Chapter 5: Eleven Dollars

The bank called me back on Tuesday morning, while I was washing brushes in the professor's kitchen sink.

I had asked about Gran's money on Monday afternoon.

I thought it would be a simple question.

"Ms. Hartwell," the woman said, "the custodian closed this account on Friday."

"My mother?"

"Your mother, yes. She withdrew the full balance by wire. There is eleven dollars left in it."

I turned off the tap.

Gran had saved that money from selling her own watercolors, one framed painting at a time, for nine thousand dollars in total.

She had written in her will that it was for my art school.

"Can I get it back?"

"Until you're twenty-one, the custodian controls the account. I'm sorry."

"So she took it on Friday," I said. "Two days before my party."

"I couldn't say why."

"I can," I said.

Mom had found my CalArts portfolio under my bed in March.

She must have decided then that if I ever ran, I would run with nothing.

I hung up and stood there with my hands dripping on the floor.

My professor looked up from her coffee.

"How bad?"

"Eleven dollars bad."

She set the cup down.

"I can lend you something," she began.

"No." I said it before I thought. "I don't want to start owing someone again."

She looked at me for a long moment.

"Then you'll need a job," she said. "I hear the print shop needs someone on the night shift."

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