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never let anyone see so much of me, revealed so much of myself. Because it’s my self that I’m showing—I have no doubt about that—my hopes and dreams, my nightmares and memories, all mixed together with bits of my soul.
    Maybe I should have left some of the paintings at home. Especially the one he just uncovered—a naked girl with thick white bandages half covering her crotch and screaming mouth. I hadn’t even thought about the bandages, about what they might be saying. My heart pounds in my ears, but Sandy flips the painting over and looks at the next one—and the next.
    I unclench my hands. Some of the paintings seem happy, until you look closer and see the corner of pain—the tree woman with an axe sticking out of the earth near her roots; the child holding a ball of light, a look of wonder on her face, while blood drips from her cracked hands. I don’t know why I can’t paint happy. Maybe I’m afraid I’ll end up dead inside, like Mom. Or maybe I just know pain better than anything else.
    Sandy picks up the next painting, and I catch my breath. I don’t know how I could have let this one slip by—a girl climbing up the edge of a utility knife, her arms and legs gouged open to the bone. How much more obvious—andstupid—could I be? My breath is high and tight in my chest. I clench my hands in my lap, willing Sandy to put the painting down and pick up the next one.
    Sandy looks at me, his eyes dark and worried. “Is there anything I should know?”
    “No,” I squeak.
    He keeps looking at me and I can’t look away.
    “Kendra, I know how much it hurts. Sometimes it can get so bad, you think you can’t survive it. But you can. You will.”
    Oh, God. Don’t let him know.
I push back my chair, ready to run.
    Sandy sets the painting down. “You’re not thinking of killing yourself, are you?”
    I’m so relieved I almost laugh. “Not right now.”
    “Good. Because you have so much to live for, Kendra. You’re bright and talented—and things will get better for you, I promise.” Sandy reaches over and takes my hand, holds it in both his huge ones, his face serious. “If anything ever happened to you, I’d be devastated.”
    “It’s okay, Sandy. I’m not thinking about suicide right now, I promise.”
Not since I started cutting.
“Six months ago, maybe—but not right now.”
    “You telling me the truth? I read that gay teenagers are three times more likely to kill themselves than straight ones—” He looks at me intentely.
    “Yes! I swear.”
    “Well, you make sure you talk to me if you need to—any time, day or night.” He clears his throat. “You’re specialto me, Kendra; you’re like the daughter I never had. I care very much about what happens to you.”
    A warm spot grows in my belly. “I—thanks, Sandy.”
    “You betcha.” He hugs me hard, his rough cheek warm against my skin.
    Shadows flutter inside me—but it
can’t
be Sandy. I need it not to be.
    Sandy lets me go. “You okay?”
    I nod and casually lean back.
    “Well.” Sandy stacks my paintings together. “Are you sure you want to sell these? Your art is—”
    “Too personal?”
    “I was going to say
powerful
. Once you sell them, you’ll never be able to get them back.”
    I swallow hard. “I know. But I’ve got to be able to keep working with Carolyn.”
    “All right. Let me give these to Emil. He’ll get them hung in the Java Cup; the owner is one of us. And maybe he can get them in a few galleries, too. Sound good?”
    “Perfect! Thank you, Sandy.” I hug him quickly. No shadows this time.
    “And Kendra—if you decide you want to keep any of these pieces, just give me a call. I’d have no qualms about pulling them off the walls.”
    I laugh. “I will.”
    The phone shrills loudly.
    I roll my eyes. “I’ll bet that’s my jailer, calling to check on me. I’d better get back.”
    “You want me to walk you home?”
    “Nah, I’m okay.”
    It’s dark outside, darker than when I left the