The Awakening of Ren Crown by Anne Zoelle Page B

again to take those drugs, I could see the intent forming in his expression. “Let's go home.” I took a deep breath and dredged up a smile.
    But he stayed in park and examined the drawing I had plastered against the door—as far as I could get it away from him without turning it face out and risking it swallowing the car with us inside—and nodded sagely while tapping a finger to his lips. “The transcendental aspect of the curvature of your lines is a sterling representation of the Circle Movement. Startling. Brilliant.”
    “Dad. Let's go.”
    “What? Are you going to tell me there has never been a Circle Movement? Should I have commented on the symbolism of your hat choice instead?”
    “I really want to go home. Now. Please .”
    “Ok, ok.” The lines around his mouth tightened, but he checked his mirrors and shifted into gear.
    I watched through the side mirror as we pulled away. The thin man was scanning the grounds. Fifty yards away, his eyes seemed to lock onto mine through the mirrored glass.
    We turned the corner.
    The tightness in my chest was overly constricting as I watched Will look over his shoulder to the dark sliver exposed by the slightly ajar drape. “Do you see anything wrong or weird about this picture?”
    “Aside from the beret? No?”
    The word came out more as a question, and as if it wasn't the picture that he was trying to decide was wrong and weird.
    I looked to the side mirror. No strange cars seemed to be following behind.
    Will's mouth pinched tight as he shifted sideways to keep both of us and the sliver between the drapes in view. He was watching the slivered opening in an increasingly wary manner. Had I conjured up some freaky nightmarish daydream about Mr. Verisetti? Had everything from the time I had entered the art classroom until the time my sketch fell to the ground been a vivid, complicated imagining? Were the lingering traces of such a dream still on me?
    Check her wrist .
    The memory of the words made me look down. Christian's band was half destroyed on one wrist. And on the other, strange henna brown pointillist dots now formed what looked suspiciously like the sapling that had disappeared in the sketch.
    I thought about balling up the paper. About taking the therapy drugs. Letting them make me forget everything.
    I pressed my knuckles to my forehead trying to push against the ache growing there. I was breathing too hard; my Dad was going to stop the car any second.
    “What do you say we stop for some fries on the way?” Dad said as he changed lanes. “Your Mom is making something healthy again.”
    We were away from the school. No one seemed to be following us. I nodded, focusing my gaze on the sketch again. There was something moving behind the drapes. And there was a boy trapped in front of them.
    Even if this was all the crazy in my head finally manifesting, maybe my brain was telling me how to release my fear of another person dying. Or was allowing me to save someone and feel redeemed. I closed my eyes. If I saved Will, maybe I'd gain some unpronounceable psychotherapy resolution.
    Dad pulled into the drive-thru, trying to make jokes about Mom's reaction as he ordered three large fries.
    I desperately wished for my brother. He would understand. Be able to help. My parents thought me unhinged with my tales of Christian's death.
    I had no one. I was on my own.
    We finally reached home, and I exited, gripping the sketch, watching as Will repeatedly checked his pockets with his finely drawn charcoal hands, pulling things out and stuffing them back in.
    “Roger, that had better not be french fries I smell!” But Mom's joke came out all wrong. High and stringy. I'd bet the Picasso original I would someday own that someone from school had already called her about either my behavior in art or on the sidewalk.
    “Too bad!” Dad's lighthearted reply was equally tight, as he shrugged out of his suit jacket. I clutched the sketch to my chest and stared up the darkened