Draw the Dark Read Free

other words to say it. I think that’s why artists say they’re tapped out, nothing more in the well. For them, there’s no more water, nothing left to
draw
from or out.
    But for me, when I draw, when I’m at my best, there’s this tiny click, the flick of an inner light switch, and then I’m pulling,
drawing
from this hidden place in my head and the drawing swells and grows larger and
is
me. When I draw, there is nothing between me and the pencil and the paper because we’re all one unit, with a single purpose.
    So as I drew out my idea for my mother, the world thinned, then shushed to a whisper, then simply went away, and I was at once diamond bright and formless as a nebula, floaty and yet so concentrated with purpose, and it was the best feeling. It was like I wasn’t there, and still, I was most
intensely
there, in the smell of graphite that filled my nose and the sturdy feel of the pencil between my fingers and how my vision sharpened so the weave of paper was hills and valleys and threads all connecting together, and it was a real high, the best, and I loved that, I would kill to stay in that place—
    “Christian.”
    My name dropped like a hammer. I blinked away from my drawing. The teacher and the principal stood together at the front. Every single pair of eyes from every other person in the class was on me—like they’d been calling my name for a while and I hadn’t heard, which was very likely. I felt myself, all those great expansive feelings, shrivel, collapse, and go black as a lump of coal.
    The principal said, “Christian, would you come with me, please? Bring your books.”
    “Sure.” My stomach was a little fluttery. When this happened at school, it was either somebody’s relative was sick or something bad at home. The only thing I could think of was something had happened to Uncle Hank.
    Heads swiveled as I walked to the front of the class. A couple of people started whispering. About the only one to look as worried as I felt was Sarah Schoenberg. We used to hang around a lot when we were kids. Her parents and my aunt and uncle were good friends. Then Aunt Jean died and Sarah started getting popular, and since that was never one of my problems, we didn’t see much of each other except every couple of Sundays for dinner and to say hi and how are you, that kind of stuff. Sarah’s eyes are warm, buttery caramel. Da Vinci eyes. She’s not beautiful, but you can tell she’s a nice person when she smiles. Only this time, she wasn’t smiling.
    At the front, the teacher wouldn’t look me in the eye and I thought:
uh-oh.
Uncle Hank was the only family I had, and if he was hurt or . . .
    But when I stepped into the hall, Uncle Hank was there. He didn’t smile. “Christian, we need to talk a couple minutes.”
    I looked from Uncle Hank to the principal and back. “Okay.”
    “Not here,” said the principal. He led the way to the office. All the secretaries stopped talking when we pushed inside. They watched us go down the hall, looking at me like I was an animal in a zoo. We filed into the principal’s office, me sandwiched between the principal and Uncle Hank. The principal said, “Have a seat, Christian.”
    I sat. He didn’t. Neither did Uncle Hank. The principal leaned his butt against his desk, and Uncle Hank stood at my right elbow. I felt like a suspect getting sweated by the police. Maybe I was.
    “What?” I asked.
    Uncle Hank said, “Christian, that call I got this morning was from Mr. Eisenmann.” He paused like that was supposed to mean something.
    “Okay,” I said.
    “Someone took red spray paint to that barn on his property, the old farm about ten miles outside town. Not graffiti, either. It got reported by some of the workers coming in for first shift.”
    “Yeah?”
    “You know anything about it?”
    “
Me?
” I blinked. “No.”
    “You sure about that?”
    “Yeah, I’m sure.”
    “What if I was to tell you that when I saw what was painted on that barn, I