When Isaiah drops me off at my house, I'm loaded down not only with my school stuff, but also with all of the art supplies I have ever wanted. I have so many bags, Isaiah has to help me carry them in.

Ideas are already swimming around my head. I want to lock myself in my room and work all night, but I know I will have to take care of Thomas and help him with his homework. But maybe I will be able to fit some creativity in around that.

"I was getting worried, you're home late," Mom says as I come in.

I didn't notice how late I am; I was so caught up in my new business ventures. Thomas is already at the kitchen counter, his homework folder open and spelling words waiting to be practices.

"I tried to call your cell phone, but it does nobody any good when it's left in your bedroom while you're at school." This is the closest thing to a lecture I've ever gotten from my mom. It's half joking, but I know she's serious. I cut it awfully close and she'll need to leave soon for her shift at the Megamart.

Her eyes widen when she sees all the bags and canvases. She sets her jaw, trying to save face, but I've seen the anger. Or was it shock? She'll wait for Isaiah to leave, then I'll likely get a real lecture. Unless I beat her to the punch in explaining where all of this came from. So, I see Isaiah out and try to do just that.

"Cade, where did all of this stuff come from?" She asks, keeping her voice level, but I can hear the strain. Why is she so freaked out?

"I sold some art," I can't control the smile on my face. "Isaiah's mom had some friends who wanted to buy my art."

So, I tell her about my afternoon and my meeting with Mrs. Rosenthal. And the check. And the trip to the art supply store. And the watercolor pencils. And the new pencils and paints and charcoals and pastels.

But despite my excitement, Mom does not look impressed.

"You sold your art?" She sounds angry. "What about your art show?"

"I didn't sell all of my drawings. I saved the best of them for the show." I shake my head, still confused by the anger in her voice.

"But what will happen to you if the school finds out? What if you're disqualified from being able to be considered for awards?"

Why would I be disqualified?

"I made $1500, today, Mom. And I can work from here and take care of Thomas like you need me to. This is ideal for everybody. Why aren't you happy for me?" I hear myself sounding like a poorly-scripted teen movie, but I don't care. I finally understand that whiny tone that bottle-blond protagonists get in movies like that. Because it really sucks that I've done something so amazing and my mom can't even be happy for me.

"I've got to get to work. I don't have time to discuss this with you. I'm already late because I was waiting for you." The worry lines on her face are deeper than I've ever seen them. As she flies out the door, I say the only thing that comes to mind.

"Don't take it out on me that you're late."

I just want to scream. I want to punch something. Why does everybody want to push me over the edge today?

Thomas starts to ramble about his day and I try to listen, but I'm too absorbed in the art that's floating around my head. Something about seeing red inspires me.

"Come tell me about it in my room," I usher Thomas as I sit down at the easel in my bedroom. "You want to draw, too?" I offer him some paper and colored pencils before I set to work on my own painting.

I allow myself to fall into the trance that overtakes me when I sit down to my art. As if by magic, my hands start to work, painting on their own. As Thomas keeps talking about his day, my canvas starts to fill with grays and blacks, shadows in a dark room. The shape of a face emerges from the shadows and well before I add any details, I can see where blue eyes and a round nose are going to appear.

I can see this picture in my head. And for the first time, it's coming out exactly as I intend it to. I didn't have to sketch it first. I didn't have to meticulously plan. I just had to do it.

By the time I'm ready for a break, it's 6:30, my stomach is growling, and Thomas has retreated to his room to work on homework. I leave my easel—my butt sore from sitting for so long—and survey the kitchen for something for dinner. Nothing looks good. You can only eat blue box macaroni so many times before it makes you want to barf.

"Hey Thomas!"

Thomas comes running like a puppy and I can't tell if he's excited for anything in particular, or just because I'm showing him attention.

"We don't have any food I feel like eating. What do you think about ordering out? Would you prefer pizza or Chinese?"

Thomas's eyes grow as big as saucers. It's an extremely rare occasion that we eat out so moments like this are magical for him. He looks like this is the most difficult question anyone has ever asked him. Finally, though, his eyes sparkle brighter and his lips open into a toothy grin.

