Old Ink (Get Ink'd #3) - Ali Lyda Page 0,45

with me—God knows I’d made plenty mistakes myself. “No, I can...I can handle it. And it’ll be nice to see you teach. But you’re getting me a drink after this.”

His smile melted the rest of my residual anger away. “You’ve got it.”

We went inside. It was a pain in the ass to sign in, go through all of the detectors, getting badges, hearing the rules. Reagan glided through with ease and confidence. I was trying not to scream at being inside the yellowed cement walls and catching the orange of the jumpsuits here and there.

I followed Reagan and a guard to a classroom. It was eerily familiar. I’d been in one like this plenty of times. There’d always been classes at the center, ways to “better” yourself. In my experience, though, they were taught by teachers who didn’t give a fuck about the kids, they just wanted something to look good on their moral resume. Look at me, look how generous I am, teaching fuck-up kids how to read. Aren’t I so great?

Reagan prepped the classroom, putting out sketches that the kids had done and briefly explaining to me the lesson they were on. Before he’d finished, the group of student inmates were led in. They looked all too familiar. I didn’t know them, but it was a look I was familiar with. Pale and ashen skin. Bruises under eyes. Snide twists of the mouth or outright glares. Being in this place meant having your soul and dreams crushed under the boot of the establishment.

Not that you didn’t do your part to land in here. I knew that, of course. I’d definitely earned my ticket. But still…the fact of the matter was, juvenile detention was rarely fair. It wasn’t a place that offered reform and second chances. It was a place that, in my experience, hid “bad” kids away until they could be “bad” adults and locked up for good.

“Okay, guys, let’s review what we talked about last time, and then I’ll give you time to read over my comments while I set up something new to work on. You’ll be able to talk to me one on one regarding my critique, okay?”

Reagan spoke in his normal voice. He made eye contact with the kids. His body language was relaxed. It was just him...talking about something he was passionate about.

And the guys were eating it up. I was only believing it because I was seeing it, but he had their full attention and respect. After he’d reviewed, all of the kids flipped their art and read what he’d written. Like they actually cared about his opinion. It was...surreal.

For the next hour, I sat and watched Reagan move from kid to kid. He’d squat to be on their eye level. He listened to them and took their words seriously. He helped, making time to give individual pointers. There were smiles and laughs, inside jokes, and everyone was concentrating on what they were doing. It was a complete one-eighty from what my experience had been.

There was one kid in particular, Bryan. I was sitting close enough to hear when Reagan approached him. I’d glimpsed at Bryan’s work and the kid was unbelievably talented—and no doubt Reagan saw it as well, because he spent a little extra time at Bryan’s desk. After a while, their conversation moved from art to Bryan’s upcoming release.

“Have you considered what I said?” Reagan asked him.

Bryan leaned back and smiled, his teeth flashing. “Yeah, man. I’ll come talk to you when I get out. We’d have to hash out some of the details, but...I’ll come see your shop.”

Reagan clapped him on the shoulder. “Good choice. I’m looking forward to seeing you on the outside.”

I was silent while we went through the process of cleaning up after the class, signing out, and exiting. It wasn’t until we were in the truck that I spoke. “Thank you,” I said. “That was actually remarkably helpful.”

And I meant it. Watching Reagan and seeing how there was such a positive reaction to his presence changed how I viewed him and the volunteers at the center. Just because I’d had a shit time didn’t mean all volunteers sucked by default.

“I’m glad. That kid, Bryan? I’m hoping he’ll come work for the shop when he gets out. He has crazy amounts of talent.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I saw that—both the talent and your offer. Are you a mentor for him?” Gears in my head had begun to start spinning again.

Reagan shrugged and pulled out of the