Twelve
“Tell me again what we’re doing in here?” Gemma asks on Monday afternoon.
I lift the goggles hanging around my neck and position them over my eyes. “My dad told me to paint. So I asked if I could paint the walls in the guest bedroom. He said yes.”
“I see.” Gemma gives me a doubtful look. “I’m guessing he didn’t know you meant this.”
I look around the bare room at the balloons of paint floating in the air. “He didn’t ask me to be specific, so …” I shrug. “I didn’t give him specifics.”
“Uh huh. Hopefully he appreciates your design style.”
“I’m sure he’ll be fine with it. Mom, on the other hand, will probably freak out when she wakes up and sees it. Who knows when that will happen, though, so let’s not worry about things we can’t control.” I push my shoulders back and lift my arm
