28. Aspen #2
Yes, there are ways I’ve learned to cope over the years. Having a phone or a laptop that can read material out to me is definitely helpful. The school tried overlays and different colored papers and fonts as well, but none of that worked.
I hated being treated differently at school.
I was taken into different classes, classes that singled me out, and had the other kids laughing and giving reasons to bully me.
As if it wasn’t hard enough growing up. Then my sister went missing, and it was just another reason for me to feel like I was different.
I finish mixing the cake batter and add it to the newly cleaned pan. The consistency looks better this time, and I can’t believe I hadn’t noticed how runny it had been the first time.
I place the cake in the oven.
“I’ll set the timer on my phone,” Levi says.
“Thanks.”
We both take a seat at the breakfast table. There’s an unusual companionship between us, and I want to ask who took over Levi’s body.
“So, did you get your dad anything for his birthday?” I ask eventually.
Levi rolls his neck and shoulders. “I processed a whole deer I caught and filled the freezer for winter.”
“Oh.” By processed, I assume he meant he butchered one. “I’m sure Blake will appreciate that.”
“Yeah, we’re not exactly big on gifts around here.”
I’m tempted to bring up the stick dolls. They’ve felt like a gift, of sorts. I don’t want to say or do anything to wreck this fragile truce between us, though.
“I got lost in the maze the other day,” I say instead.
He widens his blue eyes. They really are gorgeous—dark blue and fringed with thick, black lashes. He almost looks like he’s wearing eyeliner or mascara.
“What were you doing in there? It’s completely overgrown.”
“Seemed like a good idea at the time. Don’t worry, I won’t do it again. I freaked myself out, thinking someone was following me, though every time I turned around, no one was there.”
“Maybe it was a ghost,” he says, but it feels only half-joking.
“I don’t believe in ghosts.”
“Doesn’t mean they’re not real.”
I think of something else. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen my sweater? I had it on the other day in the orangery, and I thought I’d left it there, but when I went back to find it, it was gone.”
He purses his lips as he thinks then shakes his head. “Nope, sorry. You must have left it somewhere else. I’ll keep an eye out for it, though.”
“Thanks.”
He holds my gaze almost a little too intensely, and I have to break the contact. Is he lying? He left the orangery after me. If I’d left the sweater where I thought, he must have seen it. But what would he want with my sweater? It’s not as though it would fit him.
The alarm goes off on his phone, signaling it’s time to take the cake out of the oven.
Levi is first to his feet. “I’ll do it. Your fingers must still be sore.”
I’m not used to him showing me any kind of compassion, so I stay quiet. He opens the oven in a cloud of steam and fishes out the cake using a pair of oven mitts.
“I think we did a better job this time.”
He’s right. The cake has risen and smells amazing.
He places it on the cooling tray.
“Thank you,” I tell him, almost begrudgingly.
“No problem.”
I don’t need any help to frost it. I can figure that part out by using the consistency of the icing and tasting it to see if it needs more of anything. I hope Blake is going to like it.
Have I had some kind of breakthrough with Levi? Was this a step to him accepting having me around? Or has he only been accommodating because we’ve been doing something for his father’s birthday, and, despite his terrible attitude, he does actually care about his dad?
I’m worried that he’s guessed my secret. I shouldn’t be ashamed of it, but I am.
I do believe that my dyslexia and dyscalculia have something to do with my artistic talent.
In the same way I see lines of text differently than others, I believe I also see shapes and shades in a different way.
When I draw, it’s as though I’m sculpting.
My pictures have depth and texture, just the same as something created in stone or clay.
I layer and build, and carve, except I do it in 2D, instead of 3D.
To me, my drawings look three dimensional, though.
I wonder if others see them the same way.
They’re hyper-realistic, and I’ve had people comment that they could be a photograph in black and white and wouldn’t know that they’d been created purely with pencil.
The graphite is etched into my fingers now, so no amount of scrubbing will get it off. Art is literally a part of who I am, and I wouldn’t change it for the world.
Being here at Windridge Hall has sparked a new level of inspiration.
The whole place is captivating, from the grounds, to the mountain scenery beyond, to the beautiful structures of the building itself.
Is part of my fear about leaving not only because I’ll be homeless, but because I’m frightened I’ll lose my talent again, too, like I did when my dad was so sick and I’d been unable to draw?
I offer Levi a smile. “Thank you for your help.”
“You’re welcome, Little Fox,” he says before throwing me a wink and sauntering out of the kitchen.
For once, the nickname warms me with pleasure.