Art Critic Pt. 4

I haven't been in a library since, well since they stopped making me go in school. I was never much of a reader. I'd rather learn by word of mouth. Tell me something, I got it. I can read, but it's so boring. My favorite day is when the teacher would roll in the TV on the cart, and we'd watch a documentary.

I see kids haven't changed much, the place is basically empty. There's people all over the campus for after school activities and the library, dead quiet. I know it's supposed to be, but there's not even anyone snoring. Just the librarian, and a kid with cornrows sitting at a table reading by himself. "Josiah, the kid I was looking for. Way easier than I thought it would be.

"You Josiah," I take a seat across from him. No response. "Hey kid," I say louder.

"Sir, keep it down," the librarian says.

"Ain't nobody in here but him, and I'm trying to talk to him," she shrugs and goes back to work.

"Why do you want to talk to me," I've got Josiah's attention.

"Well, you're a suspect."

"Is this some kind of elaborate gay joke," he's irritated and starts to pack his bag.

"What? No. I'm a private detective. There's an art gallery down the road. They've been having someone spray paint Harlem Renaissance art on their building. People said you know a lot about history. So you're a suspect in a crime."

"Oh, well I did't do it."

"Is that your only response to being accused of a crime? Because that's not very convincing."

"Well, I'm not that good at art."

"Not even Aaron Douglas?"

"I'm more Langston Hughes than Aaron Douglas."

I'm wasting my time at this point. The kid is giving me straight answers and nothing else. He also doesn't have any signs that he might be the guy. His notebooks don't even have any doodles, there's no paint on his hands. If you're spray painting you're bound to get some pain on your hands.

"Well, sorry to bother you," I leave the table and head out.