Let It Be

Chapter 11

On Halloween, we were assigned a stupid project for Study Skills, which was so like Coach Wilson. Sam and I were working as partners. We'd done all the research in class, and just had to make a poster. I could have done it myself, but Sam insisted on helping.

We'd talked Coach Dunlap into cancelling volleyball practice for the day, so we went to my house after school. Mason and Nate were at a party at a neighbors' house, so it was quiet when we went back to the Scotts' to work, Birdie studying quietly in the kitchen.

"I've got everything in my room," I said, heading back there, not thinking.

Sam followed me wordlessly. It didn't catch up to me until it was too late; I froze just outside the door. Dang. I didn't want Sam to see my room.

But he was already peeking into the doorway. "This is where you live?"

Dang it. That's what I was trying to avoid.

"Um, yeah," I replied slowly.

"Where is your bed?"

"I sleep on the futon."

"Where is all your stuff?" he asked, peeking into the short plastic bookcase that I used to hold my few items of clothes.

I sighed, because I knew I couldn't lie. If a bluff isn't completely necessary, then I'm not a liar, but I was seriously tempted. "This is it," I said, trying not to sound as bashful as I felt.

Sam did a quick survey. And I mean quick. A small box on the floor filled with a couple of books and my meager supply of drugstore makeup; two pairs of thrifted shoes and some folded clothes; a file folder for all my mail and paperwork. Birdie and I had dragged in their coffee table for a hard surface for me to work on. And that was it.

Sam turned and looked at me, concern and sadness in his expression. I begged him with my eyes not to say anything. He shook his head and turned around.

As I moved my folded Mickey Mouse bedspread, which was originally Nate's, off the futon so Sam could sit down, he walked over to the small mirror tacked on the wall. "Who drew this?" he asked quietly.

Dang it. He had found my sketch of the angel. I grimaced, embarrassment flooding through me, and I felt my face turning red. He wouldn't understand the significance of it, but still. "Me."

He turned and stared at me again, softly glaring. "You never told me you could draw," he scorned.

"I don't broadcast it."

"You are good."

"No, I'm not," I contradicted stubbornly. I wished he'd drop it.

"Do you ever paint?"

"Not so much." I wish. But I couldn't possibly afford paint or canvases. I obviously didn't mention that to Sam, hoping it would pass by unnoticed. I used to paint when I was younger, I really enjoyed it, but those pictures were long gone.

I brushed it off, hoping that he would stop looking at the picture. I buried my red face into the coffee table drawer, rummaging through the various school supplies to get some markers for the project.

"Hm," I heard Sam hum softly to himself. "Sketchbook."

"NO!" I screamed, lunging at him, adrenaline making my eyesight shake. Sam could NOT see them. He had just barely cracked it open and was about to start to thumbing through the pages when I jumped on him, ripping it violently out of his hands.

He just sort of stared at me, empty hands still held out in front of him. "Whoa Abby, no need to be so shy about it," he said, completely confused by my reaction. "They are just drawings..."