Page 11 of His Wild Storm
A few kids breathe out, “Wow,” and I can’t help but grin.
I give a little wave, and Wendy smiles my way before moving toward the door. She doesn’t leave right away, but I don’t expect her to.
“Hi everyone,” I keep my voice soft, but filled with excitement. “Like Miss Wendy said, my name is Knox and I’m a tattoo artist. I love art. Drawing helps me work through my thoughts and feelings.”
“You have a lot of tattoos,” a girl, one who appears to be about 12, mumbles with awe in her voice as she looks at my arms where I’ve rolled-up the flannel I’m wearing.
With fall sweeping in, flannels are my go-to, especially when it can be colder in the morning and then warm up in the afternoon. And, bonus, I’ve heard about how women love the rolled-up sleeve look. Arm porn? Who am I to judge?
I chuckle softly and nod as I push the sleeves up a little more on my arms. “I do have a lot of tattoos. I like wearing art. Not everyone does though and that’s okay. Some art is better hanging on the walls. What do you all love about art?”
It’s quiet for a few minutes and the kids seem to glance at each other as if they’re waiting for someone to go first. I don’t push them, and I don’t prod. If no one wants to answer, I’ll move on, but I also don’t want to move on too fast. Nor do I want to make it feel like they have to come up with an answer.
“I like the colors I get to use when drawing,” one of the younger boys speaks up, his voice just as shy as the look on his face.
“Being able to use color any way you want is one of the best things about creating art,” I agree. “When you’re creating, you don’t have to follow any rules. Do you like making something a color other than what you would normally see?”
He giggles softly and nods his head. “I like making the sky red, but not during a sunset.”
“That’s so much fun,” I gush.
When I hear the sound of a door closing, I look up to find that Wendy is no longer standing at the back of the room. A warmth flows through me at the knowledge that I’ve put her at easeenough to leave me to the class. That’s a lot of trust, and I won’t squander it.
“I like creating stories about what I’m drawing,” the young lady from earlier speaks up and when I look at her, there’s a soft blush on her cheeks. It’s adorable.
“That is a really amazing skill. Illustration is a really important art. You see it in children’s books, and I think they always make the story come alive.”
“They really do,” another little boy says, his words tentative. “It helps you see the action, like in comic books?”
He looks to be around four and there’s something about him, something vulnerable but strong at the same time. The way his words come out as more of a question than a statement tells me a lot. I hate it. There’s mischief in his blue eyes, but it’s buried underneath fear, uncertainty, and a sense of responsibility which shouldn’t be on the shoulders of a kid so young.
He’s not the only one kid in the room who wears responsibility like it’s normal. But maybe drawing can give them a little joy, a little fun, and help them reconnect with their childhood. Being able to process their emotions using art will serve them well.
I know it does for me.
“If you don’t mind, can we go around the room so you can tell me your names? It’ll make it easier for me today. If I forget your name in the future, please just remind me again when I ask because sometimes it takes more than once to learn something.”
The kids look at me with awe, as if an adult admitting one of their faults so readily is magic. Maybe it is.
It’s not like I’ve ever had a kid. Until Ian showed up on Wyat’s front porch, a child my boss and friend didn’t know existed, I hadn’t put much thought into having kids. Ian was ten years old and now he recently turned 13. Having a kid, and now a baby, has changed Wyatt’s life.
He looks a hell of a lot more tired than he used to.
He also looks a fuck ton happier.
I want that kind of happiness.
The kids tentatively introduce themselves to me and I smile and nod as I try and commit each one to memory though I’m sure I’ll fuck them up a few times.
When it’s the kid with hidden spunk in his blue eyes’ turn, he sits up a little straighter, pride radiating off him, “I’m Wilde and I’m four.”
I can’t help but grin. I don’t know the story of why he’s here, but there’s no doubt in my mind that he’s going to be fine.
“It’s nice to meet all of you,” I tell my students and then pull the drawing pad closer to me. “Since we mentioned color and using it in any way we want and art creating stories, I’d like for you to draw a place. It can be anywhere, anytime, any setting. It doesn’t have to be a place you’ve been or even a place that exists. It could be on a planet far from here or in the depths of the ocean where you’d need gills to breathe and visit.”
The kids flash me excited smiles and eagerly open their sketch pads and the pastels. I give the kids a few tips for working with pastels like going from light to dark, layering colors and using light pressure. The paper is perfect for pastels, and I think it’ll remind them of crayons while being a little more.
In a matter of moments, every kid is huddled over their pad of paper while I look at my own and imagine a field in spring where wildflowers are kissed by the most perfect of breezes. It’s an image in my mind so clear and vivid that I reach for a pastel and start blocking in the green before I even realize what is happening.
