chewed my lip. “I don’t know if I can,” I whispered.
“You can’t mean it.” She took a step toward me. “Mara, your other work is excellent. But this,” she spread her arm wide to encompass the collection on the easels. “You’ve done it. Everything I’ve tried to teach you for the last four years. This is your best work.” She took hold of my hands. “This scholarship could change your life.”
Emotion clogged my throat. It was so gratifying to hear her say that. Not that her approval was everything, but she knew art. I felt a swell of pride that I’d been able to create something that had made her feel. But could I do it? Could I submit the paintings of Taggish to the scholarship committee?
“Thank you,” I told her, but before I could say anything else, the bell rang, signaling the end of seventh period. “Oh, can I leave all this here?” I asked her, reaching down to pick up my backpack. “I have to take a make-up test since I missed school the other day. I’ll come back to get them when I’m finished.”
Ms. Coltrain nodded. “Of course. I won’t be here when you get back, but I’ll leave the door open. Mara, I hope you’ll reconsider, or at least think about what I said.”
“I will. I promise. I’ll see you tomorrow!” I called over my shoulder as I rushed out of the room.
15
Taggish
I’d been trying to catch Mara all day but kept missing her. I knew she was usually in the art room the last two periods of the day, so when I asked Coach Samms for a pass to the bathroom, I made a detour to the art room instead. I needed to see Mara. She’d been avoiding me for the last day and a half, and I needed to know if she was okay. Had she finished her project for the art scholarship? I knew it was due that day.
The art room was empty when I arrived. Since I wasn’t in a big hurry to get back to class, I decided to look around. I’d only taken one semester of art as a freshman to fulfill the requirement, but I’d always liked the cheerful room filled with tables, desks, and shelves cluttered with half-completed projects and a multitude of supplies and tools. There were so many interesting things going on as I walked around the desks and headed toward the back where more projects were set up. There were clay sculptures waiting to be glazed, half-completed pencil drawings, mosaics, and years of dried paint of every color touching every surface.
I’d worked my way to the furthest corner. Several easels blocked off a portion of the room, and my curiosity got the better of me. I didn’t know what I’d expected, but it wasn’t to see my own face staring back at me four times over.
“Wow,” I breathed. I knew immediately Mara had painted them.
One by one, I stood in front of the paintings. They were a progression, or a peeling back of layer after layer, each one revealing emotions that grew deeper and deeper. Fun. Mischief. Tenderness. Vulnerability. Four portraits of me. I reached the last one and intended to go back to the first when I noticed the fifth.
My knees buckled.
My mom. She’d painted my mom.
Moving slowly, using only the tips of my fingers, I picked up the painting by its edges.
I experienced a flood of emotions, mostly love for my mom, but gratitude, too. For Mara. She’d painted my mom in her sickbed surrounded by pillows, her lap covered with a quilt. She looked healthy with flushed cheeks and her hair long over her shoulders. She held a picture frame in her hands, and the expression on her face was one I knew so well. She’d worn it every time she looked at me.
Mara had painted me, too, standing at the end of the bed. I was young, six or seven, and wearing my baseball uniform, complete with red pinstripes and grass stains. I held a baseball and mitt in one hand, ready to play.
My throat clogged.
Somehow, she’d caught the emotions perfectly. Looking at the painting, I felt my mom’s love, and I felt that yearning, that longing to throw the ball one last time.
“Oh, my gosh! What are you doing?”
“Mara!” I spun around to see her standing, eyes wide and mouth gaping.
“What are you doing in here?” She stepped into the alcove made by the easels, a look of horror on