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Authors: Terri Blackstock
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their signatures.
It had worked. On her days to come here, a crowd of kids—aged eight to eighteen, and from backgrounds as diverse as flavors of candy—waited eagerly in the colorful corridors for her.
But today no one waited, because she wasn’t expected. She knelt and unfolded the drop cloths she kept rolled beside the wall. After opening the paint cans, she headed upstairs to the supply closet where she kept all her brushes.
The heavy doors leading to the stairwell creaked as they opened, and she reached inside to flick on the light. The door shut behind her, and she started up the stairs.
“This isn’t your day to come.”
The young male voice startled her, and she glanced up the staircase, to the tawny-haired boy sitting on the landing between two twisting levels of stairs. His eyes squinted as they adjusted to the light. “Jason? What are you doing here?”
Mick Hammon’s son gave a shrug that belied the drawn lines on his nine-year-old face. “Nothin’.”
Erin finished the climb to where he sat, his arms hugging his knees. She lowered herself to the step beside him, unconsciously imitating his position. “Why aren’t you playing ball with the guys?”
“Not in the mood,” Jason said.
“Yeah,” Erin whispered. “I know.”
They sat quietly for a moment, neither venturing to broach the subject of the crash or the lies that circulated as a result of it or the pain that wouldn’t die. Finally, Erin patted his knee, where his Levis had worn to a thin blue-gray. “Feel like painting?”
“I guess,” he said.
Erin got to her feet, dusted off her pants, and held out a hand to the boy. Reluctantly, he took it and allowed her to pull him up.
“You’re gonna be all right, Jason,” she whispered, holding his gray gaze.
Trust gleamed like the toughest metal in his eyes—eyes that looked much older than nine—but she knew the doubt that plagued him, as it did her. He dropped his focus to his dirty Reeboks, his shoulders rising and falling with a painful sigh. “I’ll help you get the brushes,” he said.
Jason was quiet as they painted, and he hung conspicuously apart from the ten other kids, who dove into the project at hand. As much as Erin tried to draw him in, he clung to his distance, working with a diligent hand on the section of the mural she had assigned him.
But that distance called attention to him, and some of the other boys—the rougher ones who would have been in street gangs or juvenile delinquent centers if not for the distraction of the youth center—couldn’t stand leaving him alone. He had never quite clicked with many of the boys here, but his athletic nature, his creativity, and his friendship with Erin kept him coming anyway. The other boys were from poorer families, mostly fatherless, with little if any supervision from their mothers. Those were the boys who made trouble as easily as withdrawing the switchblades they often carried, the ones who chided and terrorized anyone who didn’t fit. Jason was different from them. It was obvious by his behavior, his clothes, his silence…He was an open target for anyone who needed one.
Erin’s muscles tensed in dread when three of the boys ambled toward Jason. There were looks of suspicious amusement in their hardened eyes, as if they planned to have “some fun” with the boy. She stopped painting and grabbed a rag to wipe her hands, preparing to intervene if it became necessary. She’d worked with these kids long enough to know that defending Jason too soon would humiliate him and make matters much worse than they were. Jason kept his eyes on his painting, never missing a brush stroke.
“Hey, Hammon,” one of the boys, who went by the name of T.J., said, strutting toward Jason. The belligerent newcomer’s thumbs were lodged in the front pockets of jeans that had been in good shape three or four hand-me-downs ago. “Guess your dad ain’t such a big shot now, huh?”
Erin saw Jason’s jaw twitch, but he set his
It had worked. On her days to come here, a crowd of kids—aged eight to eighteen, and from backgrounds as diverse as flavors of candy—waited eagerly in the colorful corridors for her.
But today no one waited, because she wasn’t expected. She knelt and unfolded the drop cloths she kept rolled beside the wall. After opening the paint cans, she headed upstairs to the supply closet where she kept all her brushes.
The heavy doors leading to the stairwell creaked as they opened, and she reached inside to flick on the light. The door shut behind her, and she started up the stairs.
“This isn’t your day to come.”
The young male voice startled her, and she glanced up the staircase, to the tawny-haired boy sitting on the landing between two twisting levels of stairs. His eyes squinted as they adjusted to the light. “Jason? What are you doing here?”
Mick Hammon’s son gave a shrug that belied the drawn lines on his nine-year-old face. “Nothin’.”
Erin finished the climb to where he sat, his arms hugging his knees. She lowered herself to the step beside him, unconsciously imitating his position. “Why aren’t you playing ball with the guys?”
“Not in the mood,” Jason said.
“Yeah,” Erin whispered. “I know.”
They sat quietly for a moment, neither venturing to broach the subject of the crash or the lies that circulated as a result of it or the pain that wouldn’t die. Finally, Erin patted his knee, where his Levis had worn to a thin blue-gray. “Feel like painting?”
“I guess,” he said.
Erin got to her feet, dusted off her pants, and held out a hand to the boy. Reluctantly, he took it and allowed her to pull him up.
“You’re gonna be all right, Jason,” she whispered, holding his gray gaze.
Trust gleamed like the toughest metal in his eyes—eyes that looked much older than nine—but she knew the doubt that plagued him, as it did her. He dropped his focus to his dirty Reeboks, his shoulders rising and falling with a painful sigh. “I’ll help you get the brushes,” he said.
Jason was quiet as they painted, and he hung conspicuously apart from the ten other kids, who dove into the project at hand. As much as Erin tried to draw him in, he clung to his distance, working with a diligent hand on the section of the mural she had assigned him.
But that distance called attention to him, and some of the other boys—the rougher ones who would have been in street gangs or juvenile delinquent centers if not for the distraction of the youth center—couldn’t stand leaving him alone. He had never quite clicked with many of the boys here, but his athletic nature, his creativity, and his friendship with Erin kept him coming anyway. The other boys were from poorer families, mostly fatherless, with little if any supervision from their mothers. Those were the boys who made trouble as easily as withdrawing the switchblades they often carried, the ones who chided and terrorized anyone who didn’t fit. Jason was different from them. It was obvious by his behavior, his clothes, his silence…He was an open target for anyone who needed one.
Erin’s muscles tensed in dread when three of the boys ambled toward Jason. There were looks of suspicious amusement in their hardened eyes, as if they planned to have “some fun” with the boy. She stopped painting and grabbed a rag to wipe her hands, preparing to intervene if it became necessary. She’d worked with these kids long enough to know that defending Jason too soon would humiliate him and make matters much worse than they were. Jason kept his eyes on his painting, never missing a brush stroke.
“Hey, Hammon,” one of the boys, who went by the name of T.J., said, strutting toward Jason. The belligerent newcomer’s thumbs were lodged in the front pockets of jeans that had been in good shape three or four hand-me-downs ago. “Guess your dad ain’t such a big shot now, huh?”
Erin saw Jason’s jaw twitch, but he set his
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