Page 46 of Drawing Home
Chapter Twenty-One
Penny woke up to the loud click of her bedroom door opening.
“You are not to leave this house today,” her mother said from across the room. “Do you hear me?”
“Yes,” Penny mumbled.
The sun peeked through her curtains, and it hurt to look at it. Her eyelids felt stuck together from all the crying. She’d sobbed herself to sleep last night, replaying over and over in her mind the hour she’d spent trapped by her OCD at the ocean’s edge. By the time she was able to relax and return to the towels with Mindy and Robin and the boys, no one was talking to her. “You have to stop acting like such a weirdo,” Robin had whispered to her. “Why do you do things like that?”
“I’m going to a quick meeting and then I’ll be home,” her mother said, adding, “I’m really disappointed in you, Penny.”
Penny felt tears return to her already swollen eyes. She pulled the covers over her head. Did she feel bad that she’d upset her mom? Yes. But her mother didn’t understand how desperate she felt. She needed to escape.
What had she done with all of her time last summer? She’d hung out with Mr. Wyatt a lot. When she was drawing, her mind was blank. Sometimes, she had felt nervous showing him a sketch after she finished, but it was worth it for the times when he praised her. Earning his approval was the best feeling in the world. But Henry was gone and every time she picked up a pencil, she thought,What’s the point?Yes, she’d been drawing before she met him. But once they started working together, it became so much bigger. So much better. And now she’d never finish her graphic novel.
Last summer, Henry had had the idea for each of them to write one. The day she’d brought copies ofCoralineandThe Graveyard Bookto show him, he’d suggested they walk to the library to find more.
“They have a bunch but I’ve read them all,” Penny had told him.
“Well, I have not, so humor me,” he’d said.
Henry and Penny sat at a table near the circulation desk and he pulled out his sketch pad. He stared at it for a moment, then began drawing. Penny looked over his shoulder as the image took shape. It was the bar at the hotel.
“I’m going to create my own illustrated story, Penny.”
“You mean graphic novel?”
“You know I don’t think that term makes sense. And Penny, you should start one of your own. We can work on this endeavor together.”
“Me? I don’t know how,” she said.
“No one ever knows how to do anything. Until they do it.”
She had believed him. Around Mr. Wyatt, anything seemed possible. Now her world was small again.
When she was sure her mother was long gone from the house, Penny dragged herself out of bed to the kitchen, hoping she still had Cap’n Crunch. She’d bought it herself at Schiavoni’s, sneaked it into the house, and tucked it away in the cabinet with the spices and other cooking staples her mother never used. Penny was trying to make the sugary cereal last because she didn’t know when she’d get to buy it again. She couldn’t wait to be old enough to have a real job so she could get some freedom—freedom in what she ate, freedom to come and go as she wanted. Fourteen sucked. Fourteen was too young to get away with doing nothing but not old enough to do something worthwhile.
“Good morning,” Angus said, looking up from his crossword puzzle.
Penny shook the last cupful of cereal into a bowl and drowned it in milk.
“Penny, you know your mother doesn’t want you eating that junk. I’ll make you some eggs.”
The doorbell rang. Saved by the bell! “I’ll get it,” Penny said. She carried the bowl with her to the door, shoveling spoonfuls into her mouth along the way. “Who is it?” she asked dutifully, though looking out the peephole gave her the answer.
She couldn’t believe what she saw.
She put the cereal on the floor, unlocked the door, and swung it open.
“Dad?” she said.
“Hey, kiddo,” her father said.
How could this be? Her father was there, standing right in front of her. She couldn’t even remember the last time she’d spoken to him on the phone. But the weird thing was, no matter how long she went without seeing him, she always felt an instant connection when she did. Part of it was that she looked so much more like him than like her mother. She had his height, his dark eyes, and his curly brown hair—although his was now threaded with silver at the temples. The one difference was that he had the olive complexion of the Italian side of his family, and it was even darker at the moment with his deep tan.
She flung herself into his arms.
He laughed, and she stayed like that for a long minute, the midmorning sun beating down on the back of her neck.
