had ever been.
“Don’t worry about it.” I turned away.
Mom reached for me. “Vienna . . .”
I stopped again. Was she waiting for me to say something? I’d already said everything I felt. I had unloaded everything . There was nothing left for me to say. Mom had said nothing, explained nothing, and apologized for nothing. Mom’s actions had said also everything, too clearly.
I had my back to her, listening to see if she would say anything more. The music turned off.
“I keep painting the same thing.”
What was that supposed to mean? Now she could sell a bunch of paintings.
I frowned. “That’s great, Mom.” I don’t know what she wanted from me. To gloat at how good her art skills were? Whatever. I couldn’t take it anymore. I started off toward my room.
“No, it’s not great.”
I stopped walking then turned to face her. What did she want from me?
“I’m creative.” Mom leaned against the door. “That’s what I do, and now I can’t come up with anything. I keep painting the same thing.”
Mom was still further than I had ever gotten at painting then. “I keep painting things on fire.” Mom ran her fingers on the edge of the door. “Every scene I paint ends in flames. I tried painting still lifes, but they turn out to be bowls of burning fruit. I tried people, and they burn. I tried a lake.” Mom’s eyes filled with tears. “The lake catches fire.”
“I thought you hated—”
“I know.” Mom leaned against the door. “I do.”
I didn’t know how to help Mom. I hardly knew Mom.
We stood in silence again. Mom had never opened up like this before, and I didn’t know how I was supposed to handle it.
“Have you tried asking other painters how to . . .” I scratched my head. “Stop, whatever it is you are doing.”
Mom stared at the ground.
“Mom?”
“They can’t help me.”
“Maybe they can.”
Mom’s fingers looked as if they were sketching flames up along the door.
I swallowed. “Are you all right?” I went to her.
“I’m fine.” Mom yanked her hand away from me and the studio door slammed shut in my face.
I was left standing there, dumbfounded. Strike Number Two.
What was wrong with her? What was wrong with me? What did she want me to do? Drop everything and run to her rescue? How did she expect me to help her the one time she let me in? I didn’t even know how to help her. I didn’t even know where to start. Try painting with different brushes, try painting with the brushes in your mouth? I rubbed my temples. I always thought Mom was weird, but this? I looked back at the shut studio door. This was something else.
I walked into my room and collapsed on my bed. Mom had ignored the fight between us. She’d acted like nothing had happened. But what had I expected to happen between Mom and me? I wrapped the comforter closer around me. Mom was Mom, and nothing was going to change that. I had to learn to accept it.
Mom didn’t care.
I clenched the comforter between my fingers and buried my head in my mattress. It’s the simple truths that sting the most.
Ten minutes later, I heard the front door shut. Mom had left for her cake-decorating class. I knew Mom wouldn’t let this little episode faze her. Nothing could keep Mom away from what she loved doing most.
And I just wasn’t one of those things.
Chapter 9
The aroma of chicken noodle soup settled around me and the pitter-patter of rain tapped against the window. I rubbed my eyes, and the behemoth book and three other robot books I’d been reading tumbled to the floor. They were getting me nowhere in my searches. It was time to try something new.
I powered up my laptop, my fingers itching to have their way with the keyboard. The cursor blinked, and I took a deep breath and typed in ROBOTS and VIRGINIA BASE.
And I got hits. I scrolled through the websites.
The Virginia Base had been emptied. Site after site showed pictures from the time when it was teeming with robots. And now, the base was
“Don’t worry about it.” I turned away.
Mom reached for me. “Vienna . . .”
I stopped again. Was she waiting for me to say something? I’d already said everything I felt. I had unloaded everything . There was nothing left for me to say. Mom had said nothing, explained nothing, and apologized for nothing. Mom’s actions had said also everything, too clearly.
I had my back to her, listening to see if she would say anything more. The music turned off.
“I keep painting the same thing.”
What was that supposed to mean? Now she could sell a bunch of paintings.
I frowned. “That’s great, Mom.” I don’t know what she wanted from me. To gloat at how good her art skills were? Whatever. I couldn’t take it anymore. I started off toward my room.
“No, it’s not great.”
I stopped walking then turned to face her. What did she want from me?
“I’m creative.” Mom leaned against the door. “That’s what I do, and now I can’t come up with anything. I keep painting the same thing.”
Mom was still further than I had ever gotten at painting then. “I keep painting things on fire.” Mom ran her fingers on the edge of the door. “Every scene I paint ends in flames. I tried painting still lifes, but they turn out to be bowls of burning fruit. I tried people, and they burn. I tried a lake.” Mom’s eyes filled with tears. “The lake catches fire.”
“I thought you hated—”
“I know.” Mom leaned against the door. “I do.”
I didn’t know how to help Mom. I hardly knew Mom.
We stood in silence again. Mom had never opened up like this before, and I didn’t know how I was supposed to handle it.
“Have you tried asking other painters how to . . .” I scratched my head. “Stop, whatever it is you are doing.”
Mom stared at the ground.
“Mom?”
“They can’t help me.”
“Maybe they can.”
Mom’s fingers looked as if they were sketching flames up along the door.
I swallowed. “Are you all right?” I went to her.
“I’m fine.” Mom yanked her hand away from me and the studio door slammed shut in my face.
I was left standing there, dumbfounded. Strike Number Two.
What was wrong with her? What was wrong with me? What did she want me to do? Drop everything and run to her rescue? How did she expect me to help her the one time she let me in? I didn’t even know how to help her. I didn’t even know where to start. Try painting with different brushes, try painting with the brushes in your mouth? I rubbed my temples. I always thought Mom was weird, but this? I looked back at the shut studio door. This was something else.
I walked into my room and collapsed on my bed. Mom had ignored the fight between us. She’d acted like nothing had happened. But what had I expected to happen between Mom and me? I wrapped the comforter closer around me. Mom was Mom, and nothing was going to change that. I had to learn to accept it.
Mom didn’t care.
I clenched the comforter between my fingers and buried my head in my mattress. It’s the simple truths that sting the most.
Ten minutes later, I heard the front door shut. Mom had left for her cake-decorating class. I knew Mom wouldn’t let this little episode faze her. Nothing could keep Mom away from what she loved doing most.
And I just wasn’t one of those things.
Chapter 9
The aroma of chicken noodle soup settled around me and the pitter-patter of rain tapped against the window. I rubbed my eyes, and the behemoth book and three other robot books I’d been reading tumbled to the floor. They were getting me nowhere in my searches. It was time to try something new.
I powered up my laptop, my fingers itching to have their way with the keyboard. The cursor blinked, and I took a deep breath and typed in ROBOTS and VIRGINIA BASE.
And I got hits. I scrolled through the websites.
The Virginia Base had been emptied. Site after site showed pictures from the time when it was teeming with robots. And now, the base was
Similar Books
