Contessa by Lori L. Otto Read Free Book Online

youngest in the class, says to me.
    “ Jordy, I see you dressed for tonight ’ s lesson, ” I comment on his tan corduroy pants and brown windbreaker that matches the color of his skin. His white t-shirt underneath has small holes in it and is tight against his tiny frame. The kids we work with don ’ t have a lot, and Jordan and his mother live with friends while his mother tries to find work.
    Jordan nods with excitement and walks quickly to the break room to put his jacket away. I stop him on his way out. “ Jordan, I ’ ve got something for you. ” I reach up into the cabinet and pull out one of the embroidered polo shirts that carry the name of the school, Nate ’ s Art Room. “ I bet you ’ ve grown out of your other one, right? ” I know he hasn ’ t, but I also know he gets a lot of wear out of it. It is probably as tattered as the t-shirt he wears tonight.
    “ Thanks, Livvy. ” He immediately puts it on, and then drapes it with his smock. All the kids have personalized smocks, one for home and one for school. We provide them with all the supplies they need to help them develop their creativity. Not all the kids in the Art Room program are artists, even though that was the original intent of the foundation. We started a new class on Wednesdays for kids who have exceptional musical abilities. One of my cousins actually works with them. Lexi is in her last semester at Juilliard and has already started rehearsals for her first off-broadway show. For those students, we buy their musical equipment. I guess my dad ’ s wealth is definitely good for that. He does help a lot of people.
    The rest of the kids file in to get ready for class as I prepare their palettes with paint. I take my position at the front of the room while Granna hands out healthy snacks to all the kids. We always start off with a treat to give them a little energy and sustenance while I talk about the theme of that week ’ s lesson. When they ’ re done eating, we start painting.
    I make the rounds, talking to each of the eight children individually about their paintings. Some choose to do portraits, some do abstract work, one–Amanda–does a still life of her dad ’ s work boots, which she brought with her.
    “ Dad ’ s sick tonight, ” she had told me before class, “ so he said he didn ’ t need them for work. ” I knew her dad was an addict. Some weeks, she didn ’ t show up to our workshop. Granna would check on her at school every Friday to make sure she was okay and well cared for. At ten, she was far more grown up than she should have been. Most of the kids at the Art Room have similar stories. It was only recently that I found out Amanda had three younger brothers that she would have to care for when her Dad was at work and her mom was out.
    I couldn ’ t imagine that life. Although I ’ d been coming to this school for as long as I ’ d known this life, I only got to attend because my parents were the founders. I ’ d always had everything I needed. Most people think I get everything I want , but I don ’ t. It used to make me mad, because I knew my parents could afford the toys I wanted or the shoes that my friends had. My parents weren ’ t wasteful, nor were they extravagant. I began to appreciate that about them both, and it probably had a lot to do with the people I met being here–the amazingly talented kids who were dealt a much more difficult life than my own. How easily that could have been my life, though.
    After consulting with everyone, I decide it ’ s time to unveil the painting. Every week, I bring one of my own examples to show the class. They ’ re honest with their feedback, too. Sometimes they like what I do–sometimes they don ’ t get it–but I know they ’ re all talented enough to appreciate it. I let them critique it and I try to listen with an open mind to their opinions. I know this is an important lesson for them to learn–how to take criticism. As they get older, people will get