Bull's Eye by Sarah N. Harvey Read Free Book Online Page B

at Sandra and she’s smiling at me and suddenly everyone is clapping and cheering and stomping their feet, as if I’d just announced that there would be free beer at school dances.
    Painting over my bull’s-eyes turns out to be almost as much fun as doing them in the first place. I have to buy the paint and brushes with my own money, and I find out that what the guy at the gas station said is true—red is a bitch to cover. But the whole thing is a totally backward Tom Sawyer experience—everyone wants to help, and I have to tell them that they can’t. So they hang out and talk to me while I paint and bring me Pepsi and Reese’s Pieces. Vanessa loads my iPod with new tunes, and Rory brings his speakers. Jared arrives with brownies that he says he made himself (who knew?), and Christa promises to give me a manicure and pedicure when I’m finished. Three coats and three days later, I’m done. The bull’s-eyes have disappeared. Ms. Appleton inspects my work and pronounces it excellent.
    After dinner that night I tell Sandra I’m going upstairs to work on a school project. In my room I write three letters of apology: I address one to the company that owns the Dumpster, one to the gas station and oneto the people who run the parking garage. Inside each envelope is money for enough paint to cover my art and to pay someone to do the painting. I don’t sign any of the letters. I’m not crazy. Not yet, anyway. What I am is officially broke.
    On Monday I meet the therapist, whose name is Dr. Byron Handel. Sandra comes with me and we set up a schedule. I’ll go once a week and Sandra will join us once a month, which is a lot better than having her there every time. Dr. Handel doesn’t do much on the first visit other than ask me whether I understand the terms of my diversion and whether I’m willing to, as he puts it, give therapy my best shot. I nod and am surprised to find I mean it.
    Tuesday after school I take the bus over to Faircrest Elementary. As I walk up to the door that says
After-School Care
, a woman comes out and asks me if I’m Emily Bell. When I nod, a little girl with straight red hair barrels out the door, screeches to a halt in front of me and sticks out her hand. “I’m April,” she says. “Who are you?”
    â€œThat’s a very good question,” I reply as I shake her grubby little hand.

Chapter Twelve
    Twice a week I go to the after-school program, where I prepare snacks, wash dishes, wipe runny noses, sweep the floors and tidy up the toys the kids leave lying around.
    My partner in all these activities is April Cummings, who attaches herself to me like a limpet. A very chatty limpet. Most days, if I get all my other jobs done, I help her with her schoolwork. If we have time before her mom picks her up, we bakein the center’s tiny kitchen. April stands on a chair beside me at the counter, hands me ingredients and keeps up a running commentary—in song. “First we melt the chocolate, the chocolate, the chocolate,” she sings as we make brownies. “Then we add the sugar, the sugar, the sugar.” By the time the brownies are ready to go into the oven, April is covered in flour and chocolate and I am in hysterics. Her songs are so silly, yet they make me unreasonably happy.
    The first day we bake together, April peers suspiciously at the electric mixer and says, “What’s that?”
    â€œA mixer—you know, for the cookie dough.”
    â€œOh. We don’t have one.”
    â€œHow do you make cookies then?” I ask, scraping the sides of the bowl.
    â€œWe don’t make cookies,” April says. “We buy them. In really big yellow bags. And my dad gets all the ones with chips in them.”
    â€œThese’ll be better,” I tell her, “and you can have the ones with the most chips.”
    Her green eyes bug out and she starts to hum and then to sing a chocolate chip