“Oh!” it was saying. “I seem to have forgot my glasses.”
Jesse began to smile. If he decided to show it to May Belle, he would have to explain the joke,
but once he did, she would laugh like a live audience on TV.
He would like to show his drawings to his dad, but he didn’t dare.
When he was in first grade, he had told his dad that he wanted to be an artist when he grew up.
He’d thought his dad would be pleased. He wasn’t. “What are they teaching in that damn school?” he had asked.
“Bunch of old ladies turning my only son into some kind of a—” He had stopped on the word, but Jess had gotten the message.
It was one you didn’t forget, even after four years. The devil of it was that none of his regular teachers ever liked his drawings.
When they’d catch him scribbling, they’d screech about waste—wasted time, wasted paper, wasted ability.
Except Miss Edmunds, the music teacher. She was the only one he dared show anything to,
and she’d only been at school one year, and then only on Fridays.
Miss Edmunds was one of his secrets. He was in love with her.
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