Chapter 17: Strokes of Valor The art center's main gallery buzzed with a nervous energy Clara hadn't felt since the mural's unveiling. Folding tables lined one wall, covered with butcher paper and scattered art supplies for the open house prep session. The concrete walls, still adorned with mural sketches, now held new additions: Sofia's thorn-pierced heart, Mia's candle, Malik's cracked basketball, and a dozen others from recent workshops. Javier's birdcage sketch wasn't among them-he hadn't offered it for display-but Clara felt its presence in her pocket, a talisman of quiet progress. It was Wednesday, nine days until the open house, and the teens were sprawled across the room, some sketching, others debating which pieces to showcase. Sofia stood on a chair, pinning a new watercolor-a blazing phoenix rising from ash-to the wall, her green-streaked hair catching the fluorescent light. Mia sorted through a stack of drawings, her fingers careful, like she was handling glass. Malik leaned against a table, sketching idly, but his eyes kept darting to the door, as if expecting trouble. Javier sat apart, hoodie up, his charcoal moving in slow, deliberate arcs across his paper. Clara clapped her hands, her heart-shaped necklace glinting. "Alright, team, let's focus. The open house is our chance to show the city what this program does. We'll set up a mini-exhibit-your art, your stories. Think about what you want people to see when they walk in." Malik snorted, not looking up. "What, like a dog and pony show? Draw pretty pictures so the suits don't shut us down?" Clara's smile tightened, but she nodded. "Pretty much. But it's more than that. It's about showing who you are. Your art's already doing that-just look at these walls." Sofia hopped off the chair, dusting her hands. "Yeah, Malik, don't be a buzzkill. My phoenix is gonna blow their minds." She grinned, but her eyes flicked to Clara, checking for approval. "It will," Clara said, warmth softening her voice. "All of your work will. Let's pick a few more pieces and start writing short descriptions. Keep it real-tell people what your art means to you." The room settled into a hum of activity. Mia paired with Sofia, their heads bent over a shared sketchbook, while Malik grudgingly joined another boy, Diego, to sort through their drawings. Clara moved to Javier, who was still alone, his paper now showing the faint outline of a bird, wings half-formed, caught mid-flight. "Looking good," Clara said softly, crouching beside him. "Want to include it in the exhibit? No pressure." Javier's hand stilled, his eyes hidden under his hood. "Not yet," he muttered. "It's... not done." "Fair enough," Clara said, standing. "Whenever you're ready." She felt his gaze follow her as she moved away, a weight that wasn't entirely guarded anymore. Maya burst through the door, arms full of poster boards and a bag of markers. "Your VIP has arrived!" she announced, her yellow scarf trailing. "Got supplies for signs, and I bullied the print shop into donating flyers. We're going big, Clara." The teens cheered, and even Malik cracked a smile. Clara's chest loosened-Maya's energy was a lifeline. But as she helped unpack the supplies, her phone buzzed. A new email from Elena, the subject line stark: Funding Update. Clara's stomach dropped. She slipped into the hallway to read it, her fingers trembling. Clara, the board's leaning toward cutting the workshop unless we show significant community impact at the open house. Attendance numbers from the mural event helped, but they want evidence of ongoing engagement. Also, Councilman Pierce will attend-he's a skeptic. Impress him. - Elena Clara leaned against the wall, the folder of reports heavy in her bag. Councilman Pierce. She'd heard of him-sharp, budget-obsessed, and unmoved by "fluffy" programs like art. The open house wasn't just a showcase now; it was a battle. Back inside, she kept her face neutral, but Maya caught her eye, sensing the shift. Clara shook her head slightly-not now. She threw herself into the prep, helping Sofia draft a description for her phoenix ("It's me, burning up the bad stuff and starting over") and praising Mia's careful cursive on a label for her lighthouse. But her mind churned. Numbers. Engagement. Pierce. The words felt like smudged paint, obscuring the clarity she'd found in Javier's feather or Sofia's thorns. As the session ended, Malik lingered, his sketchbook under his arm. "Clara, you're stressing. What's up?" She blinked, surprised by his directness. "Just... a lot riding on this open house. The center might lose funding if we don't pull it off." Malik's jaw tightened. "That's messed up. This place-it's the only spot I don't feel like I'm drowning." He hesitated, then added, "You need us to step up, we will. Just say it." Clara's throat tightened, his words echoing her father's: Keep showing up. "Thanks, Malik. I'll let you know. For now, keep making art like that." She nodded at his sketchbook, and he shrugged, but his shoulders relaxed. That evening, Clara's parents' kitchen smelled of roasted garlic and rosemary, the table set for three. Ellen, her mom, slid a plate of chicken toward Clara, her eyes soft but searching. Tom poured water, his graying hair catching the lamplight. "Alright, kiddo," he said, sitting. "You've got that look again. Talk." Clara poked at her food, then spilled it all: the email, Councilman Pierce, the pressure to prove the workshop's worth. "I'm scared I'll let them down-the kids, the center. What if I can't make the board see it?" Ellen reached for her hand, her grip steady. "You're not alone in this, Clara. Those kids are fighting with you. Let them. And don't forget the community-the mural brought people together. They'll show up for you now." Tom nodded. "Your mom's right. You're not just teaching art-you're building something bigger. Trust that." Clara touched her necklace, the engraved words a quiet pulse. "I'm trying," she whispered. Later, in her studio, Clara stood before her canvas. The reds, purples, and gold had grown into a chaotic skyline, now split by a jagged horizon. She added a new stroke-a bold arc of white, like a wing cutting through the dark. It wasn't finished, but it felt alive, like the kids' art, like the fight ahead. Her phone pinged-a text from Sofia, sent to the group chat: Yo, Clara, check this. Attached was a photo of a flyer, hand-drawn by Sofia and Mia, announcing the open house. Art That Speaks it read, with a sketch of a phoenix and a lighthouse intertwined. Clara's eyes stung. The kids were stepping up, just like Malik said. But as she set her brush down, a new worry crept in. The open house was a chance to save the program, but what if Pierce saw only dollar signs, not the phoenix or the feather? Clara opened Elena's folder, her pen hovering over the report. She wrote one line, inspired by Malik's words: This place keeps us from drowning. It wasn't numbers, but it was truth. She'd make Pierce see it, somehow.
