Page 48 of The Incredible Ordinary

“Where did you learn to draw?” I finally ask. I figure there’s a fifty-fifty chance on what happens next. Either he answers, or he scoffs and leaves.

He jerks his head up and blinks rapidly at me.

Silence.

More silence.

“Babysitters.” He shrugs one shoulder. “They showed me some stuff.”

He says it all slowly and carefully, weighing every word before he hands it over to me.

This is personal.

This is valuable.

Don’t fuck it up.

“What do you draw?” I ask.

He pokes his noodles some more.

“Just stuff,” he mutters.

“Too personal?” I ask lightly.

“Too weird.”

I raise my brows at him.

“Notweirdweird.” He scowls at me, leans back in his chair, and crosses his arms over his chest. “It’s just a book.”

I wait.

“With sketches,” he adds. “About stuff. Life. Stuff that’s happened. In my life.”

“Like a journal? Only in pictures?”

He gives me a nod that’s still careful, but not so outright reluctant anymore.

“I used to keep a journal when I was still playing tennis,” I say. “The more common written variety of a journal. I can’t draw to save my life.”

“Drawing is a skill. You can learn it.”

“Probably, but with very little talent it requires a lot of effort, so I’ve never been motivated.”

“Aren’t you supposed to set a good example? You’re supposed to be all, ‘hard work is like planting seeds in the ground and watering them with drops of sweat, but the blooms make it worth it in the end.’”

A startled laugh escapes me, and then I’m grinning at him. “Very poetic.”

He smiles back, and for a moment it looks like what a smile on a kid’s face should look like. There are no shadows in his eyes.

Something warm moves through my chest.

That smile? That carefree, real smile? It makes me feel things. Something melts inside me. It makes me enjoy this conversation we’re having. With this kid. My little brother.

Suddenly, I don’t know what to say anymore. Not that I’ve ever been an expert on how to talk to Rory.

We both finish our dinner. He pushes his plate away.