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that a true artist is someone who pays attention. After Mom talked to us, I paid attention, for once, to my family. And I watched as we each tried to live with what we knew.
    The blinds stayed closed, even though it was autumn and my mother’s favorite time of year. She slept late, went to bed late, and walked the house at night. She wasn’t that bad, though, until she had to cater an October wedding. She worked like crazy on it, spray painting pomegranates gold, gilding leaves and faux pearls for the serving tables, and making everything memorable and breathtaking and beautiful. And then, when it was over, she just … stopped, like somebody had pushed the Off button on the remote.
    It would have been better, maybe, if she’d cried. At least she would have been
there
. Instead, for weeks, all we had was Mom’s body. Her brain was someplace far, far away.
    Mom’s voice rises again, saying something trivial about utensils, and I move out into the hallway, just a few feet from my door. The scraping of plates reminds me of the days when Mom would dump her food in the trash and go without.
    When Dad left, Mom fell out of love with food, which was, for her, like falling out of love with her life. Not even Poppy bringing her the first persimmons from his tree perked her up. After the last wedding, she couldn’t even work anymore; nothing about food held her interest. And her collarbones started to stick out. By the beginning of December last year, Grandmama started showing up to fill the cupboard and cook for us.
    It was hard to care about the things Grandmama fussed about, like laundry and dishes and making beds. It was impossibleto sit at the table and pass the bread and talk to each other like everything was okay. I found it easier to put on my headset at The Crucible and turn off the ringer on my phone.
    After Dad moved up north to some generic little town called Buchannan, it was like Justin wanted to make sure no one mistook him for the same person. He’d already dropped debate team a month earlier, but once Dad moved, he seemed to disappear. He wouldn’t even answer questions like “How are you?” His friends and teachers nagged at him, and the more people tried to pull him out of himself, the quieter he got. He hardly said anything, and then what he did say was usually purposefully cruel so that people would leave him alone.
    I pay attention to my brother, and I see someone who I don’t know anymore.
    He was always the guy who was driven and intense, who aced his PSATs and took home a trophy for the national science fair competition and won just about every spelling bee. Now he doesn’t even bother to compete. He spends so much time online, Mom’s not letting him bring his laptop to Dad’s. He shrugged when she told him. I know he’ll just use his phone.
    I keep trying to tune out the chaos and focus on the future. I can’t wait to get out of here. I’ve decided to go to college at the Penland School of Crafts in North Carolina and maybe apprentice to an artist, learn some glass technique or blacksmithing that isn’t taught anymore. And then I’ll make jewelry and sculpture, work on getting enough commissions to open a shop, and … move past this part of my life.
    The clang of the trash can lid reminds me of the clash of metal on the anvil, and I think longingly of my little dedicated space at The Crucible.
    Art was an interest that turned into a hobby. It is now an outlet that I
need
; it seems like the only time I feel calm and brave is when I’m playing with fire and glass and metal. My welding teacher thinks it’s amazing how I’ve gotten so much better with accuracy and control these past few months. Levi, the blacksmithing instructor, is impressed with the challenging work I’m doing now, but Mom doesn’t like how much time I’m spending with college students she doesn’t know, girls with muscular biceps and tribal tattoos and sweaty, shaved-headed guys who are straight-up pyromaniacs.