Chapter 14: Repainting the Walls She Tried to Claim
On Monday I went back to school. My father drove me instead of making me take the bus, and he parked in the drop-off lane and watched until I was inside the main doors. I hadn't told anyone what happened except my counselor, Ms. Alvarez, but Jenna met me at my locker before first period and stared at my face.
"Your cheek," she said. "What happened?"
I had covered the last faint pink with concealer. "My stepmom and I had a fight at home. My dad and I are working it out."
She didn't push. She just walked with me to homeroom, and that was enough.
The day felt normal in a way that made my chest feel tight and then loose again. I answered a question in English without my voice shaking. I ate lunch in the cafeteria instead of hiding in the library. After school, I texted my father that I was staying for art club, and he texted back immediately: Sounds good, text when you're done, I'll be out front.
At home, the counseling homework from Oak Street was taped to the fridge. Ms. Alvarez had given us the rules sheet we all signed: no physical contact when angry, no telling anyone they didn't belong, twenty-minute cool-downs, respect for each other's belongings. Under it, my father had written in his blocky handwriting: Maya's room - her choices. House - shared, mom remembered.
He was in the garage when I got home, moving Kelly's remaining larger tote to the far side by the lawn mower.
"Diane's coming by Thursday after your session," he said. "She wants to help with the room if you want."
I did want. On Wednesday afternoon, after the follow-up counseling session where Kelly joined by video from her sister's house and listened while Ms. Alvarez reviewed the rules without interrupting, Diane arrived with two paint samples.
"I was thinking just one wall," she said, holding them up in my room. "An accent, your mom would say. This gray-blue is close to your sweater. This warm white is like the fireplace stone."
I picked the gray-blue. My father taped the edges while Diane and I rolled. We put down a drop cloth, opened the window to the cool air, and painted the wall behind my bed. The color went on uneven at first and then smoothed as we went over it twice.
When we peeled the tape, the line was clean. My dresser with Mom's photo looked different against it, more intentional, like it had always been meant to be there.
Diane took a picture. "Send that to your dad," she said.
He was downstairs making dinner. When I showed him, he stood in my doorway for a long time.
"You did that yourself?" he said.
"We did," I said.
He nodded, his jaw not tight for once. "It looks like you."
That night I hung a small cork board I'd bought at the school store and pinned up the deed receipt copy Diane had given me to keep, not the legal one in the drawer but a plain copy for my wall. Next to it I pinned a photo of me and Mom at the kitchen island, both of us laughing. I didn't need to hide them in my handbag anymore.
Kelly texted my father while we were cleaning brushes. He showed me the screen: I saw the wall color on Diane's Facebook. It looks nice. Tell Maya I hope school was okay.
May you like
He typed back with me watching: Thanks. Maya says thanks. We'll see you Thursday video session.
He didn't add more, and he didn't hide the phone. That felt like a different kind of quiet too, an honest one.
