“Deal,” she says.
37WELCOME TO RIVERBANK RANCH ART CAMP
Riley
“This isweek three of painting on Fridays with you, and my art still looks like trash.”
“Oop! What have we talked about using negative words to talk about our art?” I ask, adding one more detail to the painting I spent all class modeling. No drawing, just feeling, the theme for today.
Except all these kids have tons of outwardly explosive feelings—anger, love, frustration, excitement, even passion. So there have been lots of grunts and sighs as brushes cross over the canvases.
Sarabeth rolls her eyes. “Using the feelings to create, not to label ourselves.”
“Correct. Now, what can you tell me about your painting, since you were so quick to express it out loud before?” I let my brush rest on the easel as I wander around to see the creations. I turned the lights off at the beginning of the class, dropping their guarded walls with it, letting them create on their own. This group of older kiddos needs that so they’re free of bias and judgment from their friends, or the lack of it.
“It’s, um,” she pinches her brows, pulling awatch thatlook from me, “interesting looking.”
“That’s a start. Tell me something you did differently than last time.”
I stand behind Ethan’s art, a kaleidoscope of blues and greens mimicking the ocean. He said he was grooving today, and that is exactly what it looks like. I’m so proud of these kiddos. When I started this class as a way to use the extra supplies and bring in extra cash, I didn’t think we would A) have so many kids interested, and B) that they would be all in.
“I used more colors.”
“Which added….”
She searches for the right word, tapping the wooden part of the brush on her chin. “Dimension?” she asks, still unsure if that’s the word she’s searching for.
Which it is.
I beam with pride, for her, all of them, for me. My alarm goes off, reminding us it’s time to go. “Good job, everyone. Go ahead and clean up and put the brushes where they go. You know the drill.”
I open the door to the shed that, just two months ago, was a mess of storage and stuff everywhere. Now, it’s the home for this small class that has given me so much in a short amount of time.
“Ms. Riley, are you going to continue these classes beyond summer?” Rose, one of the parents, asks, approaching with a parent posse right behind her.
Will I?
I don’t know. I haven’t even told Lilly about them. Now that I think about it, I wonder what she would think if I do, but with everything as uncertain as it is right now, “I don’t know.”
“I hope you do. This has been amazing for Mila and her friends. They’ve been waiting for Friday all week, and it was the same last week.”
I knew it. They act like they’re too cool and shit, but deep down, they love it. I can see it in their eyes, in the way they light up when they accomplish something, how their shoulders relaxwith a prompt they connect with. The vibes are spectacular, and the entire place vibrates with good energy and joy.
Kids start spilling out in pairs, all waving and saying the same thing—until next week, thank you, Ms. Riley, that ate.
It’s not until everyone is gone that I let myself take it all in again, but not for long, before a voice I could recognize anywhere says, “What was this?”
Lilly and Willa are standing next to each other on one end of the shed. In reality, I want to see Lilly’s expression as her being disappointed and annoyed at me, because it’s easier to just deal with that, especially if I can just brush it off, but I won’t. I’m tired of assuming and then dealing with my later spiral, so instead, I opt for the truth.
“Um, an art class.”
“Interesting. I didn’t see it in the schedule, and why after hours?”
I lean against the door frame. “It’s not on the schedule because this is separate from camp. I’ve been offering these classes in the evenings for a few weeks now.”
“Weeks? I would’ve known.”
I shake my head. “No, you wouldn’t. You’re too busy managing the rest of the camp. Come on in.”