"Can we get cinnamon sticks? I can pay for those." He reaches into his pocket and withdraws a wad of crumpled dollar bills and some quarters. Instinctively, I ruffle his hair and laugh.

"Hang on to your money, kid. Tonight's on me. I can even swing cinnamon sticks." I pick up my phone to search for the number. "Where'd you get all that money, anyways?"

"I sold mom's cookies. My friends paid me a dollar for a cookie. We're out of cookies, but I have twelve dollars, now." He shrugs, trying to play it off, but I can tell he's embarrassed to admit this.

"What do you need twelve dollars for, buddy?" I crouch to ask him this. He's always more responsive if I'm on his level. "You know you can ask me when you need money. I've always got some stuck back in case you need it."

Thomas won't meet my gaze, now. Instead, he stares at his feet, bouncing lightly on his heels.

"It's not for me," he shakes his head. "I heard you ask mom for art stuff, so I wanted to help. But then you came home with all of that stuff, today, so I thought maybe I could keep it."

I think he says I'm sorry, but it's too distorted by a chest-rattling sob for me to be sure. Before I can even realize what's going on, Thomas is all but a puddle, tears streaming freely down his face.

"Hey. Hey. It's okay, buddy," I grab his arm gently. "Why the tears? I'm not mad. It's so nice of you to think of me."

It's times like this I have to fight my anger at my mom and my father. They should be here to take care of Thomas. They're the parents; I'm not equipped to deal with tears or night terrors or bed-wetting. Brothers aren't supposed to do that.

"Listen, I'm not mad, but promise me you won't do that anymore. You know Mom and I will take care of you." He falls into my shoulder and I can feel snot and tears soak my shoulder. I don't know what else to do, so I just wrap my arms around him and pat his back. I feel like that's how Mom would handle this.

"Tell you what. Mom's birthday is coming up. Hold onto your money and we can buy her something pretty, together." Thomas nods his tiny head against my shoulder, then sniffs that wet sniff that comes at the end of a hard cry.

"Now, I'm going to order the pizza. Extra anchovies on your half?" I smirk, picking up my phone again. Thomas's noises of disgust and loud objections tell me he's feeling better.

Thirty minutes later, a ring of the doorbell announces the arrival of our pizza. Thomas looks at the door as if it's a giant turkey leg or something and I'm afraid he's going to leap at the delivery person as soon as I open the door.

I nearly jump when I open the door to see Cameron Mathis standing on the other side. What's he doing delivering my pizza? Is this some kind of cosmic joke?

We stand in awkward silence, shifting our weight from foot to foot. The street light nearby buzzes overhead and dogs bark from the neighbors' house. We're playing a game of conversational chicken and neither of us are willing to cave first.

Finally, Cameron takes a deep breath.

"This yours?" He asks.

I nod slowly. I'm suddenly more aware of myself than I've ever been. Standing on my front porch with paint peeling off the railings and solid-gold Cameron with his mouth agape.

"Uh, yeah," I finally say, reaching out for my pizza.

We stand for another long minute and I can tell he's taking in everything around me. I don't want his pity. I don't want him here. I want a do over.

"You're Kayla's best friend and we've never said even two words to each other," he says after another long silence. "Isn't that weird?"

"I'm not much of a talker," I shrug. I'm trying to activate my superpower, but it's harder when I'm the only person out here. There's nobody to blend in with.

"It'd be cool if we got to know each other. I don't know a lot of people here yet, and Kayla says we'd probably be friends," he's rocking on his heels. He may be more awkward than I am, which is saying a lot.

"Alright, cool," I finally manage. The silence between us would be deafening if not for the constant buzzing of the streetlight.

Cameron finally exhales a tight breath and smiles.

"Alright, cool," he repeats. "I've got more deliveries to make. I'll see you tomorrow."

When he finally drives away, I feel myself let out my own, slow breath. I'm not sure how to feel after my conversation with Cameron. I would text Kayla, except we're fighting.

