I throw my pencil down. I have got to get out of here.
There is one option. The absolute last-resort, can-barely-even-stand-to-think-about-it option. Madge. If I swallow my pride and suck up just a little bit, she might cave and give me some cash so I can take the bus across town and start shopping.
I close my eyes and let myself imagine the feeling of wandering the aisles at Morton’s with no one to rush me or complain when I spend twenty minutes marveling over the rainbow of colors in the acrylics section or admiring the shelves of blank canvases just waiting to be transformed.
Before I can think twice about it, I’m suddenly in the kitchen, clutching my list like a talisman.
“Smells great, Madeleine,” I say, cringing at my own false sincerity. “Need any help?”
Madge’s eyes narrow in suspicion, and a smile tugs at the corners of her mouth. “You can set the table,” she says. “And then fill me in on whatever it is you want.”
I grip the page tighter. “I have an art project coming up,” I tell her, “and I really want to buy some new supplies.”
My heart starts thumping as her lips press into a straight line.
“You don’t have to drive me or anything,” I blurt. “I’m totally cool with the bus. I just need some money, and I don’t want to wait till Dad gets home.” The words are flying out of my mouth and I want to snatch them up and stuff them back in there. I never beg Madge for anything.
The balloon of excitement that’s been keeping me afloat all day hardens into a heavy weight as she gets that look on her face. The one that says I’m an inconvenience.
“Have you been through the boxes downstairs yet?” she asks with a sigh. “We paid the movers a fortune to haul everything here, and I remember at least four or five boxes from your room labeled Art Supplies. There’s also Sophie’s old art kit, and I’m sure my watercolors are down there too. It would be such a waste not to use what we already have.”
Yeah, right. First off, I’m pretty sure Sophie’s old “art kit” has Crayola written on it. And second, Madge hasn’t picked up a paintbrush in all the time I’ve known her, so whatever watercolors she’s talking about are ancient.
Her mouth keeps moving but I tune her out. I know this lecture already. Madge loves words like wasteful and responsibility and sacrifice. I’ve heard every combination of them imaginable. Don’t let her get to you, I remind myself, stuffing my list into my back pocket. Madge doesn’t matter. My dad will understand. I’ll just wait and ask him.
By seven o’clock I have a solid plan. I’ll wait until dessert. Dad’s always in a better mood after he eats. I’ll tell him all about art class and show him my sketchbook so he knows how serious I am. My school sketchbook, that is. Not the one I keep under my bed titled 101 Ways to Make Madge Disappear.
I manage to choke down two whole bites of dinner before realizing that I’ll never last till dessert. My heart is pounding and my knee is bouncing and everything tastes like cardboard. I run my fingers over the list perched on my lap right before I explode.
“I need new art supplies for a project, and I made a list!” I practically shout, waving the page like I’m performing a magic trick. Everyone jumps in surprise, and Sophie looks at me like I’ve sprouted another head.
My dad recovers first. “Art supplies? For school?”
“Yeah,” I say, feeling my cheeks go hot. “We have this big independent study project where we have to make an artistic statement using different media.”
“Well, now,” Dad says, sitting back in his chair and looking at me closely. “It’s good to see you excited about something again.” My heart throbs. Dad’s always rushing from one thing to the next. I can’t remember the last time he stopped and gave me his full attention.
All the hard edges around my father disappear for a moment, and he suddenly looks just the way I remember from when I was a little kid. Before Mom died. Before Madge. There’s a warmth in his eyes that I haven’t seen in forever. I want to race to my room and grab my sketchbook to capture him just like this.
“A portfolio,” he says wistfully. “You sound just like your mother right now.”
Dad hardly ever mentions Mom anymore, and never around Madge. I think on some level, he knows that hearing about my mom is too much for her. It’s not like my parents got divorced or broke up or anything. Mom died. And a piece of him died with her. This happiness Madge fights so hard to protect is a pale shadow of the happiness he used to know.
I beam at him and then, without even meaning to, sneak a look at Madge. All the color has drained from her face. My heart skips a beat, and I have a confusing moment of pity for her before my anger flares up. I should be able to talk about my mom in my own house.
My dad obviously notices her too. “You know, Madeleine is quite creative, just like you, Annie,” he says.
I raise my eyebrows and fight the impulse to laugh out loud. Madge is the opposite of creative. The first thing she did when she moved in with us was take down all my mother’s paintings and replace them with hokey prints of
