Chapter 27. Ethan
Arts class is a room like a shed, next to the gyms, with long wooden tables stained with years of paint, shelves crammed with supplies, and corny motivational posters on the walls that say things like "Creativity Is Intelligence Having Fun.
" Someone drew a dick on Albert Einstein's forehead months ago, and nobody's bothered to fix it.
Every program requires arts. Doesn't matter if you're in nursing, carpentry, or business. Once a week, you sit in this room and "express yourself." Most kids hate it. But they love to complain about anything. I don't mind it. It’s the only class I can sit with my friends too.
We file in and take our usual spots. I sit near the back, Liam next to me, close enough that our elbows touch.
Jack drops into the seat across from us, already tearing the corner off a piece of paper to make a spitball.
Miles takes the far end of the table, pulls a sketchbook from somewhere, and starts drawing without acknowledging anyone.
The room fills. And then, across the aisle, Reed walks in with Mason trailing behind him. Reed takes a chair, spins it backward, and sits with his arms draped over the backrest, legs spread wide. Taking up as much space as humanly possible. Fucking Reed.
Mason sits beside him, quiet.
I’m dreading seeing Shadow, but a guard walks in instead of him. She's young, dark hair, glasses, looks bored, clipboard in hand. My whole body goes still.
"Listen up. Mr. Pearson has moved on to another position. You'll have a new arts instructor starting next week. Until then, this is a free period. You stay in this room, you keep the noise reasonable, and you don't break anything. Clear?"
Pearson. Mr. Pearson is Shadow. Moved on to another position.
That's the polished version. I talked to Griff, told him what I heard, where he could see the cameras, and now Pearson is gone.
Griff didn't tell me what he did with the information, didn't confirm or deny, just listened with that stone face and said "I'll handle it.
" And he did. The relief is so sharp it almost makes me dizzy.
I glance across the room, looking for Seth, but he's not in this class.
I hope wherever he is, he can breathe now.
The guard finds a chair in the corner, pulls out her phone, and checks out.
The room shifts. Free periods are rare. Kids scatter toward the supply shelves, grabbing paper, clay, paint. Some just lean back and talk. The energy loosens. Everybody is considerably happy.
The door bangs open and Harry strolls in ten minutes late. The guard looks up from her phone, frowns, and Harry flashes her a charming smile. Fucker. She waves him in.
"What'd I miss?" He drops into a chair next to Jack. "Arts and crafts. My favorite. Very rehabilitative."
"Shadow is gone, it seems," Jack says, not really paying attention to Harry.
“Good. Fuck that guy,” he says. I raise an eyebrow, curious if he heard anything about what he did. But I wouldn’t ask. Harry wouldn’t tell me.
Liam is already on his feet, heading for the paint supplies. He comes back with an armful, brushes, a palette, three tubes of acrylic, and dumps it all on the table.
"I'm going to paint something!" he announces.
"You can't paint," Harry says. I immediately want to punch him for telling Liam he can’t do something he wants to do.
"I can absolutely paint. I'm an artist. I draw."
"Drawing and painting are different."
"They're both art, Harry. Don't be a snob." He squeezes blue paint onto the palette.
Jack reaches across the table and grabs a piece of charcoal. "I'm sketching. Nobody bothers me. I'm in the zone."
Miles doesn't look up from his sketchbook. He’s sketching a plant. It looks good. All of my friends are artists but me.
I pick up a pencil. I don't know what I'm going to draw. I just start with lines. I make walls, windows, a doorway. Some building that doesn't exist.
"What's that?" Liam leans over, brush in hand, a smear of blue already on his cheek.
"Nothing. Just lines."
"It's a house! You're drawing our house. That's so romantic."
"It's a building with no context. Go paint your masterpiece."
He grins and goes back to his canvas. I watch him for a second. His tongue pokes out when he concentrates, the streak of paint migrating from his cheek to his jaw. He’s so cute.
From across the aisle, Reed's voice carries: "Mason, what the hell is that?"
Mason holds up a piece of paper. He's drawn something, from my angle, it looks like a bird. Detailed, careful, very good.
"It's a robin," Mason says. He looks a bit embarrassed by Reed.
"Hey, Mason," Liam calls across the aisle. "Come look at this. Tell me if this looks like a sunset."
Liam likes to pretend he’s not smart, but he is. He always knows when someone is sad or embarrassed. He always helps.
Mason gets up and walks over, leaning in to study Liam's painting. I watch Reed's eyes track him, alert, then flick to Liam, then to me. Our gazes meet for a second. I don't look away. Neither does he.
"It looks like... a bruise?" Mason says, tilting his head.
"It's a sunset!"
"The purple is nice," Mason says. "Maybe more orange? Sunsets have a lot of orange."
"See, this is why I need you. You're my creative consultant." Liam grabs an orange tube and squeezes it next to the purple. Mason sits down at our table, pulling his robin drawing with him.
Reed stays where he is for about thirty seconds. Then he stands, picks up his backward chair, carries it across the aisle, and sets it down at the end of our table with a thud. He sits, legs spread, arms folded, looking at all of us like he's doing us a massive favor.
"Don't get excited, Farley," he says. "Mason's over here. I'm supervising."
"Supervising," I repeat.
"Someone has to make sure you people don't corrupt him."
"That's rich, coming from you."