I would text Isaiah, except I don't know if we're close enough for my random musings. I guess I'm left to my own devices.

I hardly make it back into the house before Thomas is attacking me for pizza.

"Chill out, Thomas," I laugh. "You're like a rabid animal."

We do everything Mom advises us not to. We eat pizza straight out of the box while we watch a movie on TV. We share a 2-litre of Pepsi, drinking straight from the bottle. It's like our own little party.

I always hope that when Thomas is grown, he'll look back on nights like this one and think of them fondly. I hope he'll see that even when we had nothing, I tried to give him the whole world.

When Mom gets home, Thomas is sleeping, freshly over a night terror. I'm sitting in my room, adding details to my painting, to my blue-eyed face in the dark.

The door to my room squeaks open and my mom's tired smile appears.

"How was work?" My standard greeting, but I'm genuinely curious. Sometimes she has stories about her crazy employees. They're always entertaining; Mom has always been a great storyteller.

"Long," she sighs and takes a seat on the corner of my bed. For a moment, I think she's going to apologize for our fight, earlier. She takes a deep breath but gets distracted when she sees my painting.

"That's really good, Cade," she smiles, studying it closely. "It looks so familiar." She furls her brow in concentration.

"Is that Sinéad O'Connor?" She stifles a laugh behind her hand. "I think I owned that album."

And I realize she's right. My painting does look like Sinéad O'Connor's album cover. My face burns with embarrassment. I can feel the heat of blush rushing up my face.

"We need to talk about this afternoon," Mom says, a lopsided grimace on her face. "I'm sorry we fought."

I'm shocked to hear my mom say this, but I'm not sure why. She's apologized to me before. But this time, she seemed so convicted about herself. She seemed so genuine in her protests.

"I'm not sorry for the things I said, but I'm sorry we fought." She sighs again. "I know that you're 18. And I know you've been grown for a long time. But selling your art is a big decision. I wish you'd have consulted me." She doesn't say but you didn't even have your phone with you, but I know she's thinking it.

"Your art is personal. It comes from a personal place. And the idea that someone will own your memories, your emotions, it's just strange to me."

I breathe to say something, but Mom holds her hand up to stop me. She's rehearsed what she wants to say to me.

"But I also want you to be careful. Your art show seems like a big deal to you. Sometimes students are disqualified from things like this if they start to accept money for their work. I just want you to have the best opportunities possible. If you think that comes from selling your art, then fine. But really think about it. As long as you're happy—and you know, not doing anything illegal—then I support you."

I have the opportunity to say something, but I don't have anything to say. How can I? Mom has said it all. So, I just shrug, my throat tight with tears that won't fall. Why am I so emotional lately?

When Mom stands up, she kisses the top of my head.

"You and Sinéad have a nice night. Sleep well," she chuckles on her way out of my room.

Mom's right, I guess. I should consider the art show. Will I be disqualified? Mr. Camplin never mentioned anything about selling our work. Surely, he'd have mentioned something so big.

I'm still in a haze, considering this, when my phone rings. What lunatic is calling me at 11:00 at night? The screen displays Kayla's picture. I consider not answering it but change my mind.

"Hello?" Why is she even calling me?

"I'm sorry," she says. Her voice is flat and I'm not sure how to take it.

"I didn't realize things were so bad for you or I wouldn't have called you poor, today. That was really bitchy of me."

I'm not entirely sure what she's talking about and I tell her as much.

"My dad bought one of your drawings, today. He didn't realize it was yours, but I remembered when you drew it. He said you're an up-and-comer and he paid $150 for it."

I think I hear a sob in her throat before she continues.

"I didn't know you were selling your art."

I'm hit by a flood of emotions. Never, never has Kayla apologized to me. And my art sold. Already? I just relinquished it to Mrs. Rosenthal this afternoon and already one of my pieces has sold. Should I feel elated? I do feel elated.

"He bought my art?" I hope I don't sound as confused as I feel. Why would Kayla's dad buy my art? He doesn't have an artistic or discerning bone in his body. Was Mrs. Rosenthal that good at marketing? Or did Kayla's dad feel some guilt-filled need to support me? Did he actually know it was my work?

