first tiny buds in spring. On a leftover piece of canvas, I use the nonbrush end of the paintbrush to make a thin, ragged line from one side to the other. In the middle of this arched brow, I twist my wrist to make an empty circle floating near the line of green, then another one. Two empty circles, not touching each other, not touching the line. Just floating together, side by side.
A knock on my door makes me jump. I’m easily surprised, so I’ve been the target of Russ’s favorite practical joke since he was five, which is leaping out from behind a corner and screaming, “Jenny!” Faye says I need to accept spontaneity, but to me, whatever is lurking around the corner can be terrifying, even if it’s familiar and you know it’s coming.
Another knock on the door. I sigh as I put the paintbrush down and put Saran wrap around it so it won’t dry out. So much for getting anywhere with a painting for the art show.
“Jenny?” My dad’s voice filters through the door.
“Come in.” I swing the door open with my toe and then go flop onto my bed.
“You okay?” he asks from the doorway.
I sit up and gaze at him. Maybe he can tell just by looking at me that my mind is racing. Dads tend to know these things instinctually. “Why do you ask?”
Dad comes in and rubs his hands together. He checks out the walls of my bedroom, the splattered painting on one side, the bright geometric canvas on the other. There’s also a small watercolor of our house that I did a year ago. I cringe every time I see it, but honestly, I have no idea what to put in its place. “Thanks for taking the twins tonight.” He continues to study my face for any sign of trouble. “I appreciate it.”
“No problem.” I’m trying not to sound as though my feelings are on a fast-spin cycle. “The mall wasn’t so bad.” I think of Tate’s gorgeous eyes and a smile creeps across my face, but then just as quickly I think of the donor sibling Web site and the smile vanishes.
“Deep down Sierra and Sage appreciate the extra time you spend with them.” He waits for me to agree. “They look up to you.”
“I sincerely doubt that.” I smirk and tuck my knees into my shirt, further stretching it out.
My dad sits next to me on the bed, and just when I think he’s going to say something reassuring, like that Sage and Sierra will grow into their relationship with me, or that things will be better with them when they’re older, he says, “What’s that?”
He reaches for the
Teen Vogue
before I can stop him.
“Nothing,” I say. “Just some light reading.”
Dad stares at the cover. I wonder if he’s glimpsed that bold orange headline, and if he has, what is going through his mind. “I didn’t think you read fashion magazines.”
“Sometimes I do.” I take it back from him and toss it onto the floor like it means nothing to me. Maybe he didn’t see it. Or maybe he did. I’m going to leave it to him to open the floor for discussion, just like always. I’m pretty sure he’ll do what I expect him to do.
He pats my head and gives me a hug. “Good night, Jenny,” he says. “Sleep well.”
I should feel comforted by his predictability, but I’m not this time.
“You too.”
Dad gets up and walks to the door. He pauses and turns around. I’m hoping he’s going to surprise me here and say something encouraging about the art show or call me out on the article. “Hey, Jen? How about we finish that backyard project this weekend? I’d love to get it done by the time school starts.”
My heart falls. “Maybe, Dad. I might be busy.”
“We can’t put it off forever.” He may as well be talking about our relationship. If he’s supposed to instinctually know what’s wrong, how come he keeps suggesting these things we can do together—running, sports, yard work—and not comprehend that it’s only pushing us farther apart?
When Dad shuffles off to bed, I take the few steps to my desk, turn on my computer, and wait. The
A knock on my door makes me jump. I’m easily surprised, so I’ve been the target of Russ’s favorite practical joke since he was five, which is leaping out from behind a corner and screaming, “Jenny!” Faye says I need to accept spontaneity, but to me, whatever is lurking around the corner can be terrifying, even if it’s familiar and you know it’s coming.
Another knock on the door. I sigh as I put the paintbrush down and put Saran wrap around it so it won’t dry out. So much for getting anywhere with a painting for the art show.
“Jenny?” My dad’s voice filters through the door.
“Come in.” I swing the door open with my toe and then go flop onto my bed.
“You okay?” he asks from the doorway.
I sit up and gaze at him. Maybe he can tell just by looking at me that my mind is racing. Dads tend to know these things instinctually. “Why do you ask?”
Dad comes in and rubs his hands together. He checks out the walls of my bedroom, the splattered painting on one side, the bright geometric canvas on the other. There’s also a small watercolor of our house that I did a year ago. I cringe every time I see it, but honestly, I have no idea what to put in its place. “Thanks for taking the twins tonight.” He continues to study my face for any sign of trouble. “I appreciate it.”
“No problem.” I’m trying not to sound as though my feelings are on a fast-spin cycle. “The mall wasn’t so bad.” I think of Tate’s gorgeous eyes and a smile creeps across my face, but then just as quickly I think of the donor sibling Web site and the smile vanishes.
“Deep down Sierra and Sage appreciate the extra time you spend with them.” He waits for me to agree. “They look up to you.”
“I sincerely doubt that.” I smirk and tuck my knees into my shirt, further stretching it out.
My dad sits next to me on the bed, and just when I think he’s going to say something reassuring, like that Sage and Sierra will grow into their relationship with me, or that things will be better with them when they’re older, he says, “What’s that?”
He reaches for the
Teen Vogue
before I can stop him.
“Nothing,” I say. “Just some light reading.”
Dad stares at the cover. I wonder if he’s glimpsed that bold orange headline, and if he has, what is going through his mind. “I didn’t think you read fashion magazines.”
“Sometimes I do.” I take it back from him and toss it onto the floor like it means nothing to me. Maybe he didn’t see it. Or maybe he did. I’m going to leave it to him to open the floor for discussion, just like always. I’m pretty sure he’ll do what I expect him to do.
He pats my head and gives me a hug. “Good night, Jenny,” he says. “Sleep well.”
I should feel comforted by his predictability, but I’m not this time.
“You too.”
Dad gets up and walks to the door. He pauses and turns around. I’m hoping he’s going to surprise me here and say something encouraging about the art show or call me out on the article. “Hey, Jen? How about we finish that backyard project this weekend? I’d love to get it done by the time school starts.”
My heart falls. “Maybe, Dad. I might be busy.”
“We can’t put it off forever.” He may as well be talking about our relationship. If he’s supposed to instinctually know what’s wrong, how come he keeps suggesting these things we can do together—running, sports, yard work—and not comprehend that it’s only pushing us farther apart?
When Dad shuffles off to bed, I take the few steps to my desk, turn on my computer, and wait. The
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