Page 33 of Isabella and the Slipper

Isabella dipped her fingers into the smooth acrylic paint and dabbed it on the canvas. She loved everything about her art: the feel of the stretched canvas under her fingers, the smell of the paint, and the connection she felt with light and form as she worked.

She’d gotten brave and asked Elenore about the missing painting. She’d taken it as punishment for arriving late to the gallery. It was in the attic, with the others. Isabella was annoyed, but her punishment could have been worse, so she let it go.

She continued to dab on colors, working quickly as the final image formed in her mind. Her father had taught her how to make the paint thicker where she wanted to show more movement, and she used his strategies, helping the image to materialize in front of her. The night stretched on, and before long it was after ten.

Her bedroom door opened and Delilah walked in, her arms folded, a serene look on her face. “What are you doing?”

Isabella looked at her for a moment, trying to decide if she wanted to say something sarcastic and pick a fight, or if she should be nice. In the end, her good side won out. “Painting.”

Delilah walked behind her and examined her work. “I like how the sunlight filters through the tree branches.”

Delilah liked it? That was a first.

“Thanks.”

“I think Mom should hang this one in the gallery. When you’re done. I mean, it’s really good.”

Isabella turned to stare at Delilah.

Was she being serious? Surely not. Why was she acting this way?

“Um ... thanks.”

“I’ll tell her this is a good one. Maybe she’ll listen.” Delilah looked down at her pink sparkly fingernails. “You know, I’ve been thinking. It’s our senior year and everything. Soon we’ll be going away. We should maybe ... do more stuff together.”

Okay. Something was definitely up.

Isabella wanted to know where this was going, so she played along. “Like what?”

“I don’t know.” Delilah fiddled with her bracelet. “I guess I just feel like we aren’t close at all and that ...” Delilah blinked.

Was she crying? Isabella stared at her. She’d never seen Delilah get emotional over anything besides not finding her size on the sales rack. Delilah wiped under her eyes.

“I feel like it’s my fault.”

Well, duh. It totally was her fault.

But Isabella couldn’t just sit there and let Delilah cry about it. She wiped her fingers off on her rag and stood, placing a hand on Delilah’s shoulder. “It’s okay.”

It wasn’t really okay, but what else could she say? Maybe Delilah wanted to make amends. Ever since they were thrust together as a family, she’d wanted to be close to her sisters. Having them constantly snubbing her hurt more than she wanted to admit.

Delilah pulled Isabella into a hug. “I don’t want you to hate me for the rest of my life.”

Ouch. Had she acted like she hated her?

Isabella didn’t like the thought that maybe she was partly to blame for their problems. “I don’t hate you.”

“Good.” Delilah stepped back. “Because I want a fresh start.” Her eyes were bright, and she looked sincere.

Isabella nodded. “That would be nice.”

“Why don’t you come with us to the game tomorrow?”

Delilah really wanted her at the game?

A glimmer of hope arose in Isabella’s chest. But then she remembered the gallery. “I have to work.”

“I already talked to Mom. She said you don’t have to go in on Friday.”

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