AllFreeNovel
Share Us
My cell phone vibrates against my leg again, and I am reminded that I need to be a million other places other than here.
“Miss Carr, I need the bathroom!”
“Miss Carr, is the paint ready?”
“Miss Carr, can I draw dinosaurs today?”
The kids all talk over each other, the hum of their chatter growing louder with their anticipation. Clearly, art class is the best one, but it is already giving me a migraine.
I take a few steps farther into the room, and Emily looks up at the movement. Her eyes soften and a small smile comes to her face that makes me feel glad that I came. My smile reflects hers automatically.
“Oh great, you’re here!” she says, throwing me an apron that has old paint splotches on it from across the room. I look down at my new navy Prada suit. I came severely unprepared for this.
“Fuck,” I murmur, looking down at the apron in my hand, and the whole class stops. You could hear a pin drop as I lift my head and see what has everyone’s attention and realize they are all looking straight at me.
I gaze around the room, seeing that all ten pairs of eyes are on me, and they all have a look of shock on their faces.
“You said the bad word…” little Rosie whispers to me. Shit, they all heard me swear.
“Oh no, you are in trouble now,” the older boy whispers as his eyes dart from me to Emily and back again.
“Mr. Rothschild!” Emily berates me in her schoolteacher tone, and for some reason, my dick really likes it.
“We do not speak like that in this classroom!” she says, a small glint in her eye as all the kids look around at anything but me.
“I’m sorry, Miss Carr, it won't happen again,” I grit out to her, equal parts annoyed and turned on as my cell phone continues to vibrate against my leg.
“Mr. Rothschild, can you put on your apron and assist me with the paint, please?” She can’t be serious. This suit costs five thousand dollars. Even with the apron, that’s not happening.
She stands there, watching me, her hands on her hips, waiting for my response. When she doesn’t get one, she lifts her left hand and wiggles her ring finger, reminding me of our deal and also of the box I have in my other pocket.
I sigh, having no choice but to concede as I take off my jacket and lay it on her desk in the corner. Rolling up my sleeves, I then put the apron on and walk over to her to see nothing but delight in her eyes.
“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” I ask, unable to hide the amusement from my tone as I help her grab the large bottles of paint from the cupboard.
“Thoroughly,” she says with a smile. With a grunt, I walk the bottles over to the center of the table, setting them down. I survey the table. Paints, brushes, water, and paper all adorn the space, while Emily gets everyone organized in their aprons.
“Mr. Rothschild, can you help me?” a small voice peeps out, and I turn to see Rosie leaning against her walking cane, not far away. I walk up to her and grab her hand.
“Sure, Rosie, what do you want to paint?” I ask as we make our way carefully to the table. When she reaches out, I help her place her small hand onto a chair for her to sit.
“I want to draw my family,” she says with a big smile. I watch her for a beat, smiling myself. She is without sight, but one of the happiest people I have ever met.
“Okay,” I say, not knowing the first thing about painting. Stick figures are as far as my creative flow extends.
“Can you get my special paper, please?” she asks, and I look around the table before I spot a small folder with paper inside. Rosie’s name is written on the front.
“I’ve got it,” I say, reaching over, grabbing the folder, and putting it near her. I open it and look at the paper. There are raised marks on every sheet. Each one with a small descriptor on the top. I’ve never seen anything like it, and I am quiet for a moment as I take it all in.
“So you have a few different pages here…” I offer, feeling stupid that I had no idea blind people could paint and there was this type of thing on the market.
“If you put my brush in the paint, then onto the paper, I can do the rest,” she says confidently, and I admire her tenacity.
“Sure, here.” Placing her brush onto the plate of paint, I guide her to the paper with the invisible, raised lines. Her brush follows her fingers as they feel for the lines on the page, and I see a stick figure with long hair come to life.
The paint is a bit messy, but probably better than I could do. Her fingers are also coated, but I have noticed her sense of touch is really what is working here. She is feeling her way, feeling the paint, the paper, all of it.
“Who is that?” I ask, amazed at her ability.
