Masterpiece

Chapter 5

I look at my watch, rubbing my eyes and its twelve a.m.
Sigh.
This is going to seriously eff the heck out of my sleeping schedule.

I look through the glass window and it reflects the city back at me.
Stars bounce off the material of car windows and the panes of tall structures.

Taking advantage of my new tools, my paint brush connects with the flat surface of a blank canvas. Hours pass and I soon have at least six paintings of New York, because it truly is a sight for sore eyes.

The sun comes up over the cloudless skies. It's now seven o' clock and I'm utterly starving.
It turns out, there's a really cool deli across from my building and the sandwiches are heaven on my tongue.

I go in my plaid pajama pants and t-shirt, because I couldn't imagine being less lazy than I already am and actually taking the time to put on actual clothes. The cashier doesn't even take a second glance at me when I shuffle in the store.

By the time I finish my food, it's almost time for my classes and last minute jitters send butterflies to my stomach.
Why am I so nervous? They're little kids, the worse that they can do is throw paint.

Oh God, are they going to throw paint?
I'm not mentally ready for this.

A bell rings as I brush past the edge of the deli door. The rough concrete catches my slippers with each step when I make my way to the building.

When I arrive, the key connects with the lock and it clinks then I am in. I slip on clothes and put my hair in a decent style before readying myself for my day.

The clock strikes nine, and almost instantly, small children and tired looking parents file in. I converse with the adults, while the kids occupy themselves. I smile and tell them that their children are in great care and try to act professional, but I fail because I'm pretty sure they can see past my nervous grin and shaky hands.

After a while of apprehensive small talk, I am left alone with about ten kids. They stand with blank stares, waiting for my instruction.

"Hey guys, I'm Ramona," I say to the awaiting crowd.

A chorus of the word, hi follows my statement. It slipped my mind that these are young kids and lack the anti-sociability that older kids possess.

"So, raise your hand if you like to paint?"
Most of them raise their hand. Only a couple of kids are left with their hands to their sides.

"Aw, well I think I can change your minds after a while," I smile and surprisingly they do too.
Maybe this is easier than I thought.

After a little demonstration, the kids are finger painting against cream colored paper. I walk around the work stations and I have to say, they don't look totally miserable.

I kneel down next to a little girl fitted with braces and ebony skin. I recognize her as one of the ones who supposedly did not like to paint.

"So, how 'bout it, huh? You change your mind about painting?"
A smile creeps onto her face.
"Yeah, I guess. This is fun."
She's painted dark green grass and flowers sprouting from the greenery.

"Good job. You're doing great."

A girl across the room catches my eye. Her light brown hair comes down to her shoulders. She scrunches her eyebrows in concentration.

"Well what do we have here?," I say approaching her.

Her painting is good. Actually the best I'd seen today.

"A rainbow," she says studying her work.
She's created a rainbow of color against a blotchy blue sky and finger shaped clouds.

"This is really good. Do you like art?"
"I do. My brother tells me to paint what makes me happy."

"Your brother's a smart guy. You should paint what makes you feel happy."

-

The children sit at a medium sized table chatting as I lay their creations on another table. It's two minutes to twelve and the parents should be here any minute now.

This was actually not as hard as I thought. Everyone seemed to enjoy it. I'm surprised, because I had never been good with children.

I let the adults take a look at what their kids had made. They seemed proud.
If only my mom had learned a thing or two from them.

It was one person in particular who walked into the building who peaked my interest. He wasn't even a parent. At least I don't think so. He walks in with a calm stride.

Sophie runs into his arms.
"Hey, munchkin, how was it?"
"It was great. Guess who my teacher is?"

He looks up at me with hazel eyes.

"Ah, so this is the infamous Ramona Lewis. I've heard a lot about you. This one wouldn't shut up about you, ever since we went to a local art show down in Connecticut last summer."

I remember that. I got the role of second place and took it pretty hard, but I eventually got over it.

He shakes my hand and smiles and I do the same.

"That's nice to hear, but I think you've got an artist on your hands," I say handing him her painting.

"Not bad, Sophie, not bad at all," he says ruffling her hair and she rushes to fix it while rolling her eyes. They actually look alike. He as the same light brown hair and pearly smile.
Siblings. Of course.

"A wise man once said to paint what makes them happy," I say smirking.

He laughs then strokes his chin thoughtfully. His jawline moves as he speaks.

"Who was the genius who said that? Oh yeah, it was me."

"C'mon, mom's waiting at home, Soph."

They walk out of the door, until her brother pops his head back into the doorway.

"By the way, the name's John Andrews."