We don’t speak in the car, and at home I retreat to my room to go over my artwork, trying not to think about the operation. Mom goes to Kristina’s room to pick out some stuff to take to the hospital. After a few minutes, she strolls into my room and sits down on the edge of my bed. She glances around at the heap of clothes on my floor, the dirty dishes on my night table, books lying in a messy stack beside them. Sketch pads are heaped in piles around my bed, and right beside me is my entry. The Volcano. Despite the overwhelming evidence I’ve been busy drawing, she doesn’t ask about it. I could tell her. Right now. About the contest. “It’s messy in here,” she says, and my body stiffens, waiting for the lecture about how cleanliness is next to godliness. And how my future husband is going to have a hard time staying married to me if I’m such a slob. I’m pretty sure my chances aren’t great with God or a future husband. Not the way the cards are being dealt.
