Page 21 of Faking All the Way
“Children’s book illustration is pretty competitive,” I say, trying not to let defensiveness creep into my voice. “But I’ve got some submissions out, so hopefully something will come my waysoon. And I’ve had a few smaller commissions, not for books, but for other projects.”
“That’s great!” she says, although I catch the slight hesitation in her words. “We just worry sometimes about the… uncertainty of it all.”
“Have you thought about teaching art?” Dad suggests, reaching for the mashed potatoes. “You’d still get to be creative, but you’d have steady income and benefits. Maybe you could even get a job teaching in Maplewood. I bet Spilled Ink would love to host some art classes!”
I can feel myself tensing up. I love the small local art store, but my ambition hasnever been to teach art there. My parents mean well, but they’ve never really understood why I’d choose something so unpredictable when I could have a regular paycheck.
“Actually,” Asher says, “what Kat does is pretty specialized. The skill level required for children’s illustration is no joke.”
My parents look at him with polite interest, like they’re waiting for him to elaborate.
“Character development, visual storytelling, making complex ideas accessible to kids,” he continues. “Plus the business side of freelancing. It’s not easy.”
“Well, that’s very supportive of you,” Mom says with a smile.
Dad nods. “We’re proud of her creativity, of course. We just want to make sure she’s… secure.”
Asher glances at me, and there’s something steady in his expression. “Sounds like she’s building something she cares about. That counts for a lot.”
The conversation shifts to safer topics after that, but I find myself glancing over at Asher as if he can’t possibly be real, like he might disappear in a wisp of smoke at any moment and prove to have just been a figment of my imagination. It was a small thing, but he didn’t just nod along when my parents suggestedI should want something different than the thing I’ve dreamed about for my whole life.
He actually seemed toget it, which throws me for a bit of a loop.
My parents are still talking, catching me up on what’s been happening around town since my last visit. Who got married, who had babies, whose kids graduated college—the usual small-town updates that somehow manage to be both comforting and suffocating at the same time.
“Oh, and Mrs. Hogan finally got that fence fixed,” Mom mentions, gesturing a little with her wine glass. “You remember how you used to cut through her yard to get to the creek when you were little?”
I groan. “Please don’t tell that story.”
But it’s too late. My father chuckles, already turning to Asher to explain. “She was maybe eight years old, marching right through the Hogans’ rose garden like she owned the place.”
“What happened?” Asher asks, looking genuinely curious and way too entertained.
“Mrs. Hogan came storming over here with Kat by the ear,” Mom says, clearly enjoying herself. “Demanding we do something about our ‘little trespasser.’”
“I didn’t know it was her garden,” I protest weakly. “I thought it was just… there.”
“Just there?” Dad laughs. “Those roses were Mrs. Hogan’s whole life. She’d been working on that garden for years.”
Asher is grinning now, and I get the sense that he’s filing this information away for future reference. “So you were a tiny rebel even then.”
“I was curious,” I correct, trying to hide my blush by taking a big sip of water. “There’s a difference.”
“She was always wandering off somewhere,” Mom adds fondly. “We’d find her drawing in the strangest places. Underthe porch, up in trees. Goodness, once we found her in the middle of Davis Street with her sketchpad, drawing the old courthouse.”
“Mom…”
“In the middle of the road?” Asher asks, leaning back in his chair.
“She was six,” Dad explains. “Completely oblivious to whether any cars might be coming. I thought she was right beside me, and when I looked down and realized she wasn’t there, I saw her sitting in the street cross-legged with the little sketchbook she carried everywhere with her, looking up at the building.”
I bury my face in my hands. “Can we please talk about something else?”
But Asher is laughing now, the sound deep and amused. “I’m getting a very clear picture of little Kat.”
“Stubborn as a mule and twice as determined,” Mom says with a fond and slightly exasperated sigh, standing up to go get dessert. “Some things never change.”
Dinner winds down after we finish our pie, and Mom packs up a few leftovers while Dad promises to show Asher his woodworking setup in the garage next time he visits. Despite the fact that I sometimes dread coming home, dread the constant attempts to explain my life choices to people who never seem to fully get it, I do miss my folks. And spending the evening with them has felt surprisingly easy with Asher here, as if he fits into our dynamic and maybe even provides a good kind of buffer between us.
