Seeing Orange Read Free Page A

Then she hangs the tablecloth over the back of her chair, which is normally the sign for us to get into our pajamas. Then the phone rings again.
    â€œHello?” Mom says. “Yes. That’s our poster. Oh. My son, Leland. Yes, quite an artist. He did what? The house with the bird baths?”
    Mom gives me a funny look. “Leland, someone wants to talk to you.”
    I take the phone. “Hello?” I ask.
    â€œHello!” The woman’s deep voice makes me think of chestnuts. “My name is Pamela.”
    â€œCamelot?”
    â€œNo, Pamela . I got your picture, Leland. In my mailbox.”
    â€œOh, it’s you !” I say.
    â€œYou didn’t sign it. But I saw your poster. I hope you find your lost cat. I knew when I saw the poster that it was the same artist. You have a special way of mixing colors.”
    â€œThank you,” I say. Silas is Rollerblading around me, and Liza is practicing her fiddle. But all I really hear is Pamela’s warm voice.
    â€œI’m a painter too,” she says. “Would you like to paint with me sometime?”
    â€œWhen?” I’m so excited I nearly shout.

    â€œHow about tomorrow? After school.”
    â€œHow about instead of school?” I ask.
    Pamela laughs. “ After. ”

Chapter Eight
    Mr. Carling is probably very mad at me. Delilah has to pull hard to get me to the classroom. Mr. Carling is on crutches. His left foot is in a pink-brown bandage.
    â€œIs it broken?” Angela asks.
    â€œIt’s only a sprain,” Mr. Carling says.
    I give him the card I made last night. I drew dozens of feet—human feet, webbed seagull feet, bald eagle claws, bear paws. And I wrote very carefully: I hope your foot is strong again soon. Sorry. Leland.
    â€œThank you, Leland,” he says.

    I can’t tell if he’s angry or not. He looks a little sad. He doesn’t get mad at me all day. But it’s raining, which means everyone has to stay in for recess.

    After school, Mom walks me to Pamela’s house. I’ve packed paintbrushes, paints and cookies in my backpack. Mom’s best friend knows Pamela and told Mom I’d be safe with her. We open the gate to her yard, and it’s like pushing a button: birds sing and the smells of grass and flowers swarm us.
    Pamela bursts out the front door. She’s wearing a long red skirt, a fuzzy olive-green hat and a thick white sweater with buttons made of pencil stubs.
    â€œI hope you brought a sweater,” she says. “I don’t turn on the heat unless the pipes are going to freeze. The cold keeps me sharp!”
    Inside, the walls are covered in paintings and drawings. The shelves and windowsills are filled with seashells, bird bones, stones and nests.
    â€œYour mom paid for ten painting lessons,” Pamela says. “But I’m sure you have as much to teach me as I have to teach you.”
    She leads me into a room with a bouncy-looking velvet couch and two easels in front of the fireplace.
    â€œFirst we’re going to wash the windows,” Pamela says. She hands me a cloth and a spray bottle. “We can’t paint without good light. Good light makes good shadows. Good shadows make good shapes.”
    After the windows are clean, Pamela suggests we paint pictures of the fireplace.
    â€œWith no fire?” I ask.
    â€œSure. When we look at a fireplace, all we see is the fire. What will we see if there’s no fire?”
    I peer into the fireplace. The ash is like feathers. I stand back and look at the chimney. The bricks are orange and red, just like fire.

    â€œArtists don’t paint what things look like. Artists paint what they see ,” Pamela says. “Just paint what you see, Leland.”
    So I paint a pile of feathers in the grate and dark-orange flames licking up around it. The fireplace, the mantelpiece and the chimney are fire!
    â€œWonderful!” Pamela exclaims.
    Her painting is spooky. She painted