Later that day I discover that I can't paint very well. I had sort of suspected this all along so it doesn't really bother me. I was made for words, not pictures. I try to paint a cat, but the acrylics won't co-operate, and I end up with an unhappy looking, lump-bodied mutant tabby cat. I can't paint anymore because I am laughing so hard. He’s cross-eyed and crazed looking.
When I show Mom the finished product she hides her smile behind her hand, smearing bright orange paint across her lips and chin. I tease her mercilessly.
“Sam, it’s a good thing you’re a talented writer.” She scrubs at her lips with one of the paint rags sitting nearby.
“How do you know I’m a talented writer,” I ask. “You haven’t read anything I've written.”
Mom shrugs. “You’ve done nothing but talk about writing and books since day one. I’m willing to bet literature takes up the bulk of your thoughts too. You don’t live, eat, sleep and breathe something without being good at it.”
I frown. “Tell that to every publisher I’ve ever sent stuff to. They don’t seem to agree with your theory.”
“You’ll get published,” Mom says firmly. “And when you do, you have to promise me something.”
“What?”
“When you get the good news, you have to do the Victory Fist Pump.”
“What?” I laugh.
Mom demonstrates by pumping one fist in the air, “Like this,” she carries on. “Usually accompanied by yelling and hollering and possibly dancing around the room. It’s a tradition. I do it every time something big happens. When my first painting was sold to a crappy little art gallery in the middle of nowhere Texas, I did the Victory Fist Pump. And you’ll do it someday too.”
I laugh and shake my head. “Alright then, I promise to do the fist pump if I ever get big news. Can I do one because we’re going to London?”
“Yes.”
I punch the air with my fist enthusiastically. “Yahoo! London here I come!”
Mom claps, hopping around in front of her easel. “That’s the way!”
I can’t recall a day being more fun than today was. Mom and I paint for a few hours, but mostly gab about every subject you can dream of and drink copious amounts of tea. I end up going with her to collect her commission from a painting she's sold. It's neat to go into the gallery downtown, which is much bigger than Legend. It does have snooty British ladies in suite jackets and skirts, but at least it also has the decency to have comfortable black leather armchairs at a few good spots. And green tea is served to us in the foyer, which in my books, always adds a few brownie points to any place. After picking up her commission, we go to a coffee shop where we both have brownies the size of our faces and I have an ice cap with whip cream on top.
“Oh no,” Mom groans as she finishes the last bite of her brownie, making a show of leaning back and tugging at the waistline of her pants, “I’ll never get into this month’s issue of Vogue now.”
“Vogue? I won’t even get into my jeans after this.” I stare at my empty plate. “That was worth it though.”
“Agreed. If you’re going to get fat, it might as well be off something rich and chocolaty.”
YOU ARE READING
I Am Anastasia
Teen FictionSamantha wishes she were someone else. Anastasia, to be exact. Anastasia doesn't sit in the corner and read because she's too shy to talk to anyone. She doesn't keep trying and failing. Anastasia slays dragons. Of course, Anastasia is only a charact...
