As I sat down at the table for breakfast my mother slid a plate of eggs and toast in front of me. I don’t ever talk to her until after I’m finished eating in the morning. My brain doesn’t fully wake up until I’ve got something in my stomach. I shoved the last bite of eggs into my mouth and got up to get ready.
“What’s up today, Mom?” I asked.
“Oh, honey, I found something you’ll like!” She exclaimed the second I finished my sentence. Mom wiped her hands on a dish towel and turned to face me. “The art gallery down town is having another art contest!”
“Oh, cool! What are the qualifications?” I asked. I had made it a rule to enter something in every art contest or show the Queensdale Gallery had to offer.
Mom turned around a few times and gave up. “Well, I just had the paper but I can’t find it. I thought I had it right here! Anyway, it’s for middle and high school students. And there’s a nature theme.”
I stood still for a moment and smiled. Then, I swiped the contest paper that was on the front of the fridge and waved it at my mom before rushing off to my room. “I’m doing it, of course!” I yelled over my shoulder.
I quickly got myself dressed and rushed out the door. As I walked to the bus stop, I began to read the paper. The contest is strictly for paintings from middle and high school students who live in Queensdale. All the paintings have to be a part of nature with an outdoor setting. In bold letters at the very bottom of the page, it says: “Any and all entries that depict a domestic animal of any kind will be immediately disqualified.”
“Well, I can’t paint Rimkus,” I giggled to myself. Rimkus, my cat, is the ugliest thing on planet Earth.
A moment later, I tripped over a little rock and dropped the contest paper in a puddle. As I picked the paper out by its corner my best friend, Isabelle, ran over from the bus stop. Without speaking, she took the paper from me and squinted at it.
“Whew!” She said, slapping it back into my hand. “I thought it was something important.”
I laughed and tossed the paper into a trash can. “It’s a good thing that wasn’t like my contest entry or something.”
“Melinda Rutherby!” My teacher rapped at my desk.
“Sorry, Mrs. South, I was thinking about what I’m going to paint for the gallery’s contest. Should I paint a deer or some plant?” I zoned out again and didn’t hear Mrs. South’s response. I’m hopeless in the attention department. Whenever I have something to paint, it’s the only thing on my mind until it’s done. The rest of the day was the same until I stopped by the gallery to pick up an entry sheet.
“I’m looking forward to seeing your painting, Mel,” Jeremy said. “What is it?” Jeremy is the owner of the art gallery, and he’s obsessed with my work. He always keeps a few of my paintings on display and even sells one every once in a while.
“Oh, I haven’t figured out what I’m going to paint yet,” I said.
Jeremy looked surprised. “You’d better get started then, you only have two days till the deadline!”
“What?!” I exclaimed. I glanced at the entry sheet. I really did only have two days. “How did I not notice this before?! You’re right, I’d better go!” I rushed out of the shop and ran home. “Mom! Mom! I only have two days to paint!” I shouted the second I got in the door.
Mom came out of the kitchen wiping her hands. Does she wash dishes all day or what? I thought.
“What, honey? You’re talking so fast I can’t catch a single word you say,”
“Mom, I only have two days to paint. What am I supposed to do?” I was panicking a little. Okay, a lot.
“Paint,” my mom said, and went back into the kitchen. I stood still for a moment with my mouth hanging open rather stupidly. I almost said something more, but I decided it would be useless. The sound of my shoes hitting the hardwood floor echoed through the house as I headed for the garage. Soon I was sitting on my stool in front of a blank canvas wondering what the heck I was going to paint.
I sat there for hours, pondering, wondering, questioning, and doing everything but thinking about what to paint. “Why is the front door pink on the inside?” I asked myself. I shook my head and laughed. “And that one purple wall on the inside of my closet? What’s with that?!” Suddenly I realized someone was watching me and turned around.
My mother stood in the doorway and laughed. “You’re still as focused as a puppy, I see.”
I sighed. “You know me. I can’t think about what needs to be thought about the most.” Rimkus shot through the door and hopped up on my lap. He dropped something moist and very dead right in my lap. “EW!” I jumped up. “Stupid cat, that’s disgusting!”
I gawked at my mom, who just walked over and picked the thing up. “It’s a butterfly, Honey. Paint it!”
My right eyebrow rose until it hit the roof. “What?” I said. “I’ve never painted a butterfly before, you know that. I’ve tried. It looked like that,” I said, pointing to Rimkus’ present.
“Paint the dead butterfly. But make it alive.” My mom looked at me expectantly.
“Oh- okay... whatever you say? But I’ll do it tomorrow. I have homework to do.” I went up to my room and thought about the dead butterfly. Rimkus climbed onto my lap and didn’t give me anything dead this time. “Do you think that if I try to paint it the way it is, it’ll turn out looking alive?” I asked him. He looked up at me with his old, grumpy face and squinted. “I’ll take that as a no.”
School the next day was the same as the day before. Long, boring, and totally uneducational. But at the end of the day, I was hit by a sudden moment of inspiration. My friend Abby, tried to talk to me after the bell rang, but I grabbed my bag and ran past her.
“Sorry, Abs, I gotta go!” I shouted over my shoulder.
I ran all the way home, and left the door open in my haste to get to the garage. My mother’s “Hi, Honey” quickly faded behind me. I practically dive bombed onto my stool and almost tipped over. My school bag barely hit the ground before I started to paint.
I painted for hours. The sound of the second hand on the big clocked ticked and ticked, but rather than annoying me, it somehow fueled my creation. Every little stroke added to the image that was unfolding. Every steady line fell perfectly. I felt like a pitcher of water, pouring the image in my head onto the canvas. My mother called to me to come eat dinner, and the last drip plopped in place. It was perfect.
The next morning, I excitedly shared the details of my painting with Mom while I ate my breakfast. She gazed at me with a look that said “I have no idea what you’re talking about, but I’m proud!” My painting, which I titled “Papillon,” rested on a little stand on the counter.
“It’s beautiful,” Mom said.
“I know! Where’s Rimkus? I’ll have to thank him for that dead butterfly,” I joked. “Well, I better get going,” I said as I stood up and carefully picked up my painting. I grabbed a cover for it, but decided to wait to put it on until Isabelle had a chance to see it.
I walked out the door and toward the bus stop carefully paying attention to the ground. I didn’t want to drop my masterpiece. Isabelle called my name and I forgot my caution and ran toward her.
“Isabelle!” I shouted.
I tripped over a little rock in the middle of the sidewalk. My painting flew through the air in slow motion and landed in a puddle. I ignored the fact that I was wet and splashed over to it on my knees. I picked up my painting and stared at it. For a split second I felt like crying, and then I laughed. Isabelle, who had run to me, looked at me in confusion.
“What’s funny? What’s that?” She asked, pointing at the painting.
I turned my sopping Papillon to show her, and after a moment she laughed too.
“Whew. I thought it was something important,” Isabelle said, and chuckled as she helped me up.
