We Were Giants

Chapter 7

When Isaiah drops me off at my house, I'm loaded down not only with my school stuff, but also with all of the art supplies I have ever wanted. I have so many bags, Isaiah has to help me carry them in.

Ideas are already swimming around my head. I want to lock myself in my room and work all night, but I know I will have to take care of Thomas and help him with his homework. But maybe I will be able to fit some creativity in around that.

"I was getting worried, you're home late," Mom says as I come in.

I didn't notice how late I am; I was so caught up in my new business ventures. Thomas is already at the kitchen counter, his homework folder open and spelling words waiting to be practices.

"I tried to call your cell phone, but it does nobody any good when it's left in your bedroom while you're at school." This is the closest thing to a lecture I've ever gotten from my mom. It's half joking, but I know she's serious. I cut it awfully close and she'll need to leave soon for her shift at the Megamart.

Her eyes widen when she sees all the bags and canvases. She sets her jaw, trying to save face, but I've seen the anger. Or was it shock? She'll wait for Isaiah to leave, then I'll likely get a real lecture. Unless I beat her to the punch in explaining where all of this came from. So, I see Isaiah out and try to do just that.

"Cade, where did all of this stuff come from?" She asks, keeping her voice level, but I can hear the strain. Why is she so freaked out?

"I sold some art," I can't control the smile on my face. "Isaiah's mom had some friends who wanted to buy my art."

So, I tell her about my afternoon and my meeting with Mrs. Rosenthal. And the check. And the trip to the art supply store. And the watercolor pencils. And the new pencils and paints and charcoals and pastels.

But despite my excitement, Mom does not look impressed.

"You sold your art?" She sounds angry. "What about your art show?"

"I didn't sell all of my drawings. I saved the best of them for the show." I shake my head, still confused by the anger in her voice.

"But what will happen to you if the school finds out? What if you're disqualified from being able to be considered for awards?"

Why would I be disqualified?

"I made $1500, today, Mom. And I can work from here and take care of Thomas like you need me to. This is ideal for everybody. Why aren't you happy for me?" I hear myself sounding like a poorly-scripted teen movie, but I don't care. I finally understand that whiny tone that bottle-blond protagonists get in movies like that. Because it really sucks that I've done something so amazing and my mom can't even be happy for me.

"I've got to get to work. I don't have time to discuss this with you. I'm already late because I was waiting for you." The worry lines on her face are deeper than I've ever seen them. As she flies out the door, I say the only thing that comes to mind.

"Don't take it out on me that you're late."

I just want to scream. I want to punch something. Why does everybody want to push me over the edge today?

Thomas starts to ramble about his day and I try to listen, but I'm too absorbed in the art that's floating around my head. Something about seeing red inspires me.

"Come tell me about it in my room," I usher Thomas as I sit down at the easel in my bedroom. "You want to draw, too?" I offer him some paper and colored pencils before I set to work on my own painting.

I allow myself to fall into the trance that overtakes me when I sit down to my art. As if by magic, my hands start to work, painting on their own. As Thomas keeps talking about his day, my canvas starts to fill with grays and blacks, shadows in a dark room. The shape of a face emerges from the shadows and well before I add any details, I can see where blue eyes and a round nose are going to appear.