She blows out a deep breath. “It’s okay.”
“Why didn’t I know you could do that?” I ask, motioning at the colorful painted landscape.
She gives me an almostsadsmile. “I didn’t know for sure if I still could. I haven’t painted in almost two decades. But I filled out an application at the arts-and-crafts store today, and just being in there made me want to pick up a brush again.”
“You’re so good at it,” I say, stepping closer. I inch toward the canvas until I’m close enough to lean in and take in the intricate details. The way she used white highlights in the water to make it appear to shimmer. The way some strokes of the tree branches are heavier than others, adding dimension and demanding attention. The subtle yellow lines that blend seamlessly into the background while still looking like rays of sunlight.
“Thanks, honey. How was your first day?”
I turn away from the canvas. “It was okay. But I was wondering if you’ve talked to Dad. He hasn’t answered any of my calls.”
Something unreadable passes over Mom’s face before sheshakes her head. “No, I haven’t. I’m sure he’s just busy with work. He’ll call you back.”
“Yeah. I guess so,” I say, trying to shake off the feeling that something is wrong—something other than the fact that I should be in New York with him right now. “Well, I better go study.”
“Studying on the first day?” Mom asks, her eyebrows near her hairline.
I laugh at how appalled she is by the notion. “If I’m going to be here, without AP classes and a boatload of extracurriculars, I’m going to need straight As.”
“You’ve always gotten straight As.”
“Because I’ve always studied. Even on the first day,” I remind her.
She sighs. “Fine. But I support you getting a B once in a while, you know?”
“Over my dead body, Mother.”
She laughs but says, “I’m serious.”
“So am I.” I head for the door, stopping just before exiting. “Hey, what are you going to do with that painting when you’re done?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Probably throw it away so it doesn’t clutter up Aunt Naomi’s house.”
“Can I have it?” I ask.
“Um, sure, but why? It’s not anything spectacular,” she says, frowning at the canvas.
I want to tell herIthink it’s spectacular. I want to tell her I love that the cityscape reminds me of home. I want to tell her that it makes me feel sad because the small town is in the forefront, andI want to tell her I love that she was able to create something that makes me feelanythingbecause art has never done that before.
But instead I tell her, “It will liven up my attic bedroom.”
She nods with a hopeful smile. “Yeah, okay. I’ll bring it up after I’m done and it dries.”
“Awesome.”
Heading to the hallway, I glance back at the painting one last time, where the fading city feels like a depiction of a distant memory.
I want to tell her that I’m afraid of that becoming a reality.
Chapter Seven
The Vanderbilt Orchard is a twenty-acre plot of land on the edge of town, with evenly spaced trees in long rows and wood-burned signs labeling the types of apples people can expect to pick in various sections of the expansive field.
Sloane is popping popcorn and handing it out to kids. Mom is dispensing cute brown baskets to visitors picking apples, while Aunt Naomi is walking around making sure everything is running smoothly.
Cooper’s been helping wherever he’s needed, and although he’s passed by several times, he hasn’t acknowledged me. But after stressing about it all week, I’ve decided I don’t care. Between Sloane, Jake, and even Slug, I’m slowly making friends.
Cooper Barnett can kick rocks.
