Old Ink (Get Ink'd #3) - Ali Lyda Page 0,16

opinionated head.

“Hey, lover boy,” she snapped. “Head out of your ass, okay?”

“Jesus, I’m sorry,” I said. “I just—”

“It’s your first day back in a place with a lot of history. I get it.” She winced. “Hey, wanna feel the baby kick? Maybe it’ll get your mind off a certain someone for a bit.”

Trinity took my hand and placed it on her large belly, which felt harder than I’d expected. Then, with a force that made me jolt up straight, something pressed into my palm.

“Holy shit, Trinity,” I said, awe spilling in warm waves throughout me. “That’s a whole little person in there.”

She smiled and laughed when I jumped at another kick. “I know, right? Let me tell you all about pregnancy and childbirth.” And she did, and I began to very much wish she hadn’t, because oh, God.

But did it get my mind off “a certain someone”?

Hell, no. It was apparently going to take a lot more than some graphic anecdotes to distract me from thoughts of Reagan, who was so close and yet still so far away.

Which basically meant I was in for the longest summer of my life. Great.

5

Reagan

One of the best parts about having a break from filming was having the time to volunteer at the county’s juvenile detention center. A lot of my crew had spent time there, back in the day, and that—combined with my old boss’s time spent in the center in his own youth—had cemented for me the importance of reaching out, trying to help these kids find an outlet, something they could use to create instead of destruct.

So many kids were lost to the system. They were labeled a failure before they could even buy cigarettes or fight for our country, lost causes locked up and forgotten about.

But each time I went in, I didn’t see fuck-ups. I saw kids who just needed support and someone who didn’t care about a record, someone who would give them advice without judgment, talk to them like they were any other kid. Because they were. Our detention center had a pretty robust course offering, so whenever possible, I taught an art class there for kids interested in drawing or painting. It had been a little while since I’d been able to make it out here, and I was excited to be back.

And excited for some time away from a certain new front desk employee, as guilty as that made me feel.

Setting out an array of pencils and paper in the art room, I waited for the kids who’d signed up to arrive. Well, “art room” was a stretch. The cement-block walls were painted a ghastly yellow, and there wasn’t a single window. There were desks, chairs, and a table for me, along with a whiteboard that I used to demonstrate techniques. It was absolutely depressing.

The door opened and the kids were escorted in, their orange jumpsuits almost blinding in the harsh lighting. Their faces ranged from morose and angry to smiling and joking. Often, I knew, those smiles were just for show.

Today I only had five kids sign up, which made my heart sink. But one of them was Bryan, and that more than made up for the low numbers. He had more artistic talent in his pinky than most people had in their whole body. A natural, and a decent kid on top of that.

“Good to see everyone,” I said, sitting on the edge of my table. “Have a seat. We’re going to be talking about perspective today.”

I waited until everyone was seated (slumped) in their chairs before launching in. I explained a bit about right brain versus left brain when it came to artistic perspective. I showed them how I’d use my pencil as a way of measuring, closing one eye and holding it out so it lined up with whatever my focus was.

Then I handed out the paper and pencils, and set an array of knick-knacks on my desk. Some small, some tall, some placed forward and some far behind. They were allowed to pick and choose what they wanted to draw, and I let them go to town with their inspirations. Sometimes I felt like they just needed a safe place to explore and drop the shields that were layered around their hearts.

As I walked around, I’d say something about a picture or catch up with a kid I remembered from before. Then I came around to Bryan’s desk. His picture’s perspective was skewed—but it was clear it was intentional. He’d