The truth is, I don’t know. I only know she liked flowers. I point to the top shelf of the refrigerator. “These are pretty.”
“Gardenias. Great choice.” He grabs a bunch and walks over to the cellophane-wrapping station on the counter.
“Can you use the clear wrap?” In case she’s watching, I want her to be able to see them easily through the wrapping.
I hold the flowers up to my nose and sneak whiffs all the way home. I hope I haven’t extracted all the smell before they get to Mom tomorrow. As usual, I’m dripping with sweat once I get inside. I place the gardenias in a vase with some water, then grab some orange juice from the fridge.
There’s a package sitting on the counter. It has a little yellow sticky on it with my name. It definitely looks like a painting. I can’t believe Dad already finished the one of me and Mom on the balcony. I thought it would take him months to feel ready.
It’s wrapped very carefully and I have to use a knife to get off some of the masking tape. I unravel the layers of brown paper and pull out a canvas. It’s not me and Mom. Just me. I was not expecting this.
I hold it up to the light. It doesn’t look like Dad’s usual style. It has an Andy Warhol–like quality to it. The painting is vivid and really pops out at you. It’s clearly me, though. The long nose, dark hair, round eyes like Dad’s. I look older, more sophisticated than I do in the end-of-the-school-year portrait. It’s true I’ve aged this summer, and I’m not talking about all the time I’ve spent in the sun. Maybe I do look a bit like Mom. Bianca Bernard, Lady in Red.
I’m wearing a light-pink tank top in the painting, and on the outside of my shirt is a red heart. The heart is 3D, mixed media. It looks like hard plastic on top of glittery sponge. I run my fingers over it. It’s so shiny that it seems like the paint is still wet. My heart. How sweet.
I turn the painting over to check for an inscription, an explanation. The black print is tiny and neat. Not like Dad’s usual scrawl. Pure Red. Then, underneath, Graham Hadley.
Oh my God! No he didn’t? I nearly drop the painting onto the floor. I grip the sides tight and flip it back to the front. This time I notice the silhouette of a guy’s face in the background. It’s him. Graham, in black and white. And me in color. I stare closely at my heart. There’s no hole. It’s pumping red. The color of courage. The color of passion. The color of victory.
The End
Shanna Nye Photography
About the Author
Danielle Joseph was born in Cape Town, South Africa, and now lives in Miami, Florida. She is a lover of contemporary art, indie music, and anything purple. Check out her other YA novels, Shrinking Violet and Indigo Blues, and visit her online at www.daniellejoseph.com.
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Acknowledgments
Dedication
ordinary brown
red for victory
orange energy
fertile green
purple power
notice me yellow
mud and blood
golden shower
colorless
licorice chick
the anti-color
black twizzlers
jagged tawny rocks
black and white
ashen tiles
melted mocha ice cream
purple forever
meat pie ufo
mud stains
ketchup sundae
lime and burnt orange
battle of orange and red
lady in red
pumping red
About the Author
Pure Red Page 18
