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Chapter 6

Charlotte O'Brien

My dad kissed my forehead, enveloping me in the smell of rain and pine. He wrapped his arms around my shoulders and pulled me in tight, like a vise. "Have fun, dusky dolphin. We're going to find a way to work it all out, okay? I'll help you do the work over the weekend, Mom will help you with any essays, and I'll set up a meeting with your counselor for Monday, when we all have clear minds and determined faces," he pulled back and gently took my face in his hands. I could tell he was bending down to look at me because I could feel his breath on my nose. It smelled like candy cane Tic Tacs; he stocked up on them every year during Christmas so he could have them all year long.

"We're going to figure out your future, microbat. Cause you're going to have one." His voice was confident, like a knight about to go out on a quest that he knew would be done before his maiden left behind could sigh. I just nodded and readjusted my sunglasses. I had put them back on after my dad pulled into a parking spot, swinging around to pull into the closest handicapped one of the Stellar Star Art Studio.

My dad kissed my forehead and I teared up a little bit. I knew that dads could be absolutely terrible; Braylynn had had a myriad of bad ones. One was a drinker, one was a gambler, one had his eyes on her childhood friends, and one who was simply absent. She called him the Ghost Husband. I was so lucky to have my dad, for everything he does. I couldn't have picked a better one.

"I love you, Charlotte," he said as he grasped my shoulders, his tone full of tenderness and kindness.

I lifted my head in what I hoped was his general direction and smiled. "I love you too, moose."

"Moose?" He questioned, his tone becoming puzzled and I could just imagine his forehead furrowing into three distinct wrinkles; I spent enough time touching his face to know.

I full out grinned. "It was the first sighted animal I could think of." There was a breath of pure silence as my father processed it, but then he let out a booming laugh, one that sent me jumping in surprise. That made him laugh even more, until he was wheezing for air and clutching his abdomen. I shook my head and unfolded my cane, beginning to swing it back and forth as I walked towards the studio. "Pick me up at eight!" I called behind me and he hooted in agreement, his laughter still echoing in the parking lot as another car pulled into the spot near him; I heard its brakes squealing together. I listened for his car door, for the tires to grind against the asphalt to drive away, for the news to come blaring out the windows, but I knew it wouldn't happen, not until I got into the building. That's just how my dad was.

I pulled open the door with my non-dominant right hand and stepped into the warm studio. It literally made my toes curl with pleasure and a pleasant smile spread across my face. It smelled like clay, plaster, glaze, oil paints, and the faint scent of canvas. The murmurs of the few patrons could be heard as they worked with their clay and complained it wasn't looking like what they envisioned. It felt so secure and safe, this little art studio surrounded on one side by a SecureWay supermarket and on the other by a Daddy John's pizza place. It felt like a second home.

There was a squeal from the left, behind the counter my mind supplied, and the sound of running bare feet. "You're early!" The owner of Stellar Star-Stella Park-cried and threw her arms around me. She was long and thin like a pencil, and had a pixie cut; she had made me run my fingers through it after she chopped off her long "Woodstock masterpiece," or so she called it. She also never wore shoes because she felt it cut her off from Mother Earth and lessened her creativity.

I hugged her back and reveled in the smells of her blood orange perfume and the clay caked onto her skin and smock. "I had a little disagreement with my para at school and couldn't stand to be in the same room as him." I replied and pulled back. She took my left arm and we walked to my regular table in the back left corner of the studio. The other patrons had stopped talking when I walked in, my sight cane and glasses displaying without a shadow of a doubt my disability, but now they hurriedly made up for it, whispering about what a blind person could do with art and that I'm probably part of a charity program. I had more than half a mind to correct them, but I couldn't fight every person I met on the street that challenged me and what I knew I could do, because if I did, it would change absolutely nothing. People would still whisper, and I would still hear them.