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She said that my hair was nowlong enough to look like girls hair. I sat on a stool while she brushed myhair. It went down to my neck. I loved having my hair brushed so I quicklyforgot that she was mean and crazy like the old lady could be. After 20minutes of playing with my hair, she showed me the result in a mirror. Icouldn't believe it. I looked like a real girl now. It looked more naturaland not as fake with the wig.When the old lady woke up, she noticed that the wig was gone. She couldsee. Marie pushed my head back down rather firmly, as I felt something slip over my other wrist. Amelia had handcuffed me! I began to struggle a little bit, but about all I could do was flail my legs around. That's when Marie sat on my legs facing me. Her gorgeous red lips were telling me something about being an asshole and needing some "sensitivity training." While she was sitting on my legs, Amelia bound them together with another belt and buckle. Here I was, minutes after walking into the beauty. I started to cry, uncontrollably.My mother asked, "How did he fall? Must have been the corn," she said puzzled, "but that doesn't explain the wheelchair."For some reason, that got through to me. I had to find out what she was talking about. Almost as quickly as my crying started, it stopped. I turned my head and looked.The wheelchair was on its back, not far from where I had been sitting. I, though, was at least five feet away from the chair.Jessica was on her knees. Her hands wiped my tears. I’d done it again—let my emotions take me into the canvas. This time with no music score. The last one, Desperate Love, I’d sent to the vault while it was still wet. So different from my usual painting that it could be by a different artist. I’d captured something different. In addition to shape and color and shadow, I’d captured the emotion missing in my other paintings. I flopped down in my chair to look at it, wondering what time I had to be in class in the morning. I looked at my Day-Timer.
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