I guess that was lurking in the back of my mind—I’m seventeen—but what I thought about was the morning she came into my room and examined my pai...ting for the first time. She hadn’t looked at it and nodded before going on to something else. She’d studied it. She’d walked around it and peered at it from every angle as if it was three-dimensional. She silently pointed at different parts of it, smiled, frowned, nodded, shook her head. The way she looked at my painting was as if she was interpreting. He got up and started rummaging around again. If he's looking for a conscience, he isn't going to find it in his dresser drawers, I thought to myself. I did manage to keep my mouth shut, though, even when he turned to me a little expectantly. Is he looking for absolution? Understanding? He wouldn't find it with me. No way was I going to shake his hand. I almost looked around the room to see if there was a ten-foot pole handy, just so I could say I wouldn't touch him with it.I suddenly felt the. More

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