flush of fire.
I run to my bike, longing for the days before cancer. The days when boys ignored me and I ignored them. I wonder what Nick was going to ask, but pretend it doesn’t matter. Pretend that I don’t hope he really planned to ask me for a date. Cause it sounded like it.
But no. How could that be?
chapter eight
A couple of days later, the deadline for the Oswald contest is looming and I’m no closer to finding my flash of artistic brilliance. Never has my ability to create been obstructed before. It’s like the cancer slithered over to poison me with some of its evil.
Because Mom is out at some important charity luncheon with the professors’ wives, she asks me to leave school early to be with Kristina, so I take a cab to the hospital. When I walk into Kristina’s hospital room, she’s alone. Not even a nurse around. She’s lying on her bed and when I get closer my breath catches. Her eyes are closed, she’s motionless, and I’m compelled to check her chest to make sure she’s breathing. It’s rising and falling slightly but she doesn’t wake, so I pull a chair up beside the bed. I sit down and study her. Her cheek bones look more angular and her collarbones jut out from her blue hospital gown. I’d have to use different techniques to sketch her now. Her essence has changed. She’s less charcoal and more shading.
She’s thinner than me now. It kills me because just a few weeks ago it would have made her so happy.
After a while Kristina must sense me, because her eyelids start to flutter and then she opens her eyes. Her mouth morphs into a small smile but it disappears quickly.
“Hey, Tess.” It almost sounds like she’s glad to see me.
“Hi,” I say shyly.
“I feel like crap,” she says.
“I know.” It’s the best I can manage. “I’m sorry.”
She makes a tiny mewing sound, but it’s just a sigh. “I know you are.”
We don’t speak for a minute. “Do you want to see some sketches? I’m nowhere near where I need to be for the competition, but I’ve done some rough stuff.”
“What competition?”
She doesn’t remember.
“The Oswald. The winner gets showings of their winning piece and a scholarship to the Academy of Art University.” I don’t tell her my inspiration has dulled since she got sick.
“Really? Sure. Let me see.”
She doesn’t sound enthusiastic but I paw through my backpack and pull out the book and open it to some of the sketches I want her to see.
I’ve been working on volcano scenes. They’re raw with rippling lava and harsh lines. I hand her the pad and she holds it as if it weighs a hundred pounds. She is quiet as she flips through the pages.
“These aren’t exactly what I want,” I tell her as she studies the sketch that is closest to what I want to portray. “I’m trying to get across the unique unstable ground. Volcano ridges. Explosions. I’m not there yet.”
“I thought you just did portraits and animals, but this is amazing,” she says, and lays the book down on her chest like it’s too exhausting for her to look at it. “You’re really talented.”
My cheeks warm and I take the sketchbook off her. “Thanks.” I close it and slide it back into the backpack. “That’s nice of you to say.”
“Well, it’s true. You’re artistic and smart.” Her lips turn up at the corners, but she closes her eyes as she talks. “Being smart works for you. You’re so much stronger than me in some ways.”
“I am?” I ask.
“Yeah. You never worry what other people think. I know you think I care too much. But I can’t help it. I’m more like Mom that way.”
I snort softly. “I worry more than you know, Krissie. I mean, you, you’re so good with people. Everyone likes you and you know how to talk to them. I’d love to be able to do what you do with people. People think I’m weird.”
Kristina shakes her head but it’s a weak movement. “They don’t think you’re weird. They think that you’re judgmental. Or
I run to my bike, longing for the days before cancer. The days when boys ignored me and I ignored them. I wonder what Nick was going to ask, but pretend it doesn’t matter. Pretend that I don’t hope he really planned to ask me for a date. Cause it sounded like it.
But no. How could that be?
chapter eight
A couple of days later, the deadline for the Oswald contest is looming and I’m no closer to finding my flash of artistic brilliance. Never has my ability to create been obstructed before. It’s like the cancer slithered over to poison me with some of its evil.
Because Mom is out at some important charity luncheon with the professors’ wives, she asks me to leave school early to be with Kristina, so I take a cab to the hospital. When I walk into Kristina’s hospital room, she’s alone. Not even a nurse around. She’s lying on her bed and when I get closer my breath catches. Her eyes are closed, she’s motionless, and I’m compelled to check her chest to make sure she’s breathing. It’s rising and falling slightly but she doesn’t wake, so I pull a chair up beside the bed. I sit down and study her. Her cheek bones look more angular and her collarbones jut out from her blue hospital gown. I’d have to use different techniques to sketch her now. Her essence has changed. She’s less charcoal and more shading.
She’s thinner than me now. It kills me because just a few weeks ago it would have made her so happy.
After a while Kristina must sense me, because her eyelids start to flutter and then she opens her eyes. Her mouth morphs into a small smile but it disappears quickly.
“Hey, Tess.” It almost sounds like she’s glad to see me.
“Hi,” I say shyly.
“I feel like crap,” she says.
“I know.” It’s the best I can manage. “I’m sorry.”
She makes a tiny mewing sound, but it’s just a sigh. “I know you are.”
We don’t speak for a minute. “Do you want to see some sketches? I’m nowhere near where I need to be for the competition, but I’ve done some rough stuff.”
“What competition?”
She doesn’t remember.
“The Oswald. The winner gets showings of their winning piece and a scholarship to the Academy of Art University.” I don’t tell her my inspiration has dulled since she got sick.
“Really? Sure. Let me see.”
She doesn’t sound enthusiastic but I paw through my backpack and pull out the book and open it to some of the sketches I want her to see.
I’ve been working on volcano scenes. They’re raw with rippling lava and harsh lines. I hand her the pad and she holds it as if it weighs a hundred pounds. She is quiet as she flips through the pages.
“These aren’t exactly what I want,” I tell her as she studies the sketch that is closest to what I want to portray. “I’m trying to get across the unique unstable ground. Volcano ridges. Explosions. I’m not there yet.”
“I thought you just did portraits and animals, but this is amazing,” she says, and lays the book down on her chest like it’s too exhausting for her to look at it. “You’re really talented.”
My cheeks warm and I take the sketchbook off her. “Thanks.” I close it and slide it back into the backpack. “That’s nice of you to say.”
“Well, it’s true. You’re artistic and smart.” Her lips turn up at the corners, but she closes her eyes as she talks. “Being smart works for you. You’re so much stronger than me in some ways.”
“I am?” I ask.
“Yeah. You never worry what other people think. I know you think I care too much. But I can’t help it. I’m more like Mom that way.”
I snort softly. “I worry more than you know, Krissie. I mean, you, you’re so good with people. Everyone likes you and you know how to talk to them. I’d love to be able to do what you do with people. People think I’m weird.”
Kristina shakes her head but it’s a weak movement. “They don’t think you’re weird. They think that you’re judgmental. Or
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