HARDNOCK LIFE - by Success Uwakwe

Chapter Three: Paper Crowns Friday came fast. Micah stood in front of the cracked mirror in the group home hallway, trying to make sense of his reflection. The button-down shirt Ms. Kenner brought him didn’t fit quite right. Too long in the arms, tight at the shoulders. But it was clean. Pressed. Paired with the least-dirty pair of jeans he owned and his worn sneakers scrubbed as clean as they’d get. He still didn’t feel like he belonged. “You look alright, man,” said Trey from down the hall. Trey was thirteen, rough around the edges, but never cruel. “You going to that art thing?” Micah nodded. “Good luck. Don’t forget us when you’re famous.” Micah smirked. “I’ll send you an autograph.” He stepped outside. The evening air was crisp, and the sky above the city was pink and orange, like the whole world was catching fire slowly. The walk to the community center felt longer than it should have, every step louder than the last. The weight of hope sat on his shoulders in a way that felt almost unfamiliar. He was used to loss. Not possibility. The center buzzed with people — teachers, parents, kids, neighbors. Colorful art lined the walls: photographs, collages, charcoal sketches, acrylic canvases. Micah hovered near the entrance at first, shoulders tense, wondering how fast he could sneak out unnoticed. Then he saw it. His drawing — the rooftop boy with the paper crown — framed and hanging in the center of the wall. Spotlighted. The caption read: **"Micah Davis – East Haven High School"** He felt his chest rise in a way it hadn’t in months. A couple stood in front of it, murmuring. The woman said, “It’s… lonely, but proud.” “Like he’s not asking for anything,” the man replied. “Just holding on.” Micah didn’t move. Just listened. That’s all he’d ever wanted — to be seen without needing to scream. --- “Micah!” He turned to see Ms. Kenner approaching in a gray coat and gold earrings. She smiled with pride that warmed the whole room. “They loved it,” she said, nodding toward the judges. “I overheard one ask if you’d be interested in a mentorship at the art college.” Micah blinked. “What?” “It’s not a full scholarship,” she said. “But it’s a start. They’re offering you Saturday sessions. Supplies. Real instruction.” Micah’s mouth opened but no words came out. Ms. Kenner touched his arm. “You earned this. You’re not a fluke, Micah. You’ve got something they can’t teach.” For the first time in months, Micah felt the knot in his chest loosen. --- But nothing in his world stayed good for long. By Sunday night, trouble found him again. He came back late from the center. Still dressed in his stiff shirt, still carrying the folder with his drawings and the flyer from the art program. The door to the group home was cracked. Voices raised inside. Micah stepped in slowly, just in time to hear one of the staff arguing with Dante. Again. “You think you can just run this place? Start fights? Threaten people?” “I think I can do whatever I want,” Dante snapped. “Ain’t nobody protecting us.” “Micah,” the staffer said

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