Page 29 of Trailer Park Billionaire
It’s just two more hours I need to get through before I can go home to really focus on the worrying. Time to put on a brave face and compartmentalize like a grown-up. The kids need me to keep it together.
The name of the class was chosen by the children themselves through an (unfortunate) democratic process. And—despite my attempts at election fraud—it beat out ‘Can I Eat The Paint?,’‘Ooops, I Ate The Paint!,’and ‘Art for Kids’(which was my proposal). Admittedly, all of the names would have been fitting either way.
Class always starts at 3 PM on Fridays. In theory, that is. As can be expected with a bunch of six- to sixteen-year-olds, the first few minutes are usually spent catching up with friends, arguing seating arrangements with foes, and painting your entire hand blue. At least that’s what Sketchy Ryan is doing rightnow. Over time, I’ve learned not to intervene too much unless someone is actually about to get hurt. Besides, blue is definitely his color.
Today’s topic is Jackson Pollock, which I expect will go over quite well with the kids because, well, who doesn’t love throwing paint at things?
After a short introduction on the artist and his expressionist drip-and-splash technique, I hand out bigger sheets of paper than usual and let them do their thing while hanging out with their friends and hopefully having a good time.
“Miss Beck?” Sketchy Ryan—who got his name on account of a) being great at sketching and b) doing so on a lot of questionable surfaces—asks once his hand seems mostly dry. “Why do you look like a raccoon today?”
For a second, I stare blankly at him, then remember my makeup and the knot in my belly. “I, uh, thought I’d try something new,” I explain, as most of the class is busy pushing their desks to the side so they can paint on the ground. “It’s called avant-garde fashion. Kinda like your hand, I assume.”
Ryan looks at his hand, then at my eyes, then back at his hand again and gives me an approving thumbs-up. “Can I paint you today?”
“Well, sure,” I say, thinking about it for a moment. “I don’t want to stifle your creativity, but like I explained earlier, today what goes on the canvas is less about the subject and more about the event of creating it. Just follow your instincts.”
Ryan makes a face like I’ve said something that’s obviously common knowledge, then gets busy mixing colors, which Dia, who sits in the middle of the classroom, swiftly turns into a philosophical debate over whether you can mix all the colors together to create ‘the ultimate color’. It takes Ryan, Dia and Iris about ten minutes to figure out that ‘the ultimate color’ is just a muddy brown.
By 4:15 PM, I realize that in the process of throwing paint on a sheet of paper, Dia and Clay may have gone missing. For a moment, panic sets in—until I discover them under a table, engaged in a silent but serious game of rock-paper-scissors in an attempt to settle who gets to use the newly created color.
When I crawl back up from under the table and turn around, I’m staring directly at the Greek statue that has taken a seat at one of the desks in the back of the room. Of course, it’s not a statue, but Ben Lyon in the flesh. His oversized legs bump into the tabletop when he tries to move.
Fuck.
I really don’t want him to see me like this.
My first instinct is to just bail. My second is to march over and throw him out, but since he’s already in deep conversation with Iris, I decide to make do with continuing my round, checking in on all the kids, their progress and whatever else they want to talk about.
By the time I make it to Iris’s table, Mr. Lyon has been recruited to be her assistant.
“Glitter!” she demands firmly, like a little art surgeon who knows exactly what they’re doing.
Mr. Lyon’s arm shoots straight out to hand her a container filled with pink glitter.
“Pink?” Iris says, as if that color suggestion is a personal affront. “We already have pink!” She points at the very corner of her painting where a tiny speck of pink is sticking to the glue she has liberally dripped all over the sheet.
“Sorry,” Mr. Lyon apologizes, grabs another container and presents it to her. “Green glitter?”
Iris and I both shake our heads. There are few things she hates more than the color green.
“Ben, Ben, Ben…” she sighs. “You know I can’t stand green. It reminds me of that time my puke was all green after I ate too much Jell-O.”
“Sorry,” he apologizes again. “I should have known. How foolish of me.” He glances in my direction, shakes his head in mock shame, then slips right back into character. “How about the golden glitter?”
Iris taps her nose with a brush in contemplation and accidentally gives herself a few freckles in what appears to be more of the ultimate color. “Gold starts with a ‘g’,” she muses. “Just like ‘god,’ and ‘good,’ and ‘garbage’—so, yeah, that’ll work. Gimme.”
“Your logic is flawless as usual,” Mr. Lyon comments earnestly and opens the container for her.
“I see you hired your very own assistant,” I whisper, trying not to draw too much attention to myself once they go back to working quietly.
“Yep,” Iris answers without even looking up from her painting. “That’s Ben, my neighbor.”
Mr. Lyon’s eyes grow big before he starts laughing and finally looks at me properly—as if to say, ‘kids, right?’His eyes grow even bigger when he spots my makeup, or rather, what’s underneath. A millisecond later, he’s on his feet, the too-tiny chair clattering to the ground behind him.
Iris looks up at him with annoyance. “Ben!” she scolds, irritated by the sudden movement that made her desk wobble.
“Please take a seat, Mr. Lyon,” I say softly. “We wouldn’t want to upset the kids now, would we?”
