Free Lovely by Jez Strider Page B

with a few colors and you can fingerpaint.”
    “Can I paint on the wall?” He grinned mischievously.
    “Sure. But don’t do it anywhere but here. Your dad, grandmother, and teachers will be mad at me.” I pointed toward the bathroom.  “Grab some cups off the counter.”
    He ran out of the room and returned with the cups before I’d even found the paint. I often made cheap paint with cornstarch, sugar, a little salt, and food coloring. It was cheap in a pinch and, as a plus, worked great as a child’s fingerpaint. I opened the jars and poured a little of each color into separate plastic cups. After I finished with that, I spread some newspapers out on the carpet beneath an area of the wall that had a bit of white space. The only reason the spot was still blank was because it was near the floor. It had been too low for me to paint the section comfortably, but it was a perfect height for Mac.
    “You want a brush or do you want to use your fingers?” I curled my fingers, making a claw like motion at him.
    “Fingers, for sure. You have to paint with yours, too.”
    I glanced down at my hands. Less than a year ago I would have had perfectly manicured fingernails and the thought of sticking them in paint would have been horrifying. “Well, duh.” I poked him in the ribs and he laughed.
    “Duh!” He repeated.
    Gavyn would probably not be pleased with the introduction of that word into Mac’s vocabulary. Oops.
    Malcolm dipped an index finger on each hand into the paint and went right to work on his art. His brow furrowed with concentration and the tip of his tongue was sticking out of his mouth sideways. I sat down in a cross-legged position beside him.
    “You draw a house and I’ll draw the family,” He said.
    “Any kind of house in particular?”
    “A cool one.”
    “Got it, ” I said and gathered some paint onto my finger.
    A strange kind of peace found me as I sat there with my new friend and painted. I remembered simpler times when I’d carry my crayons and coloring book clutched to my chest and pester ed my brother until he joined me. Franklin would color one page of the open book and I would color the other. Amazingly, he never ran me out of his room or told me to quit bothering him. Even when he reached his teenage years, he’d often check on me to make sure I was alright before he’d leave the house to hang out with his friends or go on dates.
    I shook away the memory and focused on coloring in the roof and front door with red paint. A swipe across my brow left me with a bright streak on my forehead. Mac looked over and started cackling at me.
    “Oh, you think it’s funny?” I grinned as I reached out and put a dot of color on his nose.
    “Hey. Now I’m gonna look like Rudolph.”
    “Hmm. Want me to paint your face like the superhero on your backpack?”
    His mouth fell open and he nodded in slow motion. “You can do that?”
    “Sure.”   I already had the red paint, so I started with that as a base. I went to my paint supplies and grabbed a few brushes to fill in the black and white details after I’d finished with the base color. Mac hopped up on the sofa and I went to work.
    “Is it done yet?” Mac squirmed in his seat.
    “Almost.” With minimal mistakes, I finished with his face paint. I gave a final stroke and grinned. “Done.”
    He hopped off the couch and darted into the bathroom to check himself out in the floor length mirror behind the door. “I can’t believe it. I’m Spider-Man.” The awe in his voice carried out to me in the living room.
    “I’m glad you like it.”
    “I love it!” He ran back into the room and pretended to shoot webs from his hands. “We have to do yours now. I’ll paint it.”
    Having a six year old paint my face didn’t sound like a great idea, but hurting his feelings would be even worse. “Let me do an outline of what I want and you can color it in.” I glanced at the images on the wall from when we were painting earlier. He’d