STARSCAPE BOOKS(9)

I probably should have stayed away longer. That evening, the police showed up at our house. The entire art room had been trashed after school—except for my project. Every pencil, brush, and piece of pastel was broken. Every paint tube was squeezed empty and stomped flat. There wasn’t a single whole sheet of paper left. All the easels were trashed, and both blackboards had been ripped from the walls. Even the lights had been broken.

The school pressed criminal charges. Dad wouldn’t look at me during the hearing. Mom’s face was so sad, I couldn’t look at her. The thing is, they could have hired the best lawyer in the country. Mom wanted to, but Dad refused to help me. He said I needed to understand that all actions had consequences. I didn’t have a chance. The judge gave my parents a choice—juvenile detention or Edgeview. At least they’d picked the one I was able to survive.

I can look back now at the trail of smashed and broken stuff, and understand how my parents felt. I think the worst part for them was that I’d never admit I’d done anything. The worst part for me was that they didn’t believe me when I said I was innocent.

When I got home from Edgeview, it took Dad a while to even talk to me. But after I made it though the first marking period without any problems, and brought home a good report card, he started to relax and talk to me again, like he did when I was little. He’d explain the business deals he was doing, and I’d tell him how my classes were going.

I especially loved high-school art class. It wasn’t just stupid craft projects like we’d done in elementary school. We learned about the golden section and studied famous artists. Ms. Vanderhoven was great. In November, when we started doing watercolors, she let me use one of her own brushes.

“Nice?” she asked as I laid out a thin line of cobalt blue.

“Yeah.” I couldn’t believe the difference between her brush and the cheap ones we used in class. Those worked little better than cotton swabs. With this one, I had total control of the paint. I blotted it out and tried a dry-brush stroke. I stared at the results, amazed I could paint that way. “Do they make these for oil paints, too?”

“Absolutely. They make wonderful paints, too. I’ve got an extra catalogue you can have.”

When I asked Dad for some money to buy a good set of Winsor & Newton brushes—that’s the brand Ms. Vanderhoven uses—and some tubes of paint, he reminded me that I was still in debt. “You aren’t getting any art supplies until you pay off the money you owe for all the supplies you destroyed.”

“But that’s not fair. I’ve changed. I don’t get in trouble anymore.” I didn’t see why I should still be punished for something I had done when I was so different than I am now.

“I’m glad you’ve changed. But that doesn’t erase your responsibility. You can’t just remove red ink from the balance sheet.”

“I’m really good at art,” I told him. “You should see what I can do with a set of those brushes.”

“Artists starve,” he said.

“Not good artists,” I said.

The phone rang. “We’ll talk about this later.”

I could tell he wasn’t going to change his mind. But I didn’t give up. When it got near Christmas, I mentioned the brushes to Mom. I figured she’d understand. She had a degree in English and was working as a fact-checker at a publisher’s before she met Dad. She still worked at home, part-time. Being around editors and writers a lot, she’d have to be familiar with creative passions. But all she’d said was, “We’ll see.”

I saw. I got clothes for Christmas. I pretended I was happy. I wanted to sulk, or shout, but I’d gotten used to the pleasures of a life without drama. So I didn’t pitch a fit or break anything in my room. Instead, I tried to take the clothes back and exchange them for money. But Mom had charged everything, so the store would only give me credit.

I had a savings account with several hundred dollars in it. Way more than enough for the brushes, and a couple tubes of paint. But Dad wouldn’t let me withdraw anything.

I got up early the next Saturday, went to the bank, and told the teller, “I lost my ATM card, but I have my school photo ID.”

“No problem.” She smiled at me like she really understood. According to her name tag, she was Monica, and she was happy to help me with all my banking needs.

“Thanks.” I felt a twinge of guilt, but it was washed away by the thought of those brushes. And a big tube of titanium white oil paint. Besides, it was sort of true that I’d lost the card. At least, I’d lost control of it.