"I have an agent," I finally say. I know it will only be to the detriment of this conversation to tell her that agent is Isaiah's mom. I don't tell her that.

"She gave me an advance and told me she thought she could get me gallery space. Things haven't gotten that bad, Kayla," I comfort her. "I just found a way to help out around the house, and still stay at home with Thomas."

Silence passes between us for a moment. I'm not sure that this apology is enough to fix what Kayla broke between us, and I can tell she's not sure, either. We inhale in tandem, waiting for the other to make the next move. The eternal chess match that is mine and Kayla's friendship.

I decide to make the next move. My hands are shaky, and I feel sick. But I have to say what needs to be said.

"You really hurt me today," I say softly. "You know how ashamed I am of the life I live."

"I'm sorry," Kayla sniffles. She's about to say more, but I cut her off. I can't let that be it. Sorry only goes so far.

"I would never attack your insecurities like that. Never." My voice is low and stead. "It's not my fault that I'm poor. And you don't understand what it's like. You've always been given everything you've ever wanted. Always."

I breathe deep. I don't want to lecture her. But she needs to hear this.

"If you ever, ever talk about me like that again, I will cut you out of every aspect of my life. I don't have room in my life for that negativity."

This is the meanest thing I have ever said to anybody. But it's true. And it's something I need to say. I need for Kayla to realize that she hurt me in an unacceptable way.

"I know. I know that's off-limits. I don't know why I did that." She's sniffling hard, trying not to choke on her tears. "It was bitchy," she concedes.

Another silence passes between us. This time it's Kayla who breaks it.

"So, an agent, huh?" I can hear a smile in her voice. "And gallery space. It's what you've always dreamed of."

I nod stupidly, like she can see me.

"It's late, Cade," she says with a yawn.

I glance at the clock beside my bed. 11:50 glows red back at me. It is late.

"I'll pick you up in the morning. Breakfast tacos to celebrate your newfound celebrity status."

We both chuckle and say our goodbyes and I'm finally left all alone in the dark. Just me and Sinéad O'Connor.

When Kayla picks me up, things between us are awkward and stilted. It's like we're on stage and don't know what to do with our hands. So, instead, we revel in our breakfast taco and classic rock station I decided to set the radio to.

Is something still broken between us?

"So, this agent," Kayla turns down Hotel California to talk. Shame. I love Hotel California. "How'd you find her?"

I try to think of an answer that is both honest and keeps Isaiah out of the focus. That wouldn't help this whole patching-things-up thing we're doing. And I really want to patch things up.

"A kid in my art class," I shrug, trying to be nonchalant. "He told her about my work, so she asked to see it."

"And she loved it because she has a brain," Kayla prompts, wanting more of the story.

"And she loved it," I nod. "She gave me a $1500 advance. And said she knows the owner of the gallery downtown—"

"You love that gallery!"

"I know." This back-and-forth is comfortable. This is the way we usually converse.

"My space will be in that gallery." I'm smiling uncontrollably, now. This is how I'd expected my conversation to go with my mom. "If she can get it."

I'm trying to stay realistic and not get my hopes too high. She promised to try. She never promised to deliver. And that's okay. Her trying is more than anybody has ever done for me, so far.

"This is all so cool. You're going to be famous! And that'll make me your posse!"

"I think artists have entourages."

We laugh genuine laughs and enjoy ourselves. I don't know how long this peace will last, but I'm going to enjoy it while it does. When we get to Kayla's spot in the school lot, she hesitates. I realize she's still gun shy from yesterday. I was mean. I was needlessly mean.

"I'm sorry," I say, quiet because I'm not really sure how to say it. "I shouldn't have said that, yesterday."

And I don't know where to go from here. Wishing me a good day every day is one of Kayla's favorite things to do. And I took that away from her yesterday. I should remember not to fight pain with more pain.

"Well," she says, a smile crossing her face. "Here's to your best day ever, Cade Swanson."

And with that, things are back to normal, however unusual our normal might be.