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Show a Hannah Mae and the Mona Lisa 101 At first he would blush; embarrassed that I had caught him drawing. He warned me early that his sketchbook was private. "Don't you look, Hannah Mae Downing!" His threats were serious, but his calf-eyes were tender. On occasion he would show me a picture he liked, especially if I begged-something he chose after study and fret. A foal. A butterfly on a wildflower. A line of trees. Always something wonderful. I got up my courage and lifted the cover the slightest crack. I peeked inside. The sketch was of me. I was sitting in the grass, holding my knees. I stared at the eyes. The same eyes I had seen on Mr. Morris' canvas. A cry rose in my throat and I thought to turn the page. What else had he drawn? How many times would I see my eyes? I remembered Colby's sketch of the Mona Lisa. "Ask about the eyes," he had insisted. I spoke out loud. "What was the secret, Colby? What did you want me to know?' Colby shifted and moaned. I closed the sketchbook and held it tight. Colby turned his head. "You shouldn't be looking at my sketchbook," he said. His voice was dry and weak. Tears filled my eyes and I rushed to his side and fell on my knees. I buried my face in his palm and sobbed. Colby lifted his hand and placed it on my head. His voice cracked, "I'm sorry about the blueberries, Hannah Mae. The tmck blew a tire . . ." "Shush," I ordered. I pressed my fingers to his lips. I clasped his hand and pressed it to my cheek and rocked back and forth. I sobbed and sobbed. Colby waited as I cried myself out. "Did you stay all night?" he asked. |