Free Words of Stone by Kevin Henkes

arrives,” Nova said. She flapped her dress and sighed. “Too hot,” she murmured on her way upstairs to change clothes.
    â€œYou seem quiet,” Glenn said to Blaze.
    â€œNot really.”
    â€œWell, then talk to me,” Glenn said as he arranged the eggs on a ruffly bed of various lettuces from Nova’s garden. “How are you?”
    â€œI dunno,” Blaze answered, and it was purely the truth. He didn’t know. And if he didn’t know, how could he give his feelings a name and discuss them? He had too much to think about. Claire. And now Joselle Stark.
    â€œI understand how you might feel about Claire,” Glenn said. “I do . . .” He smiled his assurance and squeezed the back of Blaze’s neck.
    â€œI know,” Blaze replied, hoping that he sounded cheerful and cooperative. But Glenn couldn’t understand. Blaze hadn’t told him about the words of stone.
    At first it had made perfect sense that Claire had been the one to write them. Blaze had told her about the fire, and the next morning the words appeared. But since then Claire had acted completely normal—whatever that meant for someone you hardly knew.
    Although Blaze had tried to avoid Claire, she still treated him kindly, which puzzled him. Even if he had been ignoring her throughout an entire meal, she would present small gestures—a look, a grin, a compliment—that would cause Blaze to drop his silverware.
    â€œI have something for you, Blaze,” Claire said when she arrived. “Come to my car.”
    It occurred to Blaze that he could pretend not to have heard her. He could just walk past her into the kitchen to get something to nibble on while he waited for dinner. He followed her to her car.
    â€œYour dad told me that he had given you a canvas to work on. I thought you might like to have your own paints.” Claire opened the car door and pulled out a box the size of a portable TV. She placed the box on the ground and opened it up so Blaze could see inside. “I know you have watercolors, but these are acrylics. They’re my old ones—I don’t use them anymore.”
    There must have been thirty tubes of paint. Blaze could tell that some of the tubes had been used, but others looked brand new.
    â€œI know your dad would let you use his oil paints in his studio, but this way you can paint in your own room if you like. Whenever you want. And you can clean up with water. They’re easy.”
    â€œThank you,” said Blaze. He turned the tubes in his hand, reading the names of the colors.
    â€œThe brushes are in here,” Claire told him, picking up a long, thin manila envelope that was tucked in the side of the box. She took out one of the brushes and pretended to paint in the air. Her wrist moved gracefully, round and round. “Well, I’m going to see if Nova needs any help in the kitchen,” Claire said, handing the brush to Blaze.
    â€œThank you,” Blaze said again.
    â€œYou’re welcome.”
    Blaze carried the box to the porch and sat down. The tubes of paint reminded him of party favors frozen in various stages. The kind that unroll as you blow into them, then collapse on themselves as the air escapes, curling up. Blaze was familiar with most of the colors because of Glenn: cadmium red, alizarine crimson, burnt umber, cobalt blue, yellow ocher. He pretended to paint in the air as Claire had done. He was beginning to get excited about starting his canvas.
    His certainty that Claire was responsible for the words of stone had been a knot lodged inside his chest. The knot was gradually loosening. Blaze was glad that he had waited, that he hadn’t said anything to Glenn.
    â€œ Was it my imagination, Simon?” Blaze asked. He wanted to convince himself of that. He told himself it wouldn’t be surprising, given that it was July. His dreams were proof of the power of his imagination.
    He would wait. He would push