A Little Friend

Chapter Six

It had been weeks since I'd last seen Harriet, and she felt more distant than ever. After everything that had come to light, I started to realize how little I really knew about her. She wasn't just the smart, pretty girl I thought I knew ᅳ she was the daughter of someone deeply troubled, maybe even dangerous. But when she asked me to go along with her lies, I couldn't say no. So, while she stayed home painting, chasing her dream, I stayed at school. She promised she'd be okay as long as she was careful, so I respected her wish to be left alone until she finished. It wasn't easy, but I trusted her, even though I wished I could've done more.

***

Harriet recovered from smallpox remarkably quickly. Neither Mrs. White, nor I expected her to return to school so soon. To be honest, I had completely forgotten about the art contest she was looking forward to attending. As the pieces fell into place in my mind, things started making sense.

Harriet arrived late once more, but given her debilitating illness, Mrs. White chose to forgive her. She allowed Harriet to sit next to me, and she hurried to her seat as if she were catching her breath. Her face looked distressed, as if she had raced to get there and was relieved to finally sit among us. We remained silent for a moment until Mrs. White finished calling the roll.

During class, Harrietrolled up her sleeve and showed me a new bruise on her arm. "He caught mepainting last night," she said as if it was nothing. "He wasn't very pleased,"she whispered. "But at least I finished it, my dear," she added, winking with astrange mix of pride and relief. Her eyes shone with a satisfaction that hadbeen building for the past two and a half weeks. That day was Harriet's bigday.

When the teacher dismissed us, Harriet grabbed my hand, and we rushed to Mr. Porter's classroom. She told me she had left her painting there for the judges to review. Smiling, she reassured me that she had seen the other entries and was confident none compared to hers. She was certain Mr. Porter would appreciate the personal touches she had added into her work. When we arrived, we had to wait for everyone to assemble. The contest was to be held before all the students and teachers.

As I looked over the paintings, Harriet's piece was easy to spot. Among the vibrant colors and varied techniques of the other students, hers stood out for its faded, muted palette. This was her art's unique charm, the way she expressed herself. What struck me immediately about her painting was its eerie resemblance to my dream. It depicted the backyard tree and the shadow with unsettling accuracy—exactly as I had seen it in my nightmares. I was horrified; the painting mirrored the details I had once seen in my nightmares. The colors, the lifeless tree, the shadow's position—they were all the same to what I had experienced. While Harriet gazed proudly at her creation, I was overwhelmed with terror, reliving my nightmare over and over again.

I don't recall much of what happened next. The only clear memory I have is of Harriet's heart-wrenching cries and Mr. Porter trying to comfort her. "Harriet," he said, holding her hands, "your painting is remarkable, but it's unsettling to most of the people who see it". Harriet pulled away from him and ran through the door, leaving me rooted in place, unable to move. It was only later that I found out that the theme for that year's contest was "Whispers in the wind."