When I get home from work, the acrylic tubes are still on the desk, but not the way I left them. I know because when I have a new painting idea, I always line them up a certain way to get a feel for the color scheme. But they’ve been pushed to the side, like someone was looking for something.
It wouldn’t be strange if I was used to people coming in my room and touching things, but nobody comes in here. Mom would probably rather die than admit she’s seen a painting of mine, and my brothers don’t bother because all the video games and food are in other rooms.
I’m not trying to be a jerk when I immediately blame Uncle Max, but I can’t help it. Who else would come in here?
“You shouldn’t accuse people of things when you don’t have any proof,” Mom says from the couch. She looks irritated that I’ve interrupted her TV show.
“But you said you didn’t go in there, and I’m telling you, somebody was in my room.” I feel like she’s treating me like a whiny little girl. But I have a history with Uncle Max. I have a history with him coming into my bedroom.
Why doesn’t she ever seem to get this?
“Is it really that big of a deal? Maybe he was interested in your drawings.”
WHAT I WANT TO SAY:
“You’re already a crappy mother for letting him back in this house. If you let him in my room, you’ll be the world’s worst mother.”
WHAT I ACTUALLY SAY:
“It’s a big deal to me. It’s my stuff.”
Mom rolls her eyes dismissively. “Well, what exactly is it you want me to do?”
I shrug. Just be my mother, I think. “Just tell him not to come in my room,” I say.
She looks at me like winter has inched through the house and we are freezing from the inside out. With the remote control attached to her hand, she raises her arm toward the TV and mutes the sound.
“I really need to talk to you.”
My chest thumps with excitement. I wish it didn’t. Disappointment always, always follows excitement.
Mom leans forward. “Are you gaining weight?”
I blink. “What?”
Her blue eyes are full of very real concern. “I don’t want you to get upset, but your face is looking rounder than usual. Now that you don’t have to walk around school, I’m wondering if maybe you aren’t getting enough exercise. It’s important, you know. For your health.”
“I’ve only been out of school for a week. I doubt my face is rounder after seven days of not walking to class.” My words are all right, but my voice is shaking so bad I’m positive she’s never going to hear them. I close my arms around myself protectively.
“Don’t be sensitive about this,” she scolds. “I’m only saying it because I love you.”
I don’t know what else to say, so I shrink back upstairs and lock myself in the bathroom.
When I look in the mirror, I don’t see a fat girl. But after five minutes of pinching my skin and studying every angle in the reflection, I see the fattest person in the world.
? ? ?
I paint a girl in a circus freak show with wide, stumpy legs and a face shaped like a perfect circle.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
When I drive Shoji to tae kwon do practice, I ask him if he thinks I’m fat.
“Obviously not,” he says, staring at his empty hands. He must have forgotten his book today.
“You can’t tell if I’ve put on weight?”
His head falls to the side. “Why are you asking me this? You sound like Mom.”
I grimace. That’s the last thing I want, so I stop talking immediately.
The car pulls up to the building, but Shoji doesn’t move right away.
“Are you going away for college?”
My eyes widen in surprise. “I want to. I don’t know though. I didn’t get into Prism.”
“Yeah, I know, but are you still moving out?” He’s watching me impatiently.
“Probably.” I have to. Staying here isn’t an option—it can’t be.
Shoji is still for a while. I wonder if this is about my room—maybe he wants to swap after I’ve gone. I have the bigger closet by a long shot.
“Do you think Dad and Serena would let me move in with them?” His voice is floating somewhere high above us. I barely hear him.
“You don’t want to stay with Mom?” I ask quietly. I always knew Shoji preferred Dad, but I never realized it was enough to want to move out.
He looks at me with careful eyes—desperate eyes—but the light in them vanishes quickly, like a window being slammed shut. Shoji doesn’t want me too close—he’s protecting his heart too.
Shoji clicks his seat belt and jumps out of the car. “Never mind,” his voice clips as quick as a paper cut. “I’ll see you later.”
I watch my little brother jump up the stairs and disappear behind the glass doors. The car engine rumbles and the bass of the stereo makes the seat vibrate, but I don’t drive off.
Shoji feels what I feel—the urgency to get away. Because being around Mom is like swimming in poison. It kills your soul, slowly, bit by bit.
It’s one of the reasons art is so important to me. It’s my lighthouse, guiding me through the storms.
But eventually that lighthouse is going to wear out. Eventually the storm will reach it.
I can’t let my soul die to the point where I lose my art. I just can’t. Shoji protects himself by being invisible, but I’m not good at that. Not when it comes to Mom. Because it hurts too much when she doesn’t look at me the way I need her to. I don’t know how to turn that off.
I have to get away. I don’t want to stay here, I don’t want community college, and I don’t want to live with Dad and Serena, even if they are the nicest. I just want to go.
I lean my head against the headrest, trying to think of a way to change my future so it stops feeling like an empty hallway that stretches forever and ever.
? ? ?
I draw a little mouse so afraid of the world that he hides in the dark until he goes blind.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Ican’t find my new brushes. Or the twenty-dollar bill I left next to the receipt, which is also missing.
Mom tells me I’m being dramatic when I tell her I think Uncle Max is stealing from me. I don’t think it’s dramatic at all. He doesn’t have a job, but he goes out every night and comes back with drunk eyes and bad breath, if he even comes back at all. He must be getting the money from somewhere.
“I want to put a lock on my door.” I’m looking at Mom seriously, but she’s smiling like this is the funniest conversation in the world.
“No. It’s my house, and nobody is locking me out of the rooms I pay for.” She’s flipping through a catalog from some hipster-looking clothing store. I seriously doubt she’ll buy anything—I think she’s just judging the models and playing her “Who’s prettiest?” game.
“I’m going to be eighteen in a month. I think I should be allowed to have a lock on my door.” Especially since Uncle Max is sleeping across the hall from me, I want to add.
“I said no. Drop it.” She stops flipping the pages and holds up one of the glossy images for me to see. “What do you think of this sweater?”
It’s a black-and-white patterned kimono with tassels.
“Are you going to a music festival?” I ask dryly.
Mom squints her eyes at me. “Don’t be mean.” She stares at the picture again. “I think I’d look super cute in this.”