“Okay.” I swallowed, trying to remember the directions.
Glancing out the window, I looked over into a heavily treed area. Was Alex watching me? Was Jack De Luca? What about the person after Carson? Or were they misleading us? I closed my eyes. I am perfectly safe. Gabe and Trent are with me. My eyes swept over the area again, trying to see if I sensed anyone. There was no bone-chilling effect or raised hairs on my neck. But still… there was the possibility.
I can do this. This will hopefully be the beginning of the end to the madness.
Gabe touched my knee and I jerked toward him. “It’s okay, sweetheart. You don’t have to do this.”
“I know.” I placed my hand on his. “I want to do this. You’ll be with me the entire time.”
Behind Gabe a smartly dressed woman in her mid-thirties with wild brown curls piled in an updo exited the school. Probably Lisa.
“You okay, Willow?” I looked at Gabe whose was watching me.
Squaring my shoulders, I replied, “I’m good. Let’s do this.”
Trent got out and opened my door. “I’ll grab the trunk of supplies.”
“Thanks, Trent.”
He stepped forward. “I’m, Joe for the day.”
Oh, right. Shit. That was right. My face drained and his hand went to my elbow for a few brief seconds bringing me back into focus. He threw his voice low for only Gabe and me to hear. “You’ve got this, Willow.”
I chanced a look at Gabe. Lisa was close enough that he wasn’t able to touch me, but his eyes spoke what he wasn’t able to do. “I’m Ben.”
“Yes, yes. I’ve got it now.”
“Ms. Russo, it’s so wonderful to meet you. I’m Lisa.”
Casually, I turned to face her.
She extended her delicate hand trimmed with a pearl bracelet.
We shook briefly as I responded, “Willow, please. It’s a pleasure to be here. You have a beautiful school.”
“Thank you. We’re quite proud of it.”
Politely, I gestured to Gabe and Trent. Both men who normally exuded intimidating had been transformed. Trent had on casual jeans and had slipped on a hat. Of course Gabe looked double his age. “This is Ben and Joe. They’ll be assisting me today.” Being deceitful made me feel grimy inside.
Lisa shook their hands and exchanged pleasantries. “Are you ready to get settled? Ms. Lane, the art teacher, is waiting for you in the classroom. Your first class is in about forty-five minutes. The students have already been prepared for a guest teacher today. I’m glad you were able to fill in so they weren’t disappointed.”
Autistic children relied on consistency in schedules. In the initial conversation with Lisa, she said they liked to have a guest teacher once a quarter.
“I can’t wait to meet them.” The words were surprisingly true. Art was something meant to be shared, and if I was able to give a little bit of that magic to a child, then it was truly worth it.
We entered through the large wooden doors. The stone hallways were reverent. Our footsteps were muted as we walked down the carpeted hallway. Momentarily I paused at an archway to look at the stained glass window with a magnitude of colors. The sun shining through it cast a rainbow of colors around the room.
On the right were a few tables with children eating. A few watched me curiously as we passed. I waved but they just stared.
“I know this was in the e-mail I sent yesterday, but in case you hadn’t seen it. You’ll have four classes, each forty-five minutes long. Each class has five students with their own tables. Ms. Lane will be there the entire time to brief you on anything needed.”
I had read it briefly to see how much supplies I would need. “Are there any children I should be aware of with extreme sensory issues?”
“There is one child. She’ll be provided gloves.”
In college, I had volunteered at a special needs school throughout my junior year. It had been part of the curriculum for my classes. Art came in all forms to all people and the teacher wanted us to understand that aspect. That class had been immeasurable to my experience though I hadn’t decided to teach it myself.
We made one more turn and entered a large room. Seven art tables were set up. The comforting smell of paint filled the room as I walked in. A peace settled over the restlessness I had felt these last few days. I needed to get home to the canvas. At the hotel, I had doodled but the limitation in time proved difficult to set aside painting time. Tomorrow I would make sure I carved out some time for the studio.
I looked at the room more carefully. The art teacher had a well-equipped art room. Bright colors filled the room. Children’s art hung on every available surface. From the loving way the pictures were hung, it was obvious she cared for these children.
“Ms. Russo, thank you for guest teaching in my class today.” A young blonde-haired woman with a sweet demeanor stuck out her hand.
