4

Bella

Art is my last class of the day.

It's my favorite.

For one hour, I can forget about the mess I've made of my life and just be me.

Art is a great escape.

I sit in front of a blank canvas.

Garrett, he hates being called Mr. Smith, gives us free rein on Fridays.

He makes his rounds, yelling at Mike for clearly trying to make a bong out of red clay.

I'm still staring at the empty void in front of me. My hand lifts and then falls back to my lap over and over again.

"Beautiful work, Bella," Garrett says, placing a supportive hand on my shoulder. "It could use a little work here though."

He points to the very middle and moves on to the next person.

I get to work.