Iris


    "Mommy? Mommy, wake up!"


    I jolt awake to find Miles shaking my shoulder. The studio floor is hard beneath me, and my neck aches from the awkward angle I must have slept in. Scattered around ine are paint tubes, brushes soaking in water, and a half- empty coffee mug with a film on top that makes me almost gag.


    "What time is it?" I groan, pushing myself up.


    "It''s morning time," Miles informs me. "I''m hungry."


    Of course he is. I rub my eyes, trying to orient myself. Thest thing I remember is adding the final touches to the sky in my painting, determined to get the exact shade of blue I wanted.


    My gaze drifts to the massive canvas propped against the far wall, and despite my exhaustion, I feel a rush of excitement course through me. It''s done. Finally, after weeks of work, my final piece isplete.


    The painting shows us on horseback, exactly as we were that day at the ranch. Arthur sits tall on Thunder, one arm around Miles, who points excitedly toward a ridge in the distance.


    I''m on Buttercup, slightly behind them, my hair caught in the wind. And there, in the foreground, is the pine


    branch obstructing the view of what exactly Miles is pointing at.


    The she-wolf.


    I meant for the wolf to be our little secret, something only Arthur and I would recognize. But looking at it now in the morning light, I wonder if others might sense her presence too, might feel the quiet power emanating from that hidden corner of the canvas.


    "Mommy, I''m hungry," Miles repeats, tugging at my paint-sttered shirt.


    "Right, sorry." I scramble to my feet, my joints protesting the movement after hours on the hard floor. "Let''s get you some breakfast."


    As Miles eats his breakfast, I mentally organize my day. The exhibition is in two days, which means I still have time to finalize my presentation. I''ve decided to focus on theck of arts funding for schools in Ordan-an issue that''s close to my heart and perfectly aligned with the conversation I had with my mother at the estate.


    But I need more than just statistics and my own experience. I need firsthand ounts from the people dealing with these cuts every day.


    After getting Miles ready for the day, I make some calls. By noon, I''ve arranged interviews with three art teachers from different schools across the city-one from an affluent district, one from a middle-ss area, and one from a school in a neighborhood simr to where I grew up.


    I drop Miles off with Alice, who''s more than happy to watch him for a few hours. "So the mysterious painting is finally done?" she asks as Miles runs off to y with her cat.


    "Yep," I confirm with a nod. "I''ll give you a sneak peek before the exhibition if you


    want.''


    "Obviously I want," she says with mock offense. "I''m your best friend. I deserve exclusive previews."


    My first interview is at Westside Elementary, one of the better-funded schools in Ordan-and where I''ve actually signed Miles up to start kindergarten in a month. Even so, the art room shows signs of budget constraints-dried-


    up markers, brushes with syed bristles, paper that''s too thin for proper watercolors.


    "It gets worse every year," the teacher tells me as we sit at the tiny desks that are meant for the children. "Five yeafs ago, I had a budget of five thousand dors per semester. Last year, it was down to fifteen hundred. This year, they gave me eight hundred and told me to be grateful"


    "Where is the money going?" I ask.


    She shrugs. "That''s the million-dor question, isn''t it? Administration says enrollment is down, costs are up. But when I look at the football team getting new uniforms every season..." She trails off, clearly not wanting to say something she might regret.


    My next interview at Midtown Junior High tells a simr story. The teacher, a dedicated man in his fifties, points to shelves of musical instruments gathering dust.


    "We had to cut the band programpletely," he exins. "Now I teach visual arts in the morning and drama in the afternoon, trying to cover everything with less than half the resources we had before. The kids are the ones who suffer."


    When I ask where the funding went, just like the first interview, he seems reluctant to specte. “AIN know is that it wasn''t redirected to any other department. Science still uses textbooks from the nies. The gym ceiling leaks. It''s not like anyone in this building is seeing that money."


    By the time I reach my final interview at Eastside Elementary-a school serving one of Ordan''s poorest neighborhoods-I have a gnawing suspicion in my gut. The teacher is young, but I can already tell her passion is


    fading.


    "It''s not just arts funding," she says quietly, ncing around as if worried about being overheard even though we''re alone in her ssroom. "It''s everything. Last year, we were approved for a major renovation-new windows, updated wiring, a proper venttion system. The money was allocated, then suddenly ''redirected.'' No exnation, no timeline for when we might see those improvements." Chapter 257