me inside. It was small and tidy. I’d tucked all my dirty laundry away in a hamper in my closet, and there wasn’t a single book to be found. I’d even made my bed that morning. The room looked nothing like Nate’s.
He lifted my mathlete trophies and examined them. Then he set them back on my dresser and fingered the Science Olympics medals nearby. He picked up a Rubik’s Cube and twisted the colors into a jumbled mess before tossing it to me.
I sat down on the edge of my bed and turned the colors back toward order. He knelt next to me on my bed and carefully examined a collage of photos pinned to the wall. More than fifty pictures of Gabby and Arden jumbled the space above where I slept. “You must miss your friends a lot.”
“Yeah, I do.” I threw the solved Rubik’s Cube back to him. “But I’m starting to make friends here.”
“You might still wish you’d never moved here, but I’m glad you did.”
“Thanks.”
Nate continued to look around my tiny space, like he was trying to somehow figure out who I was by examining my stuff. He stopped to examine the painting of a little girl at the beach wearing a floppy pink hat. He stared at it for a long minute before saying anything. “I like the painting, but it doesn’t have the same feel as the rest of your room. What’s the story?”
“It’s me.” I got up to stand beside him. “I was four when my dad painted it.”
“Your dad’s a painter?”
I didn’t want to talk to Nate about my dad. It had been hard enough telling him my own secrets. My family’s secrets were buried deep, and I wanted them to stay there. I looked at the painting, studying the little girl on the beach, and remembered the day my dad painted it.
I counted the rocks and seashells I found in the sand and then arranged them into orderly piles, sliding them back and forth — constructing my own crude abacus. I saw my dad standing up the beach, a large umbrella shielding him and his easel. He held a paintbrush in one hand and a thermos in the other.
I mumbled numbers to myself as the hot sun beat down on me, burning my tiny shoulders. “Daddy, I’m hot.” He didn’t answer; he just kept painting. Pictures of me hung in galleries up and down the coast. “I’m hot, Daddy. Can we go home?”
“Pretty girl.” My dad’s voice came out slightly slurred. “Build a castle for Daddy. Let me paint your castle.”
I didn’t want to build a castle. I counted and recounted the shells. “I’m hot, Daddy. I’m gonna go swimming.” I ran down the beach toward the ocean.
“Samantha,” my dad called after me. I giggled and ran faster. The cold water splashed against my bare legs and licked my shorts.
“This is fun, Daddy.” I turned back to face him.
He ran through the sand toward me. He’d set down his paintbrush, but he continued to clutch his thermos. He tripped over his own feet, too drunk to chase a preschooler, and fell face first into the sand. His drink poured out, leaving a darkened patch of sand around him.
“Daddy?” I abandoned the ocean and ran back to him, where I pulled on his arm until he rose to his knees. “I’m sorry, Daddy.” Leading him back toward his easel, I told him, “I don’t want to go home anymore. Paint your picture.” I walked back over to the pile of shells I’d constructed in the sand. I counted and recounted until my dad’s masterpiece was finished.
When he finally took me home, I went to the living room to watch TV while my dad poured himself a drink before passing out in his bedroom. He sobered up enough to cook me dinner shortly before my mom got home from work.
I turned away from the painting and back toward Nate. “Yeah, my dad’s an artist. So do you want to do homework or something?”
Chapter 8
N ate pulled his history textbook out of his bag and sat down on my bed. “I know you’ve got this downloaded onto your MP3 player. And you probably have most of it downloaded into your brain too. But I’ve got to
He lifted my mathlete trophies and examined them. Then he set them back on my dresser and fingered the Science Olympics medals nearby. He picked up a Rubik’s Cube and twisted the colors into a jumbled mess before tossing it to me.
I sat down on the edge of my bed and turned the colors back toward order. He knelt next to me on my bed and carefully examined a collage of photos pinned to the wall. More than fifty pictures of Gabby and Arden jumbled the space above where I slept. “You must miss your friends a lot.”
“Yeah, I do.” I threw the solved Rubik’s Cube back to him. “But I’m starting to make friends here.”
“You might still wish you’d never moved here, but I’m glad you did.”
“Thanks.”
Nate continued to look around my tiny space, like he was trying to somehow figure out who I was by examining my stuff. He stopped to examine the painting of a little girl at the beach wearing a floppy pink hat. He stared at it for a long minute before saying anything. “I like the painting, but it doesn’t have the same feel as the rest of your room. What’s the story?”
“It’s me.” I got up to stand beside him. “I was four when my dad painted it.”
“Your dad’s a painter?”
I didn’t want to talk to Nate about my dad. It had been hard enough telling him my own secrets. My family’s secrets were buried deep, and I wanted them to stay there. I looked at the painting, studying the little girl on the beach, and remembered the day my dad painted it.
I counted the rocks and seashells I found in the sand and then arranged them into orderly piles, sliding them back and forth — constructing my own crude abacus. I saw my dad standing up the beach, a large umbrella shielding him and his easel. He held a paintbrush in one hand and a thermos in the other.
I mumbled numbers to myself as the hot sun beat down on me, burning my tiny shoulders. “Daddy, I’m hot.” He didn’t answer; he just kept painting. Pictures of me hung in galleries up and down the coast. “I’m hot, Daddy. Can we go home?”
“Pretty girl.” My dad’s voice came out slightly slurred. “Build a castle for Daddy. Let me paint your castle.”
I didn’t want to build a castle. I counted and recounted the shells. “I’m hot, Daddy. I’m gonna go swimming.” I ran down the beach toward the ocean.
“Samantha,” my dad called after me. I giggled and ran faster. The cold water splashed against my bare legs and licked my shorts.
“This is fun, Daddy.” I turned back to face him.
He ran through the sand toward me. He’d set down his paintbrush, but he continued to clutch his thermos. He tripped over his own feet, too drunk to chase a preschooler, and fell face first into the sand. His drink poured out, leaving a darkened patch of sand around him.
“Daddy?” I abandoned the ocean and ran back to him, where I pulled on his arm until he rose to his knees. “I’m sorry, Daddy.” Leading him back toward his easel, I told him, “I don’t want to go home anymore. Paint your picture.” I walked back over to the pile of shells I’d constructed in the sand. I counted and recounted until my dad’s masterpiece was finished.
When he finally took me home, I went to the living room to watch TV while my dad poured himself a drink before passing out in his bedroom. He sobered up enough to cook me dinner shortly before my mom got home from work.
I turned away from the painting and back toward Nate. “Yeah, my dad’s an artist. So do you want to do homework or something?”
Chapter 8
N ate pulled his history textbook out of his bag and sat down on my bed. “I know you’ve got this downloaded onto your MP3 player. And you probably have most of it downloaded into your brain too. But I’ve got to
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