Etching Our Way (Broken Tracks 1)

“When… when they go through the wardrobe into Narnia. I like the magic,” he says shyly.

And just like that, he’s melted my heart. “Do you think you could hold onto that happy thought for me as we go back into the studio?”

He nods and gives me a quick smile before looking down at the ground again and following me back through the doors.

I stop in the middle of the room. “Okay, now that we’re ready, I want to introduce you to your first works of art.” I point at the box of plain white coveralls that Mom is holding and we hand them out one by one. “These may look like nothing now, but once you’re finished with them, they’ll be your own special design.” I point to the plain ones I’m wearing. “I also need help decorating mine as they seem to be a bit boring.”

I wave my arms around the room. “Like I said before, you can use anything you want in here. The plastic sheet over there is for painting them, there’s hooks for you to use. Are you ready?” They all talk between themselves excitedly. “Then what are you waiting for? Help me make these beautiful!”

There’s a bustle of activity as they all walk off in different directions, checking out the different colored paints that are set up before joining me on the plastic sheet and painting my coveralls.

When it doesn’t look like I have any space left to cover, I say, “Right, now that mine are a masterpiece, yours need to be too.”

I watch as they all walk off and I step out of the coveralls, being careful of the wet paint and hanging them up in the back room before walking back through and reveling in the excited buzz that emanates from them all.

“Good kids,” Mom state's standing next to me.

I smile, nodding, but it changes to a frown as I notice Clayton sitting on a beanbag in the corner, reading. “Yeah, they are. Keep an eye on them for me for a second,” I say, walking over and sitting beside him on another beanbag.

He looks over at me before turning back to his book.

“Pauline Baynes was a very talented illustrator.” His eyes flit to me again, but he doesn’t say anything. “Both her and the author won awards for their piece of art.”

“Art?” he questions, looking curiously up at me.

I smile down at him. “Of course! Books are a form of art.”

“My dad said the same thing. The pictures are good, I guess,” he says quietly. “But… how is the book art?”

“Well, it takes a long time to write a book. Authors have to invent all of the different characters: what they look like, how they behave, and how they react to what happens to them during the story. But they also have to set the scene for readers like you so that you can picture what’s going on clearly; they too have to design a scene or place in their heads. So, although they don’t paint or draw, they use the written word to express their art, because art isn’t just about drawing and painting: it’s designing, using your imagination, and painting a story.”

I let him think about that for a minute before I roll out of the beanbag and stand up. “I think if you let your imagination run free, you’d tell an awesome story

on your coveralls.”

I study his gray eyes before walking over to a girl who is struggling to open the top on a bottle of paint.

“I don’t know what you said to him, but it worked,” Mom says in awe several minutes later.

Sure enough, when I look over at the beanbag chair, it’s empty. I scan the room, finding Clayton sitting at a table, drawing on his coveralls. It fills me with such utter joy that tears spring to my eyes. If I could do this every single day for the rest of my life, I’d die a very happy woman.

The rest of the session I flit around the room trying to get to know everyone’s names and character, but an hour isn’t enough time to get to know them all.

“Alright, everyone, it’s time to get the place in order again. Paints, pens, chalks, everything back where they were. Paintbrushes and palettes need to go in the bucket under the sink ready for cleaning. Starting next week, we’ll be using a cleaning roster, so we’ll all take turns in washing them.”

I make a mental note to make one tomorrow as I help tidy up the room.

When it’s all done, everyone’s attention turns back to me. “Your coveralls need to dry, so bring them to Tilly or me and we’ll hang them all up in the back, ready for next week's session.”

There’s a bustle of activity and a lot of noise, but that’s how it’s supposed to be, they’re kids. Kids aren’t meant to be quiet: they’re inquisitive, excitable, and frankly misunderstood. They’re a lot smarter and capable than most give them credit for.

Parents start arriving and I move into the back to hang the six coveralls that I’ve been handed. When I walk back into the front, there’s only three children left who are waiting for their parents.

I smile at them. “Did you all enjoy yourselves?”

All three shout, “Yeah,” in unison and I sigh in contentment knowing that this is exactly where I’m supposed to be.

Sigma & Paloma Faith—Changing