I think about the kids I meet with each week and the growth I’ve seen. Angie has the teachers fill out progress reports showing my program works. I haven’t had a student yet who didn’t show improvement either with morale, social anxiety and depression, or outbursts in class. Not one single student.
“She has. But sometimes hard choices have to be made when it comes to cuts.”
Hard choices, my ass. Athletics never see cuts. I see the value in athletics, absolutely I do. I’ve watched how a sport means the difference in a kid getting into god knows what after school or having something to give them a skill and confidence. I value athletics for what it can mean to a student. My own son benefits from athletics every day of his life. But art can and does mean the same thing to my students.
“It’s probably easy to make as long as the football team still has their fancy field house, huh?” I retort, before I can bite it back.
He raises his eyebrows, but I steel my spine and never break eye contact.
“Josie,” he drawls, “the Athletic Committee did fundraisers. Surely you were aware.”
His condescending tone does nothing but piss me off. Of course I’m aware. I don’t even know why I said that, other than sheer pettiness. But that does give me a brilliant idea. It’ll be a lot of work, but I believe my little group of kids is worth it.
“What if I apply for grants? There’s gotta be money sitting out there somewhere. Then it’d be paid for.”
He doesn’t react, ignoring my suggestion altogether. Instead, his eyes drop from my face to my breasts and hover there before jumping back up to my face. What a disgusting asshole! If that’snot sleazy enough, he leans in, pitching his voice low even though we both know dotty old Mrs. Archer out there wouldn’t hear us if we were sitting in the chair next to her.
“I know one way you could convince me to keep your funding.”
His face is smug from the innuendo, causing the hairs on the back of my neck to stand at attention. If ever a person was my villain origin story, it’s the man in front of me. I wrestle down the impulse to channel an immature teenager and remind him how very little I desire his pencil dick. The thought is nothing short of repugnant. I can quite literally feel my blood pressure spike and my stomach turn over, yet I miraculously ignore this knee-jerk reaction.
“I could get you fired for saying that,” I hiss as low and menacing as I can force my voice.
He shrugs, leaning back on his palms. “Who’d believe you? It’s your word against mine.”
Being a card carrying member of the badass club, I refuse to shrink in on myself at his words. Ian has always been the town golden boy, coming from a prestigious family in Singing River. His father is the bank president and his mom sits on multiple town councils. I have no issues with either of them, despite the fact they managed to raise a snake of a son.
But he’s right. Somehow he has the school board wrapped around his finger.
Rising to my full height of five foot three, I inhale sharply and let it out as evenly as possible. Anger will get me nowhere in this situation.
“I will find the money. Mark my words.” And with that, I spin on my heel, marching from his office without looking back. The walk from his office to my classroom feels exceptionally long, but when I make it to my room I spend the remainder of my planning period googling education grants.
The rest of my day goes by well, all things considered, which helps to slow my racing thoughts. My last class of the day hasbeen studying the work of Van Gogh, recreating his works with their own flair. One of my seniors did a piece he titledVan Gogh 2025,in which he painted his own version ofBedroom in Arles, but with anything a young man in this day and age might have. Instead of a teapot on the desk, there’s a gaming system, and the floor is scattered with dirty clothes. Another student piggybacked off that idea, paintingCafé Terrace at Night, but every chair is occupied by a patron looking at a phone. The first time I saw it, I felt rattled to my core.
These brilliant teenagers are the reminder I need to fight for my ArtStrong program. As if I needed any more reason, today is my weekly meeting with those kids. About ten minutes after the final bell rings, they begin trickling in until all fifteen of them are there. Fifteen kids in a school this size is no small number for a program they voluntarily attend.
They’ve formed a close-knit group, bonding over shared struggles, opening up to one another through their art and holding each other accountable in their daily life. I refuse to entertain the idea it could be taken from them.
Just as each student is taking their respective seats, the door pushes open and a girl walks in. Angie mentioned this girl, and I rack my brain to put a name to her face. I know from her file her parents recently divorced, forcing her to move back to Singing River. I recognized her mom’s name from the file, as well. She was several years ahead of me in school, but most people know each other in this town, even tangentially.
The girl walks to an empty desk, and my eyes land on a flute case, a twin to the school-issued one Abby carries. She looks up, a shy smile lighting up her face.
“I’m Amelia. Sorry, I’m late,” she apologizes, chagrined.
My motherly instinct to comfort kicks in, and I walk over placing a hand on her shoulder. “No need to apologize. I’m happy you’re here.”
Turning to the class, I give them the theme of our next project.
“Okay, guys. I’ve got a new one, and I think you’ll like it. It’s called Rewriting the Narrative.” Several kids perk up, intrigued. “The idea is to take control of your story. This will be a mixed media project, and it’s pretty open-ended. You’ll use anything you’d like to create a collage with a new narrative for yourself. On the table in the back you’ll find poetry books for blackout poetry, magazines, and washi tape. And of course, all the usual supplies can be used.” I gesture to the metal supply cabinet at the back of the classroom. “We’ll work on this for three weeks, so you’re welcome to bring anything from home. A quote from a book, a song lyric, whatever you want. Before you jump in, though, I’d advise you to spend some time free writing what you envision. I’ll set a timer for fifteen minutes. When it goes off, feel free to begin.”
I set a timer on my phone, and the kids get to work, some deep in concentration and some scribbling furiously in their notebook. Watching these kids take this project seriously makes my heart swell with pride. Forget what Principal Ian Stanback says. Even in my mind, I can’t say his name without a snarl curling the edge of my lip. This is a noble cause, and these kids are worth fighting for. I’ll be damned if I back down without giving it my all.
In a sudden burst of inspiration, I do something I’ve never done. I sit and work on the project along with them. For the next fifteen minutes, I rewrite the narrative of my own life. What do I see in that life? I’ve got the best friends anyone could ask for, a strong support group who never falters. I have two amazing kids, who, despite driving me up the wall at times, are the two greatest joys of my life. Is that enough to give me a fulfilled life? My mind tiptoes, inching closer to a string of thoughts, daring me to pull it, letting ideas I have no business thinking tumble down into my head.
Tyler, here, back in my life. When he told me I’d only gotten more beautiful, I think a small part of me believed him. Without a second’s hesitation, I begin my free write. I write of a fairy talelife, full of family vacations, movie nights, and picnics by the river. Nights on the porch watching Jay play basketball with fireflies flickering in the dark. I write of Christmas mornings and birthdays, a New Year’s Eve with someone to kiss. My chest warms, an ember of hope, tiny but there, a steady burn. What a lovely future I’ve painted with words on a page.
The timer goes off, and one by one the kids make their way to the supply table. Glancing at my phone to turn the timer off, I first see a text from my brother.
