Deep Betrayal

guess.”
    “I’m telling you. You should have come to Madison with us. College is awesome. Change of scenery, if you know what I mean.” He waggled his eyebrows in a way that made it clear he wasn’t talking about rocks and trees. Jack made another psssh sound under his breath.
    “Don’t mind Jack,” Gabby said. “He hasn’t had his coffee yet this morning.”
    Jack backhanded the cup I’d given to him, and we all flinched as it flew across the table, the cover snapping off and creamy liquid splashing across the table.
    “Oh, c’mon,” Mrs. Boyd said. “Guess who’s got to clean that up?”
    I got up out of habit and snagged a rag from the bleach bucket and wiped up the spill. “How ’bout I start work today instead?” I asked.
    Mrs. Boyd stared at me, confused, and I felt like a complete idiot. Apparently Calder’s hypnotic abilities had a time limit.
    “What?” she asked. “Oh, Lily, I’m sorry. I don’t have any openings right now. But if you want an assignment, how about you get those friends of yours out of here before they make a real mess.”

17
PREPARATION
    I came through the front door of the house, wondering what Mom and Dad would say about the camping trip. I didn’t think camping on an island was going to sound like a good idea to Dad. That is, if he was home to cast a vote. Either way, Mom was my best bet. If she said yes, Dad wouldn’t rule against her. He couldn’t afford to get on her bad side any more than he already was.
    “Mom?” I called, letting the screen door slam behind me.
    “Back here, hon.” Her voice traveled through the house, sounding garbled.
    I found her in the back room. She’d pulled her wheelchair up to a giant canvas, which was set on one of several easels. Her mangled tubes of paint and various-sized brushes were arranged on a TV tray to her right.
    Instantly, I saw why her voice sounded weird. She was holding her paintbrush in her mouth and leaning forward into the canvas. The sight choked up a strangled sob in my throat. When had the MS got so bad that she couldn’t hold a brush? Had she been doing this for a while? Why hadn’t I noticed?
    “Mom?” I asked, my voice wobbling.
    She reached up and retrieved the paintbrush from her mouth and dabbed it in a glob of burnt sienna.
    “What’s up?” she asked.
    “Your hands?” I asked, hoping she understood the question without me saying more.
    She looked at her paintbrush, then looked at me. “Oh, honey, they’re fine. I was experimenting.”
    “Why?” I asked, with barely any sound.
    “Just in case I need some options later,” she said. “It’s good to be prepared.”
    I wanted to crawl into her lap. I wondered if I could make myself fit. I wondered if she’d let me try. She laid her brush down on the palette and swiveled her wheelchair away from the easel.
    “What’s wrong, baby?”
    “You scared me. I don’t want you not to be able to paint.”
    She laughed. “Me neither, which is why I was practicing with a new technique before I really need it.” She gave mea sympathetic look and wheeled closer. I knelt in front of her and she brushed my hair with her hand.
    “Life’s short, babe. If I want something, I make it happen. You should, too. How’s your poetry coming? You haven’t shared any with me in a while.”
    “Jules says there’s no money in poetry.”
    “Jules is probably right, but why should that stop you? I’m just saying when you figure out what you want to be, go for it. Carpe diem and all that.”
    “I’m going to be a scientist,” Sophie said, sneaking in behind me. “And a fashion designer.”
    “You see,” Mom said.
    “And a bareback rider in the Shrine Circus?” I asked her.
    “Maybe,” Sophie said. “But only if you’ll be my horse.”
    I dropped to my hands and knees. Sophie climbed onto my back.
    “Well,” Mom said, “I meant it when I said be whatever you want to be, but I think you’ll have to draw the line at switching species.”
    That pulled me up short, and Sophie tumbled off me.
    Mom laughed and went back to her painting. “Okay, fine. I’ll stick to what I said, but you’ll have to work especially hard if you want to be a horse when you grow up.”
    “Hey, Mom, would it be okay if I went camping with Gabby tonight?”
    “Gabby camps?” With the paintbrush held between her teeth, she dabbed the bristles against the canvas. “She doesn’t strike me as the camping type.”
    “Some of her friends are going, too,” I