My fingers itched for my charcoals as I sat, waiting for Dad to come home. I needed to talk to him. About an hour ago, I had been walking around town, and I had seen a sign. It had told me about an art convention next week. I couldn't resist it. I had ripped it off the post and ran home.
Most of the time Dad didn't let me go anywhere alone. I couldn't drive without him in the passenger seat because I only had my permit. We lived in a small town where it was easy to get around, so you could walk, but Dad was always protective like that, never letting me go out on my own.
Finally, I heard him pull up in the driveway. I rushed to the door and flung it open, letting it hit the wall, still swinging on it's hinges.
"I need to talk to you Dad."
"What about, Sadie?" he asked.
Without a word, I shoved the flyer in his face -- the one I had ripped off the post in town -- and waited as he read it over. Once he was finished he looked up at me, an expression of worry on his face, plain as day.
"Alone? Sadie, I--"
I cut him off. "Dad, I'm fifteen." But I could tell he didn't want me to go, not after what happened with Mom. Maybe he was afraid I would run off, too. Finally he obliged.
I ran back inside and started sketching. If I was going to bring something to the convention, it needed to be perfect.
And I knew just what to draw.