about it. “She mentioned that her mom is gone and that it's just the two of you. I only ask because I'm concerned that she's struggling with that a bit.”

“Listen, Ms. Cleary,” he said, his voice harder and colder than before. “Yes, her mom is gone. She's getting the help she needs – far away from us at the moment. Which, believe me, is in everybody's best interest. And I make sure that Harley sees a therapist a few times a week. According to her counselor, she's doing just fine.”

“Who watches your daughter while you're at work?”

“What's it matter?” he asked, sounding defensive.

“It's only a question, Elias,” I said. “Please don't misunderstand me. She's a bright, talented girl and I'm just worried about Harley, that's all.”

“Not that it's any of your business, but she comes to work with me most evenings,” he snapped. “I don't have anyone to watch her, so I either work during the day or take her with me – ”

“What do you do?”

“I'm a tattoo artist over at Skinz Ink,” he said, the hard edge and defensiveness in his tone growing by the second.

Why was I not surprised? Trying hard not to roll my eyes or sound condescending, I asked him bluntly, “Do you think a tattoo shop is a suitable place for a little girl Harley's age? I mean, I can only imagine what she's being exposed to – ”

“Why wouldn't it be suitable?” he asked. “Listen, I'm trying to do the best I can as a single dad – ”

“I don't doubt that,” I said.

“Yes, yes you do. I can see it all over your smug face,” he spat. “She's in the back of the shop. I make sure to keep her well away from customers. It's not like she's sitting there watching me ink somebody. She's in a place where she can watch TV, work on homework, or play with her toys. Some of the others bring their kids to play with her from time-to-time. Do I pass your parenting test, Ms. Cleary?”

I was taken aback by the harsh tone of his words. “I didn't mean – ”

“No, you didn't mean to come off like a judgmental bitch, but you did anyway,” he said. “Because, while you're comfortable living in your three bedroom home in the nice part of town, I'm struggling to keep my daughter fed and housed, working any job I can right now. I bust my ass to provide for my daughter, only to have the likes of you judging and condemning me for it, no matter what I do. I knew I should have transferred her out of this prissy ass school a long time ago – ”

“I don't think that's wise, Elias. Stonebrook is the highest rated school in town,” I said. “It's the best school for your daughter. And it's not as bad as you think, even though you think we're all snooty and rich. Let me assure you though, that your assumption in that regard is very wrong.”

His assumption was way off the mark. I wasn't even close to rich. If only he knew that I too, was living in the seedy part of town, stuck in a one bedroom apartment barely larger than a shoebox, and was paying out my ass for student loans for a degree that was pretty much as worthless as the paper it was printed on.

“I won't change schools,” he said after a long moment, slowly regaining his composure. “Because whether you choose to believe it or not, I care about Harley. I care about her a lot.”

“I do believe it, Elias. I'm not saying that, it's just – ”

“Just what?” he asked, that sharp edge creeping back into his voice.

“I'm just worried about her, that's all,” I said. “Because believe it or not, I care about Harley too.”

“Oh yeah? Well I worry about her too,” he said. “And not over some stupid drawings. She prefers to draw monsters instead of rainbows and smiling goddamn stick figures. So the hell what? You and your liberal arts education sees something wrong with that, while I see a creative child who thinks outside the box. One who doesn't feel the need to conform to society's definition of beauty.”

“Well then,” I said, biting my lip and tucking the drawings back into their folder before I stood up. “I guess that settles it then. I guess we're done.”

“Yes, I guess we are.”

Eli walked out of my classroom in a huff, muttering something under his breath as he exited. He was young – a bit young to be a single father of a first grader, in my opinion. I couldn't fault him for any of his problems, but I had to do what was in the best interest of my kids. And sometimes, the parents didn't like to hear what I had to say. Didn't like to hear the truth of a given situation.

But never, in my three years as a teacher, had anyone ever talked to me the way Elias had done. As soon as he was gone, I sat back down in my seat feeling like I'd been punched in the gut. I buried my face in my hands as I broke down and started crying, wishing I could be stronger. Wishing I had stood up for myself. But it was too late now. The damage was done and I was left in a sobbing puddle. Again.

He was gone, and I was relieved it was Friday.

I had two days to recover from all of what had just happened. Two days to relax and forget about Eli Jones.