looking at.
Sandy is
so
my fairy godfather.
“Hey, will you look at that art!” Meghan says. “It’s something else.”
My stomach jumps. “Do you like it?”
“Hell, yeah. It’s real art—not that fake scenery or that squares and triangles stuff.” Meghan scratches her cheek. “It kinda reminds me of your art.”
I hold back my laughter. “That’s because it is.”
Meghan looks at me, eyes wide, her lips parted. She’s so beautiful. “Get out!”
She walks up close to a painting and looks at my signature, then at the card beneath it. A giggle bursts out of me.
She whirls around and bops me on the head with her rolled-up painting. “You twit!” she says. “You little twit!” She bops me on the head again. I shield my head and laugh.
Meghan grabs my shoulders and turns me to face the tables of talking, laughing people. “Hey, everybody,” Meghan says loudly. “This is my friend Kendra Marshall, the artist of these paintings!”
I clap my hand over her mouth, but most people are smiling at us—even the woman behind the counter.
“Stop that!” I hiss at Meghan, but I can feel a smile sneaking onto my face. I lead her by the hand to an empty table and push her into a chair as the woman from behind the counter comes over.
“Hi, Kendra, I’m Lisa. Emil told me all about you. I’vegot something for you.” Lisa takes a wad of bills out of her apron and pulls off five twenties. “One of your paintings sold. People really like them, but I told them they can’t take them till you bring me more. So bring in some new ones real soon, you hear?”
“You got it.” I take the money and stuff it into my pocket. Two sessions paid for, just like that!
Lisa takes our order. After she leaves, Meghan turns to me. “I don’t care what your mom says; she’s wrong. Your art is good, Kendra, real good. Not everything has to be pretty.”
“I guess it doesn’t,” I say.
Happiness warms me through like the summer sun.
13
Mom’s waiting at the screen door when I get home.
I sigh and walk toward her. “It went fine,” I say, before she can ask me anything. I head to the kitchen and pour myself a glass of orange juice.
Mom hovers around me. “Why is it that you can’t paint with me, but you can with a bunch of strangers?”
Because they don’t criticize me.
“I didn’t paint. I drew. And it was different; it was about healing, not technique.”
“Can I at least see what you did?”
I stare at the bright yellow walls of the kitchen until my eyes ache. “I don’t think it’s the kind of art you like.”
“I’ve never said I didn’t like your art, Kendra.”
“Yes, you did!”
“I’ve said that some of your art won’t sell, that it’s not what people want to look at.”
“Isn’t that the same thing?”
Mom winces. “I’ve always encouraged you! Didn’t I buy you your first set of paints? Didn’t I give you all the art supplies you ever wanted?” Her lips tighten. “You have talent, Kendra. A lot of talent. I just hate to see you waste it.”
I lean back against the fridge, cross my arms over my chest. “It’s not wasting it if it helps me. Isn’t that what art is supposed to be about? Expression?”
“Art is about many things. But it won’t mean much if you don’t hone your talent. Now, are you going to let me see what you did, or not?”
If I say no, she’ll hound me until I say yes. I sigh and pull the drawing out of my backpack.
Mom plucks it from me and unrolls it. She frowns at the girl with her mouth sewn shut.
“Aren’t you going to say anything?” I ask.
“It’s … good,” Mom says, almost like it hurts her to say it.
I grit my teeth. “All right, what’s wrong with it?”
“No one’s ever going to want to look at this, let alone buy it. It’s depressing.”
I snatch the drawing back, stuff it into my bag. “I knew you couldn’t look at my art without criticizing it!”
“You asked me! I’m only trying to help prepare you for the
Sandy is
so
my fairy godfather.
“Hey, will you look at that art!” Meghan says. “It’s something else.”
My stomach jumps. “Do you like it?”
“Hell, yeah. It’s real art—not that fake scenery or that squares and triangles stuff.” Meghan scratches her cheek. “It kinda reminds me of your art.”
I hold back my laughter. “That’s because it is.”
Meghan looks at me, eyes wide, her lips parted. She’s so beautiful. “Get out!”
She walks up close to a painting and looks at my signature, then at the card beneath it. A giggle bursts out of me.
She whirls around and bops me on the head with her rolled-up painting. “You twit!” she says. “You little twit!” She bops me on the head again. I shield my head and laugh.
Meghan grabs my shoulders and turns me to face the tables of talking, laughing people. “Hey, everybody,” Meghan says loudly. “This is my friend Kendra Marshall, the artist of these paintings!”
I clap my hand over her mouth, but most people are smiling at us—even the woman behind the counter.
“Stop that!” I hiss at Meghan, but I can feel a smile sneaking onto my face. I lead her by the hand to an empty table and push her into a chair as the woman from behind the counter comes over.
“Hi, Kendra, I’m Lisa. Emil told me all about you. I’vegot something for you.” Lisa takes a wad of bills out of her apron and pulls off five twenties. “One of your paintings sold. People really like them, but I told them they can’t take them till you bring me more. So bring in some new ones real soon, you hear?”
“You got it.” I take the money and stuff it into my pocket. Two sessions paid for, just like that!
Lisa takes our order. After she leaves, Meghan turns to me. “I don’t care what your mom says; she’s wrong. Your art is good, Kendra, real good. Not everything has to be pretty.”
“I guess it doesn’t,” I say.
Happiness warms me through like the summer sun.
13
Mom’s waiting at the screen door when I get home.
I sigh and walk toward her. “It went fine,” I say, before she can ask me anything. I head to the kitchen and pour myself a glass of orange juice.
Mom hovers around me. “Why is it that you can’t paint with me, but you can with a bunch of strangers?”
Because they don’t criticize me.
“I didn’t paint. I drew. And it was different; it was about healing, not technique.”
“Can I at least see what you did?”
I stare at the bright yellow walls of the kitchen until my eyes ache. “I don’t think it’s the kind of art you like.”
“I’ve never said I didn’t like your art, Kendra.”
“Yes, you did!”
“I’ve said that some of your art won’t sell, that it’s not what people want to look at.”
“Isn’t that the same thing?”
Mom winces. “I’ve always encouraged you! Didn’t I buy you your first set of paints? Didn’t I give you all the art supplies you ever wanted?” Her lips tighten. “You have talent, Kendra. A lot of talent. I just hate to see you waste it.”
I lean back against the fridge, cross my arms over my chest. “It’s not wasting it if it helps me. Isn’t that what art is supposed to be about? Expression?”
“Art is about many things. But it won’t mean much if you don’t hone your talent. Now, are you going to let me see what you did, or not?”
If I say no, she’ll hound me until I say yes. I sigh and pull the drawing out of my backpack.
Mom plucks it from me and unrolls it. She frowns at the girl with her mouth sewn shut.
“Aren’t you going to say anything?” I ask.
“It’s … good,” Mom says, almost like it hurts her to say it.
I grit my teeth. “All right, what’s wrong with it?”
“No one’s ever going to want to look at this, let alone buy it. It’s depressing.”
I snatch the drawing back, stuff it into my bag. “I knew you couldn’t look at my art without criticizing it!”
“You asked me! I’m only trying to help prepare you for the
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