A Single Stroke ✔️

37: Thief

"You need help? I can write out your notes for you."

I dropped my pencil for the zenith time. How did lefties do it?

"I'm good."

She handed me my pencil and I tried again. And again. And again.

I finally finished drawing a line. Did a squiggle count as a line? It was supposed to be a dash. I spent twenty minutes on it. The first dash to write the first bullet point of notes. Mrs. Sutton already moved on.

"You're struggling. Just take my notes after class." Some girl with strawberry-blonde hair smiled at me and leaned a little closer to whisper. I didn't know her. And I sure as hell didn't want her sitting next to me.

"I said," I slammed my pencil on the desk, "I'm good."

For the rest of class, I listened to music.

Once class ended, I grabbed my backpack and avoided everyone's stares. But once I tried heading towards the door, I caught Brynn watching me. Her eyes followed my hand, now in a black cast. My tattoos were covered up. The school probably liked that.

When she met my eyes, I expected her to act like she wasn't staring. But she tried smiling. There was an apology in her eyes. It reminded me of that day in the lunchroom with Azaleah.

This was the worst injury since my stitches incident. I had to miss school Monday to head to the doctor. Turned out I broke my hand. All my fingers, specifically. I told them I was clumsy and fell out of a tree at the Pepperidge Park over the weekend. For the first time, the doctor didn't seem to believe me.

I took a week off school to recover. The doctor made me. Dad was pissed since I walked to the hospital myself to get it checked out and it turned out to be more than just a bruise. And he had to pay out of pocket for it.

I locked myself in my room the whole week, only sneaking downstairs when he was gone so I could eat whatever we had in the fridge. He pretended I wasn't home. Instead of staying with me, he left the house for eight hours at a time. I didn't know where he went during the day, especially since he didn't have a job anymore.

After school, I went straight to the Late Café. When Teagan saw me, her eyes flooded with concern.

"Oh my God, Emery. What happened?"

"Nothing. I need to talk to you."

She nodded and wiped her hands on a washcloth. "Okay, give me ten—"

"No, now."

When she didn't say anything, I didn't wait. "I'm not painting anymore."

"What?"

"I'm done. I'm not selling paintings here anymore. I'm not coming here anymore. This was just...some childish thing I was too stupid to give up."

"Emery—"

"Whatever paintings are left, sell those. But take down the papers about the Mystery Painter. Tell them Blue retired."

"Now hold on a sec—"

"No." I slammed my fist on the counter. A few people looked over. "Tell. Them. I'm done."

"Emery..." She moved closer and lowered her voice. Put a hand on my cast. "Did your dad do this to you?

What was it to her?

Her eyes widened. "Oh my God. This is my fault. I'm so, so sorry. I shouldn't have said anything. I thought your dad would be proud to see your work, that's the whole reason I showed him. I didn't realize he would react—"