Sloane shakes her head. “Of course. You two type-A organizational freaks would agree that not bringing supplies is blasphemy. But it’s Jake, and if you’re going to be friends with him, you might as well get used to it.”
“Jake Keller?” Aunt Naomi asks. “In that case, I take it back. He’s sweet and helpless, like a lost puppy. You might as well keep a notebook and pencil just for him in your backpack.”
I slip off my shoes. “I think maybe I need new friends.”
Sloane laughs, and I follow her into the living room.
“So, can I ask a favor, Aunt Naomi?”
She sets down the coasters she’s holding and looks at me. “Anything.”
“Would you be willing to write me a recommendation letter for me to add to my college applications if I volunteer for the town’s fall events?” I ask.
“Oh, that’s a fantastic idea,” she says. “I can’t believe we didn’t think of that earlier. The Bramble Falls tourism board would be a great addition to your résumé. Of course I’ll write a letter. Does that mean you’ve reconsidered then?”
“Yeah, I think it’ll be good experience.” Or at least look like good experience to colleges.
“Excellent! I’ll get you assigned to something for Saturday,” she says.
“Actually, could I work with Jake?” I ask.
Aunt Naomi looks at me, then at Sloane, who presses her lips together trying not to smile.
“It’s not like that,” I tell them.The guy doesn’t even bring a pencil to class,I want to scream for the umpteenth time.
“Mm-hmm,” Sloane hums.
“I believe you, sweetie,” Aunt Naomi says unconvincingly. “And, yes, I’ll see if I can make sure you’re with him.”
“Thank you. Do you know where my mom is?”
“I think up in her room,” she says.
“Okay, thanks.”
I’m climbing the steps, calling Dad for the hundredth time, when Sloane shouts, “I have Jake’s number if you want it!”
“No thank you!” I yell down behind me as Dad’s voicemail pours through the phone speaker. Again. I end the call with a sigh.
Upstairs, Mom’s door is cracked.
I knock lightly. “Mom? You in there?”
Classical music plays quietly from inside. I’ve never heard my mom listen to classical music in my life, but she’s humming along. She knows this piece.
I push the door slowly open, revealing my mom in a chair at the window, a large canvas on an easel in front of her. A palette sits on the nightstand beside her. She brushes a bright red across the canvas, completely lost to the world. The same way I get when I’m creating clothing designs.
Orused to get, I should say, seeing as I haven’t been doing much creating lately.
The music crescendoes, growing bigger. Louder. Intense.And Mom’s strokes become wider. Longer. Bolder.
I stand out of her line of vision as I watch her blend colors and create shapes and strategically leave negative space until a painting of a river flowing through a small town with a cityscape in the distant background is rendered on the canvas in front of her.
“Wow,” I breathe. Mom’s anartist. She’s basically Bob Ross, and I had no idea.
Mom jumps, spinning around with her hand over her chest. “Ellis. You almost gave me a heart attack!”
“Sorry. I knocked….”
