When another painting was put on the easel, the members became very excited again. They thirsted to get their hands on an original painting by this hot new artist.
When they revealed it, it was a portrait of flowers, obviously painted by an artist other than Alexander. Mrs. Mitchell went on to talk about this artist, but the bidding didn't start high, nor did it skyrocket.
The crowd waited impatiently for the next painting to be presented.
And when it was again one of the European artist's creations, the hands began waving.
It was now becoming clear to me after seeing these paintings one by one-the cemetery under the soft glow of moonlight; the rail yard, with its bright-colored boxcars andsunfire yellow weeds; the front of the high school, its American flag blowing in the wind; the swings underneath a blue sky at Evans Park; the drive-in running an old movie-that even though Alexander only visited these places at night, he was seeing Dullsville in brilliant colors and happy hues rather than the dark and dismal black and white I'd seen it in my whole life. These were the places we'd visited together. My heart melted seeing that I'd had something to do with Alexander's happiness here, and that his vivid impressions were of our experiences Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter,together. Finally they revealed the last painting. But this painting was unlike the others. It was a picture of me.
The members sighed,
"That's not the European artist," many of them said.
"No, that's not his work."
"Bidding starts at one thousand dollars."
No one raised their sign.
I quickly calculated my notes and realized we had fallen short of what Alexander needed.
My dad looked around. Here was a picture of his daughter and no one was buying it.
"Do I hear one thousand?"
"I'll bid one thousand," my dad said, waving his sign proudly.
Then Jameson got into the game. "One thousand five hundred," he called.
"Two thousand," my dad said.
"Do I hear two thousand five hundred?" the auctioneer asked. I peered around. No signs were waved. "Going once, going twice."
My heart dropped. We'd raised a lot of money, but we hadn't raised enough to buy the mansion.
"We're short," I said to Alexander. "Do I hear two thousand five hundred?" I shouted.
Alexander grabbed my arm.
"We have to get the bidding up," I whispered to him.
"Two thousand five hundred."Jameson raised his sign
"Two thousand five hundred.Going once, going twice."
"Three thousand dollars," a new voice, coming from the back of the room, called.
"Do I hear three thousand five hundred?" the auctioneer asked. He banged his gavel."Then sold for three thousand."
Alexander and I stood up and hugged each other. We were so ecstatic we didn't care that anyone saw us. And I was too excited to wonder who the mystery bidder was.
"Now we just have to get that money to Mr. Berkley before Mr. Mitchell does."
A few volunteers brought out all the auctioned items and displayed them so that everyone could take Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter,a last look at what they'd won and what they'd lost.
Mr. Sterling put on his reading glasses and examined the tiny inscription about the rising artist whose work had quickly sold out.
Then he turned straight back to us.