Where We Used to Roam by Jenn Bishop (best novels to read in english .TXT) 📗

We’d rotated into art only a few weeks earlier with the start of second quarter, so I still didn’t know her that well, but already I liked her a whole lot more than Mr. Morris, who we’d had for health last quarter. Seemed like his job was mostly to scare us away from trying drugs.

I was half listening to the music, some kind of punk mix that my brother would probably be into, while I worked on my portrait drawing. Instead of randomly pairing us with other students in the class—the definition of awkward—Ms. Patel asked us to bring in a photograph of a family member or a loved one. “No celebrities,” she’d said when Teagan Washington tried to pass off a picture of Timothée Chalamet as a “distant cousin.”

The one I’d been bringing to life the past few classes was a photo of my brother. A snapshot Dad had taken at one of Austin’s football practices this summer. Austin and his teammates were goofing off on the sidelines. It was one of those rare pictures that truly looks like the person. Every time I look at a photo of myself, it never quite matches up to the me I see in the mirror. The me I’m used to. And maybe mirror me isn’t real me after all. But still.

I was shading in the laugh lines around Austin’s eyes when Ms. Patel stopped behind me. Her curly black hair was always up in a messy bun, and she had the kind of funky plastic glasses you’d expect on an artist. Like she’d picked them out because she wanted to look interesting, rather than pretty.

“Nice work, Emma,” she said. “That your older brother?”

I nodded, not stopping working just because she was there. There were only a few minutes left before the bell would ring, and I wanted to finish his eyes.

“I can see the resemblance.” She picked up the photograph. Her fingers were flecked with paint—metallic blue and burnt umber.

“Really?” I set my pencil down.

“Absolutely. It’s all about the composition—how your nose, eyes, and mouth relate to each other. The exact same proportions.”

My heart sank a little. It wasn’t like I wanted my art teacher to tell me I was beautiful or something. That would be weird. And it’s not like I think my own brother is attractive. Also weird. But there are some things you kind of figure out from living in the world, from seeing how people react to other people. Austin was one of those shiny people. The kind everyone paid attention to when he walked into a room. Mom and Dad, too.

But me? No one had ever really noticed me that way. I blended in with the scenery.

“You know,” Ms. Patel said, setting the photo back down, “we’re always welcoming new folks to art club. You should come sometime and see what it’s like.”

“Even in the middle of the school year?”

“Especially in the middle of the school year. So much of middle school is new, and it can take a little while to find your place. Have you taken art classes before? Private lessons?”

“Nope,” I said. Though we live in the kind of Boston suburb where everyone’s been taking lessons in something—or five somethings—since they were in diapers, Mom and Dad were never super into that with me and Austin. Between Dad’s job as a meteorologist at the TV station and Mom buying Happy Feet when I started kindergarten, there wasn’t anyone left to ferry us around in the afternoons. Austin had his teammates’ parents to take him to sports practices, and me? When I wasn’t over at the Grossmans’ house with my best friend, Becca, my after-school activity was hiding out in Mom’s office in the back of the running store. Drawing in my notebook, surrounded by boxes of the latest New Balance and Asics.

“You’re quite talented for being self-taught,” Ms. Patel said as the bell rang. “I hope you’ll consider coming, Emma. And not that I need to seal the deal, but I do provide brownies.”

My mouth watered. “Maybe,” I said with a smile, not wanting to give away how much she’d already sold me on it. “Have a nice Thanksgiving!” I slipped my drawing into my folder.

“You too, Emma. Hope to see you Tuesday!”

After stopping by my locker, I met Becca outside the school, by that one maple tree where we always met to walk home together. She was so glued to the book she was reading, she didn’t even notice me at first.

“Becca?” I said finally.

“Sorry!” She tucked in her bookmark. “Mrs. Hanson saved it for me. It doesn’t come out till next Tuesday, but she said so long as I don’t tell anyone.”

“Even me?” I said as we began our walk home.

“Well, you know! You don’t really care about books.”

Ouch. She wasn’t wrong. It’s not like I never read, but if you were going to compare me to Becca, it was no contest. No one at our middle school read more than Becca Grossman. Not even Mrs. Hanson, the middle school librarian. And that’s saying a lot because I’m pretty sure I overheard Mrs. Hanson saying she read more than three hundred books in a single year.

“Why is this one so special?” I asked.

“It’s the fifth and final one in the series.” Becca pouted. “Though, maybe if us fans clamor enough, we can get the author to put out a novella or something. It’s happened before! I know what I’m doing over break.” She hugged the book to her chest.

“Or tonight, if I know you.”

“But then I’ll probably reread it a few times. Put some stickies on my favorite scenes.”

“We can still go to the movies though, right?”

“Definitely,” Becca said as she adjusted her glasses. “I need to give my eyes a break sometime.”

“So,” I said, shoving my hands in my pockets. “I think I might check out art club next week.”

“Art club?” Becca wrinkled her nose.

“What’s so wrong with art club?”

“The kind of people who do art club,”