Zandrea steps out from behind the large black wooden doors, eyeing me.
“Listen. I’ve got to go. I’ll hear from you?”
“As long as you promise not to hurt her.”
There are two types of women. One you can be upfront with and they understand. The other you can be upfront with and they don’t understand, pushing for more. I never know until it’s too late, and then I end up having to hurt feelings in the flee, but I don’t purposefully set out to hurt anyone.
“You’ve got my word.”
Let’s hope Kenlyn is the understanding type.
Chapter Five
Zandrea gives me the rundown of the kids I have today, and I get class started. Last week I gave the older kids an assignment of mandalas. Anything and any way they want to create it. The younger ones got to decide an animal or flower of their choice. I think of it as homework in hopes it keeps them off the streets and out of trouble.
Volunteering for One2One Change, a mentoring program, is something I’ve loved doing. The kids have hard lives. Some are without permanent housing, missing the security of knowing they’ve got a roof over their heads at night. A few have been adopted and are acting out, and others have parents who are incarcerated. The boys are great but in need of guidance from someone they can trust and somewhere to go to keep them off the streets, even if it’s for an afternoon. The hours they’re here with me are hours they’re not getting in trouble and are safe.
A handful is all I normally have, their ages ranging from six to fifteen, with attitudes full of “alpha male wannabe” resentment and mouths worse than any sailor.
What’s my specialty? Art. Of course.
“What’s your story this week?” Oliver asks over the hushed room.
We’re not supposed to have favorites. We treat all the kids the same, stand by them and help them build their future. I do, but Ollie? He’s my ten-year-old child star who has taken residence in my heart.
The “my story” started months ago when I told them about an enormous and very intricate tattoo I did for a man. As I described the back tat, they all stopped and took full interest in it. It’s about the “sickest” most “dopest” tat of the week.
I grab a chair, spin it, and straddle it. “This chick—”
“Was she hot?” Jody, one of the fifteen-year olds whose head below his belt has been stealing blood, interrupts.
Cody smacks his teeth from under his hood and shakes his head, never making eye contact. He’s my other soft spot, the one I break the rules for…a lot. He lives with his grandfather who is an alcoholic, but when he gets ornery and abusive, Cody stays with me. Zandrea knows and keeps a tight lip about it because she understands the boy just needs a safe place to put his head.
“Does it matter?” I retort looking Jody in the eyes.
He lifts a shoulder and I continue. “We drew up an elaborate tat for her thigh—Henna style with dahlias and a sic hidden phoenix. Vibrant coloring too. Took us four hour-and-a-half-long sessions but we finished a few days ago.”
“Pictures or it didn’t happen,” Jody quips.
I pull out my phone, open the gallery and turn the photo around to him.
A wolf whistle comes from Ollie. “I’d hit that.”
Ten. He’s ten. “Ollie,” I chastise.
“What? She got a butterface or something?”
Jody cracks up. “Butterface or not. Doubt you can even get your dic—”
“Stop.” My interjection is stern. “Don’t finish that. You’re all too young to be thinking that way.”
“Yeah? When’d you lose your V card then?” Shawn leans back in his chair looking smug as hell. He’s fifteen and comes from a line of gang bangers inherited by their incarcerated father. His mother has been desperately trying to save her baby boy from making the same mistakes as his four brothers. Their rap sheet is long, and unfortunately, Shawn doesn’t see that life as a problem.
“I don’t kiss and tell. No one should. It’s disrespectful,” I say.
“You saying you don’t sit around with your homies and talk about the latest pussy you hitting?”
Benny gasps. “Why do you hit cats?” The seven-year old’s eyes are wide with horror.
“I don’t hit cats, B. It’s a figure of speech. One you should never repeat.”
The shit-eating grin on Shawn’s face threatens to obliterate my restraint. “To answer your question. No. My private life stays private. Less chances for rumors to spread, lies to take off, and no drama. You should try it.”
Shawn rocks the chair on its back legs and tips his chin high like he owns the place. “You saying you don’t brag? Boast and show off the latest…” His eyes slide to Benny and he reconsiders his words. “Bitch? Sounds lame, bro. I figured you’d been around the block a time or two, but now I realize you probably waiting around for some princess bitch.”
Cody jerks around in his chair. “Dude. What the fuck’s your problem?”
“Cody,” I growl my warning, jerking to my feet. The chair scratches across the old wooden floors and the room falls quiet. Shawn’s looking for a fight. I can see it in his eyes, the way he’s puffed up, the smirk on his lips. I bend, placing my palms on his desk in front of him and lower my face to his. Gang banger or not, he doesn’t scare me. “I got better standards than to discuss my life with a boy. Younger kids than you are in here. Watch that mouth of yours or I’ll make sure Zandrea moves you to a new program, let’s say the dance meet, and out of this one. Which would be a shame since you’re talented with a pencil.”
Shawn smacks his teeth, wearing a scowl. “You’re all talk.”
Zandrea pops through the squeaky door, but I don’t lift my gaze from Shawn. “Everything okay in here?” she questions warily.
Arching a brow, I dare Shawn to test me. “Yeah, Z. It’s all good.” The smug glare never falters from his face.
“Okay good. Everyone clean up and put your stuff where it belongs. The bus is outside.” She claps her hands and shows off her pearly white teeth.
Zandrea pretends to be straightening up some papers on my desk, keeping her back to the kids. “Shawn giving you hell?” It’s under her breath, barely a whisper.
“He’s in quite the mood today.”
Her shoulders sag and she lets out a somber sigh. “His mother called yesterday. Said he’s been hanging around his brothers all week and his attitude reflects it.”
Brothers are supposed to be protectors. Someone their younger brothers look up too. It’s a shame to say, but Shawn doesn’t have much to gain from them. Instead of learning from their father’s mistakes and breaking the mold to become successful, happy, grown men, they’d rather follow their father’s footsteps. Their futures will be behind bars or under the dirt. It’s a shame, really.
“Sometimes I wish I could shake some sense into these kids. They’ve got so much potential,” Zandrea says.
“I won’t say nothing if you won’t,” I chuckle. “We can’t save them all.” I put a hand on her shoulder. “Wish we could, but we can’t.”