How It Ends Read Online Free PDF Page A

another.
    Two hours.
    I let my head fall forward onto my desk. We’ll never make it to the store tonight. Even if we eat right at seven o’clock, when Dad gets home, he’ll still want to check in with Madge and get changed and watch the news. The sign in the window of Morton’s Art Supply will flip to CLOSED and I’ll still be stuck here, crawling out of my skin.
    I groan and pull out my sketchbook in an effort to distract myself. Of course, it just happens to fall open to the drawing I started at Jessie’s house the other day, ratcheting my frustration level up even further. It’s driving me crazy that I can’t get this sketch right. Portraits are usually my specialty. There’s this point when I’m drawing a face where everything comes together and the essence of the person shines through. It’s like magic, the way it happens. One minute it’s a simple drawing, and then, with just the right line here or bit of shading there, it suddenly springs to life. I can’t seem to get there with Jessie, though. No matter what I do, the sketch stays lifeless.
    I throw my pencil down. I have
got
to get out of here.
    There is one option. The absolute last-resort, can-barely-even-stand-to-think-about-it option. Madge. If I swallow my pride and suck up just a little bit, she might cave and give me some cash so I can take the bus across town and start shopping.
    I close my eyes and let myself imagine the feeling of wandering the aisles at Morton’s with no one to rush me or complain when I spend twenty minutes marveling over the rainbow of colors in the acrylics section or admiring the shelves of blank canvases just waiting to be transformed.
    Before I can think twice about it, I’m suddenly in the kitchen, clutching my list like a talisman.
    â€œSmells great, Madeleine,” I say, cringing at my own false sincerity. “Need any help?”
    Madge’s eyes narrow in suspicion, and a smile tugs at the corners of her mouth. “You can set the table,” she says. “And then fill me in on whatever it is you want.”
    I grip the page tighter. “I have an art project coming up,” I tell her, “and I really want to buy some new supplies.”
    My heart starts thumping as her lips press into a straight line.
    â€œYou don’t have to drive me or anything,” I blurt. “I’m totally cool with the bus. I just need some money, and I don’t want to wait till Dad gets home.” The words are flying out of my mouth and I want to snatch them up and stuff them back in there. I
never
beg Madge for anything.
    The balloon of excitement that’s been keeping me afloat all day hardens into a heavy weight as she gets that
look
on her face. The one that says I’m an inconvenience.
    â€œHave you been through the boxes downstairs yet?” she asks with a sigh. “We paid the movers a fortune to haul everything here, and I remember at least four or five boxes from your room labeled Art Supplies. There’s also Sophie’s old art kit, and I’m sure my watercolors are down there too. It would be such a waste not to use what we already have.”
    Yeah, right.
First off, I’m pretty sure Sophie’s old “art kit” has Crayola written on it. And second, Madge hasn’t picked up a paintbrush in all the time I’ve known her, so whatever
watercolors
she’s talking about are ancient.
    Her mouth keeps moving but I tune her out. I know this lecture already. Madge loves words like
wasteful
and
responsibility
and
sacrifice.
I’ve heard every combination of them imaginable.
Don’t let her get to you,
I remind myself, stuffing my list into my back pocket. Madge doesn’t matter. My dad will understand. I’ll just wait and ask him.

    By seven o’clock I have a solid plan. I’ll wait until dessert. Dad’s always in a better mood after he eats. I’ll tell him all about art class and show