Page 50 of Grace & Henry's Holiday Movie Marathon
We happen through a circle of yellow streetlight, and I see that he’s smiling. This is the first time we’ve been alone together, Ian and I, so I give him a good look. I like his big hoodie and the way he walks on the balls of his feet, leaning forward slightly, like he’s eager to see what comes next. His artiness, though, and how gentle he seems, makes me worry for him. These are great traits to have in life, but as a kid they can be vulnerabilities. I know nothing about what it’s like to be a boy right now. As we walk, I wonder how he fits in. Are the hierarchies of youth as cruel and defined as they were when I was a kid? Are there still bullies? If so, is he one of their targets? I had a keen sense of schoolyard danger in my youth, and I was good at avoiding it. Does Ian know how to do that, too, or does he wander right into it, forward-leaning and oblivious?
“So, how are things?” I ask him.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean…things. School, friends. Just, how are you, Ian? Good?”
“Um, yeah, pretty good, I guess. My dad died, though.”
This obviously isn’t funny, but I laugh at the bluntness. “I know,” I say. “And that’s a big deal. But…aside from that, I mean.”
He looks up at the dimming sky and thinks. “Well, there is one thing.”
Now I’m worried because I can only assume I’m unqualified to help with whatever he’s about to tell me. “What is it?”
“There’s an art contest at school,” he says.
I laugh again, this time out of relief. “An art contest?”
“Yeah, a Christmas one. Or, well, holidays.” He tells me the parameters—how it can be any medium: painting, sketching, crayon even. “Except for the spelling bee, it’s pretty much the only thing at school you can win that’s not sports,” he says. “And I’m not a very good speller.”
“Ian.”
“What?”
“You cantotallywin.”
“Really?”
“Why not?”
“I’m only in sixth grade. I’m not even in junior high yet.”
“Eh,” I say, “junior high kids are mostly artless assholes.”
He laughs, shocked, and I realize I probably shouldn’t say “assholes” in front of a kid. His house is just ahead—the one with the tipped-over recycling bin.
“Do you think you could help me with my picture?” he asks.
“Absolutely, I can.”
I’m not the sort of person who accepts invitations quickly. I hem and I haw. I say things that are precursors to “no,” like,Lemme look at my schedule,orI’ll get back to you.Brynn used to tease me about it, how “no” was my default setting when it came to human interaction. However, I just said yes to Ian so fast that it startled both of us.
“Yay,” he says. “Thanks.”
I tell him to text me his number. “I’ll reply so you’ll have mine. We can send each other stuff, like inspiration. My work friend Win and I do that all the time. We can be creative partners.”
“Yeah,” Ian says. “Awesome.”
I pick up Grace’s recycling bin, which, Ian tells me, goes in the backyard. As I follow him around the house, I slow down and see Grace and Bella through the kitchen window drinking from mugs of hot chocolate. It looks nice in there, warm and welcoming.
“I kinda think that movie scared Bella,” Ian says.
“You think?”
“The ghost guy,” he says. “His eyes were gross.”
“Yeah, I can see how that’d be scary.”
