Page 45 of The Art of Us by Symone

ELEVEN

As much as I try to push Brandon aside, I’ve started another drawing of the boy with captivating dark blue eyes and a mysterious demeanor.

It’s my third sketch.

I blame him.

I’m sitting on my bed, finishing his tousled hair, when tapping comes from outside my window.

Scowling, I anxiously walk to the curtain, easing it away to peek out.

My heart skips a beat. “Brandon?” I open the window and whisper, “What are you doing?”

He shows me a large plastic bag with the logo for the art store I love. It looks heavy.

“What’s that?” I gasp.

“Let me in,” Brandon says, peering behind him.

Sighing, I open the window fully and back away for him to set the bag inside and climb into my room.

He holds it out before him. “For you.” At least he’s keeping his voice low. He’s probably used to sneaking into bedrooms.

No, wait…

He doesn’t touch anyone. I doubt he’s creeping for late-night cookies.

I clear my head when he motions to the bag again.

Though I’ll love anything from that art store, I’m hesitant to accept. “I told you, I don’t want—”

“Take it,” he insists, frustrated. “Stop being so modest.”

Sucking my teeth, I collect the heavy bag and set it on the bed, opening it to look inside.

My jaw drops as I discern the box with one of the most expensive easels like the ones at school. There’s also a variety of oil paints and brushes.

Turning to Brandon, I ask in a surprised and hushed tone, “Why did you buy all this?”

He twists his mouth with nonchalance. “Because you’re an artist, and artists need supplies.”

“Still, we don’t know each other well. You don’t need to buy me anything.” I close the bag and reach it back to him. “I can’t accept any of this.”

Annoyance becomes apparent from the shift in his stance and his tightened gaze. “It offends me you’re refusing my gifts, especially when you told me you want these things.”

“Yeah, but…” I shake my head. “Brandon—”

“Just take the stuff, Kayla.” His tone is sweeter. “I saw the look in your eyes. You want to.”

I chew at the corner of my bottom lip and glance down at the heavy bag of supplies in my hand. I do want to keep everything.

Just this once, I ignore Doreen’s voice in my head.

“Thank you,” I concede, a grateful smile coming to the surface.

“You’re welcome.” Brandon saunters to my bed and sits at the side. Picking up my sketchbook, he asks, “What do you have in here?”

If he flips through, he’ll see the sketches. I quickly pluck the book away and set it aside with the bag on the carpet.

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