“Willow, please. Thank you for having me. This is Ben and Joe. They’ll be assisting me.” Trent came in with the roller trunk full of supplies. “I brought my own supplies for teaching. I hope you’re okay with it. They’re special canvases that only work with certain markers.”
“Oh, that sounds lovely. The children will love it. Please call me Aubrey.”
After the proper niceties were exchanged, Gabe and I quickly got to work distributing the supplies to each station. It was still odd seeing him move without his normal agility.
On the tables, we put the special markers next to the canvas and lined them up perfectly with the labels facing the same way.
The bell rang and I waited anxiously to meet Alex Junior.
Three classes down, one to go. I took a sip of water and blew out a breath. Alex Junior hadn’t been in the first three classes. The process of elimination meant he was in this class. Aubrey had been concerned about three new faces in the classroom. I agreed. Trent stayed in the hallway just outside the door.
The school has a magnificent curriculum. Definitely impressed. It was obvious Alex cared for his child. There were many cheaper alternatives, but Alex had chosen one of the best. It only added to the enigma of his persona. Had he infiltrated my life to pay for it? I doubted it. The school payments were probably a bonus to whatever his endgame was.
To the core I thought he was evil, but this showed he had some good in him. But was it enough? I wasn’t sure.
Gabe moseyed beside me, keeping a respectable distance between us. “How are you holding up?”
“I’m good. I needed this more than I realized. I’m anxious to get back to my studio.”
He moved to touch my hand but then pulled back and balled his hand into a fist. Aubrey glanced our way before sending another e-mail. Lowly, Gabe said, “I hate that I can’t touch you.”
“I know. This is the last class.”
Taking a few steps away, Gabe said, “I’ll be in the back of the room.”
“Okay.”
Ding.
The bell rang and the children filed in. My eyes roamed over the first child. It wasn’t him. The second. Nope. I felt the nerves shift into a higher gear. For a mere moment, I closed my eyes to project a calm exterior for the children.
I wasn’t sure if the kids realized Gabe was there as they stayed in their individual bubbles. Curious students gazed at me before going to their desks. There was a little apprehension on some since I was out of their norm, which was understandable.
The third and fourth children weren’t Alex Junior either. Between the first and second classes, I was given the Cliff’s Notes version of the children. The child with extreme sensory issues requiring the gloves would be in this class.
The next child came in with his head down and I held my breath. Dark hair, strong build. He took his seat. I froze. He was almost a replica to his father and uncle. I glanced at Gabe who watched him with love. My heart broke in two with the look of sadness passing through his eyes. As it stood now, this was as close as he would get to his nephew.
Introductions from Aubrey began, rem
inding the students I was here today as a special teacher.
The room grew quiet and I realized they were waiting on me. Keeping my voice steady, calm, I started class. “I’m Willow. And I’m an artist. I heard you guys like to do art.”
Some of the students stared at their canvases while others looked ready to get started. The student closest to me rocked back and forth as a coping mechanism to deal with an uncomfortable situation. I stepped farther back in steady motions and the rocking slowed.
“Today we are going to draw what we dream about while we are sleeping. The markers on your desk are magical. They only work on the canvas in front of you. No mess.”
A few of the students picked up the markers as I continued, “Art is anything you want it to be. I paint my feelings all the time. It’s also a way to communicate with your friends.”
Autistic children at times had difficulty interacting with others. In a room, they play by themselves even if they are surrounded by a group of their peers. My teacher in college believed through art the social gaps could be bridged between people. I agreed.
One by one, the markers touched the canvas and different shades appeared depending on what color they picked. The kids’ eyes grew in amazement as a couple accidentally dropped them on the desk and there were no marks.
Overall, it wasn’t the most elaborate lesson in the world, but it would allow me a little time to talk to each child. Each student’s ability to respond to directions showed that their teachers had worked diligently with them at this school.
One by one, I visited the tables quietly, asking what they were working on and teaching them a little about the stroke or style they were using. They were little sponges with not many questions. I gave praise. I met Gabe’s eye as I made it to Alex’s table.
“What is your painting of?”
The greenest eyes looked my way. I was stunned for a moment and my heart broke when I had to refrain from touching him on the shoulder. I wanted to shower this child with love like I would Carson’s.