Page 31 of 10 Signs You Need to Grovel

“Having my best friend.”

I exhale for what feels like the first time in eleven years. “Me too.”

A canopy of leaves dances above us. Birdsong carries on the breeze. Her spine softens, as does mine, the two of us leaning toward each other in a portrait I’d call At Long Last.

Then someone shouts, “Give it back!”

NINE

Max is on his feet, fists clenched at his sides. Carter’s holding what looks like Max’s artwork, saying something I can’t hear, while the others form a semicircle of captivated spectators.

I don’t know what’s going on, but I’m up and stalking toward them in seconds. So quickly they all step back. Except Olivia—always except Olivia—who looks like she wants to pop popcorn and watch the action.

“You.” I point to Carter. “Hand it over.”

He leans away from me and holds out the thin tracing paper. “I wasn’t doing anything.”

“Looks to me like you took something that wasn’t yours.”

“The paper fell, and I picked it up.”

Possibly, but the red flush on Max’s cheeks says otherwise. “Max,” I say more gently, “did your paper fall, or did Carter take it without asking?”

Max purses his lips and digs his sneaker into the earth. “The paper just dropped,” he mumbles.

Nope. Judging by Carter’s penetrating stare at Max, and Max’s sulking, Carter definitely snatched the page. And my kid doesn’t want to tattle.

With my hands tied, I give Carter a hard look. “Would it be okay if I went to your house and took your dad’s Porsche for a spin without asking him?”

His nostrils flare. “That’s stealing.”

I shake Max’s page. “So is this, even if it fell on the ground. If you didn’t have permission, you don’t have the right to take something. Now you’re gonna sit back down on the other side of the path and finish your drawing like the mature ten-year-old you are.”

His thin lips flatten until barely visible, his eyes shrinking into I-hate-you slits. Whatever. The kid can hate me all he wants, as long as he doesn’t pull a stunt like that again.

Carter and our audience resume their seated positions, hunching over their work. Except Olivia, who resumes breaking branches and tossing them around.

I look at Max’s page for the first time, and I’m at a loss.

He chose to trace the California condor—an almost-extinct vulture with a massive wingspan. Instead of drawing basic trees or mountains for scenery like the other kids, he added a boy on top of the bird, the pair flying toward the sun, fury etched on the boy’s face. At the base of the page is a small forest and tiny people drawn with harder, angrier strokes—more abstract than realistic—as though the flying boy is escaping the darkness of the world.

The work isn’t as jaw dropping as E’s graphic novel illustrations, but holy shit. It’s incredibly emotional, evoking a sense of adventure, but also fear and displacement.

Feelings I know well.

If I were to name it, I’d call the piece I Don’t Belong Here.

Shaking off the intensity of his work, I crouch in front of him. “Max, this is incredible. Like, insanely good.”

He blushes and ducks his head. “Thanks.”

His modesty also reminds me of E, who got embarrassed when people complimented his art. A trait I’m pleased Max shares with him. “What does the picture mean to you?”

He hunches forward and shrugs. “I don’t know.”

“Well, what were you feeling when you were drawing?”

“I don’t know,” he says again, kicking at forest debris. “I just drew it.”