Free Paint by Magic by Kathryn Reiss Page A

there! Perfect. Now hold it just like that!"
    I obeyed the voice slowly, fear pumping adrenaline through me.
Who is this man
? Mom's eternal warning seemed to echo in my ears:
Stay away from strangers.
    "Lift your chin, and turn toward me, for crying out loud!"
    I lifted my chin and looked over, holding my breath. All I saw was a tall, skinny guy standing by an easel. He had gray hair all over the place, like a mad scientist, but his face looked youngish—and he wore pants with red suspenders, and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He was chewing on a pipe, puffing hard, and the smoke billowed around his head in a cloud. His face was creased with concentration, and he was dabbing at a canvas on his easel with a paintbrush.
    "I've almost got it—just a little more blue right here," the painter said, and stabbed his brush into a jar of other brushes. "That's all for today." He clapped his hands at me. "All right, lad, get up and out of here—nap time's over! And next time you take it into your head to settle down for forty winks in my studio, let me know ahead of time so I can set up. It gave me a turn, I don't mind telling you, when I came in and saw you lying there like something the cat dragged in. I'd have preferred you to be over there on the sofa rather than beached like a dead fish on the floor—better lighting. And those clothes! I'd choose a different shirt." He frowned at me as I struggled to stand up. My legs felt as weak as if I had been scaling mountains.
    "What's that mean, boy?" The man was scowling at my T-shirt. "'Rolling Stones Revival'—that some kind of revival meeting? Are you one of them religious fellows going door-to-door proclaiming the Lord cometh?"
    I glanced down at my shirt. "It—it's just an old rock group." My voice came out hoarse and raspy, as if I'd been sleeping for a long time. "My dad got me the shirt—"
    "Rocks? Your dad is a geologist, is he? You must belong to that family on the next block. Heard the fellow teaches at the college."
    Now that the fog was clearing, fear made me feel razor sharp. My head pounded with questions.
    What was going on?
    I took a deep breath and tried to be calm. Okay. Okay—this guy didn't
look
like an alien. And
he
didn't seem to know what was going on any more than I did; that was clear. While he stood there looking at me, my mind was ticking ahead, trying to figure out what I needed to do.
Run!
screamed some part of me, the part that was pumping adrenaline into my blood.
Stay cool,
whispered another part.
Look around. Figure out what's happened.
How had I come to be here, when moments ago I was in my bedroom with Mom—poor Mom—and looking at that sketch?...
    The sketch!
It wasn't in my hand any longer. Where was it? I took a deep breath and looked around the studio—because that's what it was, an artist's studio. There were stacks of canvases along every wall, and shelves full of paints, jars of brushes, books and notebooks. A table in the center of the room held clusters of shells, pottery, a toy dump truck, a bowl of eggs, and lots of other stuff. The windows didn't have any curtains, and the sunlight was streaming in. There was a skylight in the ceiling that sent more light down, like a beacon, across the floor.
    "Next time you need a nap," the artist guy was saying to me sternly, "you ought to knock properly on the door, not just walk right in. It's only good manners! Are you a friend of Homer Junior? You look to be right about his age."
    Homer Junior?
    The artist's voice turned gruffer. "Cat got your tongue? Legs don't work, my boy? Come on now, get your bones outta here! I'm a workingman—or at least I'm trying to be."
    I moved shakily toward the door. That's when I saw a calendar hanging from a nail on the wall near the sink. I edged toward it. It said MARCH 1926.
    "'March 1926,'" I read, my voice still rusty. I felt like you do after a bad bout of flu—sort of shaky and faraway.
    "April,