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did when I was little. He’d explain the business deals he was doing, and I’d tell him how my classes were going.
    I especially loved high-school art class. It wasn’t just stupid craft projects like we’d done in elementary school. We learned about the golden section and studied famous artists. Ms. Vanderhoven was great. In November, when we started doing watercolors, she let me use one of her own brushes.
    “Nice?” she asked as I laid out a thin line of cobalt blue.
    “Yeah.” I couldn’t believe the difference between her brush and the cheap ones we used in class. Those worked little better than cotton swabs. With this one, I had total control of the paint. I blotted it out and tried a dry-brush stroke. I stared at the results, amazed I could paint that way. “Do they make these for oil paints, too?”
    “Absolutely. They make wonderful paints, too. I’ve got an extra catalogue you can have.”
    When I asked Dad for some money to buy a good set of Winsor & Newton brushes—that’s the brand Ms. Vanderhoven uses—and some tubes of paint, he reminded me that I was still in debt. “You aren’t getting any art supplies until you pay off the money you owe for all the supplies you destroyed.”
    “But that’s not fair. I’ve changed. I don’t get in trouble anymore.” I didn’t see why I should still be punished for something I had done when I was so different than I am now.
    “I’m glad you’ve changed. But that doesn’t erase your responsibility. You can’t just remove red ink from the balance sheet.”
    “I’m really good at art,” I told him. “You should see what I can do with a set of those brushes.”
    “Artists starve,” he said.
    “Not good artists,” I said.
    The phone rang. “We’ll talk about this later.”
    I could tell he wasn’t going to change his mind. But I didn’t give up. When it got near Christmas, I mentioned the brushes to Mom. I figured she’d understand. She had a degree in English and was working as a fact-checker at a publisher’s before she met Dad. She still worked at home, part-time. Being around editors and writers a lot, she’d have to be familiar with creative passions. But all she’d said was, “We’ll see.”
    I saw. I got clothes for Christmas. I pretended I was happy. I wanted to sulk, or shout, but I’d gotten used to the pleasures of a life without drama. So I didn’t pitch a fit or break anything in my room. Instead, I tried to take the clothes back and exchange them for money. But Mom had charged everything, so the store would only give me credit.
    I had a savings account with several hundred dollars in it. Way more than enough for the brushes, and a couple tubes of paint. But Dad wouldn’t let me withdraw anything.
    I got up early the next Saturday, went to the bank, andtold the teller, “I lost my ATM card, but I have my school photo ID.”
    “No problem.” She smiled at me like she really understood. According to her name tag, she was Monica, and she was happy to help me with all my banking needs.
    “Thanks.” I felt a twinge of guilt, but it was washed away by the thought of those brushes. And a big tube of titanium white oil paint. Besides, it was sort of true that I’d lost the card. At least, I’d lost control of it.
    “I’ll be right back.” She walked over to a file cabinet and pulled out a sheet of paper, then came back and handed it to me. “Here. Fill in all the information, and we’ll mail a new card to your parents.”
    “To my parents?”
    “That’s the rule with custodial accounts.”
    Dad worked from home a lot. If he saw the letter in the mail before I could get my hands on it, he’d know what I was doing. “But I need the money now,” I said.
    She spread her hands and shrugged. “If it was up to me, I’d be happy to help you out. But we have to follow regulations.” She leaned forward and whispered, “Banks can be a real pain to deal with.” Then she smiled again, like she really was sorry.
    I