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I take out a fresh can of black and let the color glide over the red brick. As the area gets coated thick, I think about my past and all the things I wish I could change. I think of my mother and how I haven’t cried over her since I was fourteen.

She used to tuck me in and sing the same song each night. What I Did For Love. When I was sick, she would make me chicken noodle soup, and when I was in trouble, my punishment would be to read stories from her old magazines—human-interest stories of people living real lives with real problems. I had to write essays on them and hand them in like a test. If I learned the moral of the story, I was out of trouble. It was a beautiful lesson to have as a young boy.

The lullaby plays in my head as I coat the plywood covering the window in a vibrant red.

The present state I am living in rages my brain. A torment of needs and wants weigh heavy on my mind.

How can I be the man Harper needs if I don’t have a full grasp of the man I am?

15

HARPER

The weekend came and went. April and I went shopping on Saturday and made dinner together on Sunday. This morning, I woke up with an extra pep in my step.

I stop by the teachers’ lounge to grab a doughnut and another cup of coffee before heading back downstairs to the auditorium where my fifth grade class is waiting for me in the back. Usually, the teacher’s aide escorts them up, but today, I’m here to take them up myself.

It’s loud in here as the students pour in through the double doors. Many kids are walking from the cafeteria where they’ve had breakfast. When the principal starts her morning class calls, we wait as the younger kids file out of the room. When it’s our turn, I shout for my class to follow me through the halls.

Thirty-two students fall in line behind me. They’re young enough to be wrangled but old enough to start defying. Ten is a tough age to teach, but I enjoy it. Especially since this is the year I introduce some of my favorite classic novels to students. You don’t know the real measure of a child until you see them analyzing some of the greatest works in history.

“Put your coats and backpacks away and take out your red folders,” I announce once they are all inside.

The kids take longer than I’d like getting themselves settled. Malik stops at my desk with a question on the weekend homework. Nate is goofing off in the back.

“Nate, get to your desk now. This is no way to start the week,” I say and then give my focus back to Malik. “It’s okay. We’re going to go over this in a few minutes. Go sit, so we can get started.”

I walk over to the windows and pull up the shades. There’s a ton of glare on this side of the building in the afternoon, so I’ve been dropping the shades to keep the sun out of the kids’ eyes. It also hides the less than pleasing building next to us that has been abandoned as the city and developers fight over what to do with it.

“Put your homework packets on your desks,” I say as I pull the string on the first blinds.

“Wow, Miss Doyle, that looks awesome!” Malik shouts.

I turn to him as I walk to the next window. “What does?” I ask.

“That.” He points out the window.

I pull the next string and turn around. I gasp in surprise at the sight. “Holy sh—” I catch myself from cursing as I cover my mouth.

Across from my classroom, on the second floor of a dilapidated building, is a mural the size of a billboard. It canvases the entire side of the building. It’s not just the size that’s impressive, but it’s also the art drawn on it.

Visionaries such as Norman Rockwell sits alongside celebrities like Jennifer Lopez, Robert Downey Jr., Carmelo Anthony, Alex Rodriguez, the Beastie Boys, and Jay-Z. In the center, in block letters, are the words Be Anything.

I close my eyes and open them again, making sure what I’m seeing is real.

“They look like floating heads,” Quinton says from the window.

All the students have come up and taken a spot next to the glass of one of the three windows in the classroom.

“They’re all New York City born and raised,” I say, still mesmerized by the images. I point to each and tell the students who they are, as some are unrecognizable to their young eyes.

The roses that were originally painted on my body stare back at me from the corner of the image. Next to them is the phrase Mon chéri.

“What does that mean?” Malik asks.

I say barely above a whisper, “My darling … in French.”

I’m not one to cry. For some reason, this incredibly kind act for my students, a request I said out loud during a casual conversation when I didn’t think something like this was possible, has me in tears.