"I'm a great influence. Ask anyone."
I roll my eyes. Reed grins with that unhinged edge. But there's no venom in it today. He seems almost under control. Must be taking some meds for the mania.
"Your boy's got paint on his neck," Reed says to me, nodding at Liam. “Go clean him up.”
"I'm letting it happen."
"Loving the lazy leadership approach. It fits you, Farley.”
I roll my eyes again. He doesn’t deserve an answer.
Jack holds up his charcoal drawing. "Opinions. Now. Be honest but also be nice because I'm sensitive."
It's a portrait. Rough, expressive, the lines heavy and dark. It takes me a second to recognize who it is. Griff. Jack has captured him mid-lecture, one hand raised, mouth open, that vein in his forehead practically pulsing off the page.
"Holy shit, that's actually incredible," Liam says, leaning over. “Much better than the caricature I drew of him.”
"Wow, Jack," I say. It’s so good. He's caught something in the expression, the exhaustion under the authority, the way Griff looks like he's carrying the weight of every kid who's ever passed through here.
"Told you I could draw," Jack says, trying to sound casual, but his ears are turning red.
Reed tilts his head, studying it. "The jaw's a little off. And the nose. But the eyes are good."
"Constructive," Jack says. "I appreciate the deeply specific and unsolicited critique."
"You asked for opinions."
"I asked for nice opinions, douchebag."
"That was nice. For me."
Mason has migrated fully to our end of the table now, his robin abandoned, watching Jack add shading to Griff's portrait. "Can you teach me to do that?" he asks quietly.
Jack looks up, surprised. "The shading?"
"All of it. I can draw technical stuff, but I can't draw people. Faces."
"I mean, I can try,” he says, all excited that Mason asked him that.
Mason picks up a pencil and starts. Jack leans across to correct his proportions, their heads close together, voices low. I watch Reed watching them. He's calculating whether Jack is a threat. He must decide Jack isn't, because he relaxes back in the chair, crossing his arms, smiling.
Liam goes back to his sunset, which now looks marginally more like a sunset and less like a bruise.
"What do you think?" he asks me, holding it up.
It's messy and amateur and the proportions are wrong and the colors bleed into each other.
"I think it's the best painting I've ever seen," I say.
"Really?"
"Well… I like looking at it, baby."
He beams. "I'm signing it. It's going on our wall."
"We don't really have a wall. We’re not allowed to decorate our room."
"I'm putting it above your bed!" he exclaims, in that same excited way as always. It’s really sweet.
"You're not putting it anywhere."
"Watch me, Daddy."
Reed leans back in his chair, arms crossed, watching the exchange. "You two are disgusting," he says.
"Jealous?" Liam fires back, not missing a beat.
"In your dreams, sweetheart."
The guard in the corner glances up from her phone, scans the room, goes back to scrolling. We're fine. Just a group of kids in an art class, making things, talking shit, being normal for an hour.
Jack finishes his Griff portrait and starts a new one. I raise my eyebrows. It’s Reed, without asking permission. Reed notices, scowls, then deliberately poses, chin tilted up, jaw flexed.
"Get my good side," Reed says.
"You don't have a good side," I say.
"Shut up, Farley. Both my sides are good sides."
"Draw the scar bigger," Liam suggests. "Make it dramatic."
"Dramatic. It's already dramatic," Reed says, touching his jaw. "I got this in an actual fight. Not a playground scuffle like some people." He looks directly at me. I roll my eyes again.
“Why are you talking to me again?” I ask. I mean it. We've had nothing but animosity for three years.
“Don’t tell me who I can or cannot talk to. If I want to talk to you, I will,” he says, petty. I sigh, deciding to tune him out. Mason laughs. It's quiet, almost surprised, like it escaped before he could stop it. Reed glances at him and smirks.
The hour passes fast. Faster than any class I can remember.
When the guard announces five minutes to get the place back in one piece, there's a collective groan.
Liam's painting is still wet. Jack has three portraits finished, Griff, Reed, and one of Liam mid-laugh that's really accurate.
Miles quietly closes his sketchbook. Mason carefully slides his robin drawing in his pocket.
We clean up. Brushes rinsed, paint sealed, tables wiped.
As we file toward the door, Reed falls into step beside me. I feel myself tensing, as if he’s going to punch me. But he just says:
“Farley.”
"Hoffman," I say. “Stop calling me that, you know I hate it.”
"Farley," he repeats. I huff. Then, unexpectedly, he says, "your boyfriend’s getting better at MMA. His footwork still sucks, but the guard is improving. You’re a good teacher."
I look back at him, frowning. "Did you just say one nice thing for the first time in your life?"
"Don't let it go to your head. I'm just saying, if he makes the tournament roster, he won't embarrass you completely."
"High praise."
"The highest you'll get from me." Then he's gone, he goes to stay close to his friends in line.
Liam appears at my elbow. "Did Reed just give me a compliment through you?" I shrug. I don’t want to even think about Reed. "I think he likes us!"
"He doesn't like us. And who fucking cares what he thinks?"
"He sat at our table, he likes us," Liam says, with that grin. I roll my eyes.
“He was supervising Mason."
"He posed for a portrait, Daddy!"
"He's a narcissist."
Liam grins. "He likes us."
I don't argue, because I think, annoyingly, Liam might be right. And I don't entirely hate it.