“There’s been a lot of—” she rolled her wrists in the air—“fighting at my house.”
“Who’s fighting?”
“My parents.”
Leah knew what it was to live on the turf of that battlefield. “Is anyone hurting you physically?”
“No.”
“Verbally?”
“No.... I mean, not much.”
“My parents used to argue, too. I understand how hard that is.” She also understood why Claire would fall asleep here. Here, it was safe.
“It’s not too bad,” Claire said.
Claire had confided in Leah, her teacher. Which probably meant that it was really, really bad. “Do you want to talk to me about it?”
She gave a worried shake of her head.
“Do you know Ms. Williams, the counselor?”
“Not really.”
“She’s great. I’m going to contact her and have her reach out to you and set up a meeting.”
“If I talk to her, will my parents get in trouble?”
“At this point, you’re simply going to have a conversation with a counselor. That’s all.”
Apackage arrived for you,” Leah told Dylan the following evening when he returned home from football practice.
“Huh?” He made his way from the mudroom into the kitchen, where Leah was eating one of Tess’s cookies as an appetizer before dinner.
“A package. Arrived for you.”
He followed her into the living room, where she’d propped the large rectangular box near the inside of the front door.
“Who’s it from?” Dylan asked.
“An art supply company in Atlanta. Did you order art supplies?”
“I can’t afford more art supplies.” Sweaty and smelling strongly of teenage boy, he carried the package to the dining table and ripped it open. The box contained a huge assortment of products. Paper. Pencils. Erasers. Pens. A T-square, ruler, triangle. A card sat on top. He read it and grinned. “The doctor you don’t have a crush on sent this to me.”
“What?” she exclaimed.
He passed her the card.
This is my way of supporting your graphic novel. Reserve a copy for me when it’s published.
—Sebastian Grant
“You’re working on a graphic novel?”
“Yeah.”
“Since when?”
