Etching Our Way (Broken Tracks 1)

I know it’s rude, but I tune out again, walking away from her and peering around a corner into a battered, old kitchenette. I decide not to waste any more of our time and stop her there. “I’m sorry... Claire, was it?” She nods. “I’m sure it’ll be perfect for somebody else, but it’s not what I’m looking for. Would we be able to move onto the second property, please?” I say politely.

She smiles at me and gestures toward the door. “Of course. Do you have the address?”

I nod yes and she locks up after us, making her way to her shiny, expensive looking car.

“I like to see the positive side in any situation, but that place was a dump,” Mom says, chuckling at her own comment.

“Agreed, maybe the next place won’t be so bad?” I cross my fingers by my sides before getting into my car and driving to the next property.

I’m wrong. So, so wrong. It’s worse.

We drive into a questionable part of the neighborhood and my heart starts beating against my ribcage like a prisoner trying to get out of its cell. I’ve never been a snob; my parents weren’t wealthy people when I was growing up. I didn’t have the latest trends and newest gadgets like everybody else did, but they always made sure that I never went without.

This part of town though, it screams “dangerous” and I don’t want to get out of the car. My suspicions on the neighborhood are confirmed when Claire slips out of her car, her head snapping around warily as if she’s waiting for someone to jump her and steal her expensive looking things.

I decide to put her out of her misery and call out to her. “Claire?” Her head whips around toward me. “I think I’d like to see the final property, if that’s okay?” I give her a warm, reassuring smile and she nods, not bothering to insist we take a look inside as she climbs back into her car and speeds off.

Mom made sure I knew the last space is a little over my budget and on the other side of town, through the tunnel that clearly separates the—to put it bluntly—rich from the poor.

If I’m being honest with myself, I’m dreading being over that side of town again. Every time I’ve come back for visits I’ve avoided it like the plague, but I think that it’s time, it has been ten years after all. The saving grace about it is that it isn’t in the center of everything, it’s off the beaten track, a little further out from the main town and not too close to the college that I attended.

As we approach the tunnel, I breathe in deeply, my knuckles turning white from the force of gripping the steering wheel. Without me having to say anything, Mom grabs my hand but stays silent. She knows how hard this will be for me, even after all of these years. I give her hand a squeeze and let go, letting her know that I’m alright as I concentrate on driving the rest of the way.

We arrive on the street that the property is on and I slow down, gazing at the trees that line either side. It’s beautiful and a hopeful feeling spreads through me, replacing the anxious one about being over on this side of the tunnel.

Every building we pass is made of a beautiful red brick. I don’t know what it is about this area, but it has me smiling from ear to ear, and as I take a look out of my peripheral vision, I notice that Mom is too.

The building we pull up outside of is no different to the rest, yet it feels different. It oozes character and already has my creative juices flowing with possibilities of what I can do. I’m already envisioning a sign hanging outside the entrance.

I find a parking spot and we both step outside to meet Claire on the sidewalk in front of it. Her knowing smile has me grinning wider as she passes me the keys and gestures for us to go first.

Mom and I walk up the cobblestone path and admire the arrangement of green, white and pink flowers winding their way over the black metal balcony above the doors. My hand shakes with excitement and apprehension as I slot the key into the lock and turn it, opening the double doors to my sanctuary.

The whole shop front is made up of little square windows with black frames around them, making the already large space look even bigger as it lights up the room with sunlight. There’s long, dark wooden beams that run the length of the ceiling and from them hang copper colored light fixtures. The plain white walls are calling to be filled with colorful paintings and drawings from the little artist’s souls that will eventually inhabit this room.

I’ve already made up my mind before hearing anything or seeing the rest—this place is mine. I can imagine the high wooden art benches sitting underneath the hanging lights and the messy corner that the kids can let out any built-up energy in. I can picture the easels set up in the opposite corner, ready to be gifted with the imagination of a child. But most of all, I relish in the feeling of the laughter that will bounce off these walls, the laughter that can only be produced by a child letting go and having fun.

I feel a hand on my shoulder and I place mine on top of it. “If you don’t get this place, I’ll personally have you locked up.” Mom squeezes gently.

Claire steps forward, sensing that this is “the one.” “It’s practically ready to set up shop apart from the teensy bit of TLC it needs upstairs, but I—”

I stop her there. “There’s an upstairs?”

She smiles and points around the corner to a set of wooden stairs. I walk toward them, brushing my fingers against the dark wooden handrail as I climb them. “It used to be two apartments but the people who bought it, bought both and had the stairs installed to connect them. Unfortunately for them, near the end of the refurbishment they ran out of funds and decided to rent it out. So the upstairs is—”

“Perfect,” I say on an exhale of breath as we come to the top of the stairs.

Old, exposed beams crisscross the high-roofed ceiling and the walls are painted a shabby white, but most of that has worn off, showing the same red brick that is on the outside of the building underneath it.

The old wooden floor needs sanding and a coat of varnish but other than that, I wouldn’t change a thing. Where others would see it as a work in progress, I see the untold beauty that it will eventually become.

“Where do I sign?” I ask, turning to face Claire.

She purses her lips and says, “There is the monetary details to talk over. It’s four-hundred and fifty dollars over your rent budget, and they’re asking for two months overheads in advance.”

My gaze flits around the room, my dreams to teach children how to appreciate art and express themselv

es creatively flying out of the window at her words. My heart sinks as the fog of happiness starts to clear from my mind.